Page 19 of Her Soul to Own

And I know her. Knew her.

I shut the file fast, my fingers a little tighter than they need to be. I’m not going there. Not tonight. Not when the smell of Lyra’s perfume is still clinging to my lungs like secondhand smoke.

I pivot back to the monitors. The room is dim now, bathed in the cool glow of screens. I lower the overheads until I’m cocooned in low light, a man hunched over a fortress of secrets. The bedroom feed wavers, and night vision kicks in.

And there she is. Lyra fucking Vane.

She plops onto the bed like it’s a throne, a pizza slice in hand like a middle finger aimed at my control. The TV flares to life, and the volume is unnecessarily loud. I can’t see the screen from this angle, but I don’t need to. It’s background noise. A distraction. Or maybe a prop.

She lounges back with one leg bent at the knee, the other kicking gently to the rhythm of her own chaos. She bites into the pizza with a kind of decadent flair, like she’s auditioning for the role of forbidden indulgence.

Then she sets it down, grabs her phone, and angles it just so. I know that look. I know that particular tilt of the chin and the way her lips part slightly like she’s caught mid-laugh or just before a kiss. It’s rehearsed. Perfected.

Snap.

My phone pings before I can even blink. An Instagram notification.

Lyra Vane just added to their story.

Of course she did. I open it.

There she is. Sultry, smug, slice in hand, and hair a mess of post-rebellion waves. The caption reads:Midnight snacks taste better when they’re earned.

I click through to her profile.

256,000 followers. That number used to be lower. Used to be manageable.

Now, it’s a temple of excess. Private jet selfies. Champagne on rooftops. Close-ups of diamond rings she doesn’t wear twice. Cars she doesn’t drive. Dinners she doesn’t eat. Every image curated to say:I’m wild, rich, and untouchable.

And yet, she keeps tagging locations, leaving breadcrumbs, and dropping hints.

I scroll through her feed like a man reading a manual on how to self-destruct. Every pose is a dare, every caption a carefully wrapped fuck-you in designer fonts.

She’s not just living out loud. She’s inviting someone to listen. And I already know who she wants to answer.

Then, on camera, she stands and walks to the mirror. Not to admire herself but toperform.

She tilts her head and runs her fingers through her hair. Licking her lips, she smirks.

Every move is choreographed. Every look is a grenade with the pin halfway pulled.

For a second, I think she’s going to wink. But she doesn’t.Disappointing.

Instead, she kills the light, climbs into bed, and slips into the shadows with the grace of someone who knows exactly where every lens is buried and exactly who’s on the other side.

And I’m still here. Frozen. My eyes are dry from too much staring, but sleep isn’t even a thought. The ritual’s alive, pulsing, and unfinished. Lyra moves like she’s center stage, and I stay glued to the front row.

Somewhere between us, the boundary is starting to twist into something else, something charged and dangerous.

But as it is, I gave up on wanting it back a long time ago.

Chapter 5 – Lyra - A Hint of Vulnerability

I step out into the garden barefoot, wet grass clinging to my ankles like mossy chains. The storm is over, but the world still feels soaked in static. Like the air’s holding its breath, waiting for something worse to happen. The sun’s just breaking the horizon, cutting pale gold across the lawn and the mist hanging low like a breath held too long. Everything smells like wet earth, fresh flowers, and mist.

The security cameras blink somewhere behind me—silent, blinking judgment—but I’ve memorized the blind spots. I move like a shadow, slipping through a cracked panel in the old greenhouse that’s been begging for repair for years.

It’s overgrown now, with vines curling like fingers around rusted beams and glass panels dusted with moss. Once, it bloomed. But now, it’s just ruin dressed in sunlight. But I don’t stop there.

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