Page 143 of Her Soul to Own

I sit back and watch the wave hit the feed. Thousands of notifications explode across my screen within seconds. Shares, comments, likes, retweets. The vultures don’t know if they should circle or run. And for once, I don’t care what they do.

My phone buzzes. It’s Zara.

I swipe to answer. “You're awake early,” I say.

“Lyra. Holy. Fucking. Shit.” Zara’s voice is breathless, buzzing with both panic and awe. “You actually did it. You nuked your entire existence in one post.”

“Feels good,” I say, my voice calm but laced with adrenaline.

“Good? Girl, you just set the entire goddamn internet on fire. People are losing their minds.” I hear furious typing in the background. “Half your old sponsors are panicking, PR execs are scrambling to figure out how much of this is real, and I just got a DM from a news editor at The Guardian who wants an exclusive interview.”

“They’re not getting one,” I say flatly.

“Of course not. You don’t need them anymore,” Zara says with a laugh. “But holy hell, Lyra, you’re actually going to do it. You’re going to break him.”

“That’s the point. This isn’t about saving my career anymore. It’s about making sure he never controls anyone again.”

Zara sighs softly, her voice dropping when she mutters, “You know he’s going to retaliate.”

“Let him,” I reply fiercely.

“And Silas? How’s he holding up?”

I glance over my shoulder at the closed bedroom door, where I know he’s still asleep. The man hasn’t left my side in days. With his bruised knuckles and the haunted look in his eyes after what happened in this house, he’s ready for this war in ways I could never be. And knowing he’s there… it changes everything.

“He’s ready. We both are,” I say softly.

“You’re terrifying, Vane,” Zara whispers with a tone of pride in her voice. “And I fucking love you for it.”

“I love you too. Get some sleep. We’re just getting started.”

I hang up and stare back at the screen. The number of views is climbing so fast that it’s almost surreal.

The world is watching now.

Good.

Let them.

XXX

The sun hangs low by the time I finally step back into my bedroom. The house is still quiet. Silas is somewhere nearby, probably coordinating security with Noah again, while Zara feeds the media storm like the genius little chaos gremlin she is. But me? I have something else to do before the next battle begins.

Closure.

The walk-in closet stares at me like a vault full of ghosts. I pause for a moment at the threshold, my fingers tracing the edge of the heavy white door. For years, this was my sanctuary. My temple. My disguise. The place where I transformed myself into whatever version the world wanted. Lyra, the socialite. Lyra, the influencer. Lyra, the obedient daughter in designer gowns.

Well, not anymore. I exhale slowly and step inside.

The scent hits me immediately. Expensive perfume, floral notes, vanilla, amber, and a hint of something sugary that once clung to my skin like approval. The lights glow softly along the rows of shelves, illuminating color-coded racks of silk, crepe, satin, and cashmere. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in fabric and stitching. A lifetime built from labels.

Gucci. Givenchy. Chanel. Dior. Saint Laurent.

Each one feels like a shard of my past self staring back at me.

I run my hand along the garments, the fabrics smooth and cool beneath my fingers. I could list every piece from memory. Where I wore it, who complimented it, and how many photographers circled me like vultures when I stepped out in it.

My fingers pause on a deep emerald Givenchy gown. The neckline plunges low, the fabric hugging every curve perfectly. I wore it two years ago at one of my father’s charity galas—the one hosted at The Baymore for that bullshit philanthropic foundation he used to parade in front of cameras. I remember standing on that marble staircase under crystal chandeliers, with flashes going off and journalists shouting my name.

---