Page 2 of Her Soul to Own

“Oh, just say you’ve hired a bodyguard for me. Like I’m some senator’s scandalous wife or, oh wait… a kidnapped heiress.”

“You’re my daughter,” he snaps. “And you are not safe. It’s my duty to keep you safe.”

I push back from the table, hard. “I’veneverbeen safe. Not in this house. And especially not with you micromanaging every breath I take.”

“You think I like this?” His voice rises, a rare crack in the granite. “You think I enjoy watching you self-destruct in headlines and nightclubs while men like this circle like sharks?”

“Spare me the daddy guilt.”

“Lyra, this isn’t about guilt. It’s about reality.”

“Oh, now we’re getting real? After years of treating me like a brand asset?” I cross my arms and lean back in the chair, giving him the look I save for corporate sycophants and clueless trust funders.

He grips the back of a chair, his knuckles white. “You will treat this man with respect. Or I will lock down this estate so hard, you won’t even breathe without clearance.”

I laugh. It’s mean and sharp. “You think threats still work on me? You’ve put this place in lockdown since Mom’s death. You just never had the balls to say it out loud.”

He flinches. Good.

“This isn’t about the estate,” he grits out. “It’s about your life.”

“Bullshit. It’s about control. It always is.”

“Lyra…”

“No. You don’t get to play savior now. Not after years of treating me like your precious little pawn in pearls.” I stand, inching closer and daring him to back down. “This man you’re sending? He’d better know what he’s walking into. I don’t do leashes. I bite.”

“You’ll do what’s necessary,” he says, his voice lower now, like he’s talking to a client instead of his daughter. The daughter who refuses to be tamed.

I tilt my head. “Necessary according toyou.”

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Ugh, it never is with you.” I walk past him toward the hallway, flipping him off over my shoulder. “Let your trained killer know I’m not a fucking damsel. And I don’t need saving. Just don’t get in my fucking way!”

My hands are shaking. And my heart’s pounding like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest. I’m so goddamn angry that I could scream because he always does this. He pulls strings and makes decisions about my life without consulting me. He treats me like a liability wrapped in diamonds.

I want to throw something. I want to smash his perfect glass table or rip the goddamn orchids out by the roots. But I don’t bother. I know nothing’s going to change, no matter what I do. He’ll act like it’s just another one of my tantrums.

He’s not protecting me. He’s taking the easy way out by containing me instead.

That’s always been the Vane way. Keep the pretty thing behind glass. Call it love and pretend it’s not a fucking cage.

At night, the sky cracks open. It’s like the sky is crying for me because I refuse to shed a tear.

Low thunder rumbles through the mist-soaked trees, like the earth itself is growling. I’m in my bedroom upstairs, barefoot and pacing, still wearing the leggings and tank top from my run. My hair’s a mess, and I don’t care. I didn’t have the energy toshower or do anything all day. I spent the whole day texting Zara and scrolling on my phone. Fuck my dad and his high-society expectations.

A flash of headlights slices through the fog. I’m intrigued.

There it is. The black SUV, crawling down our mile-long driveway like a predator that knows exactly where its prey sleeps. No honk or engine roar. Just the whisper of rubber on wet gravel.

I move toward the window and press my fingers to the cool glass. The storm makes it harder to see, with wind pulling at the trees and the rain starting to spit, but I can just about make out enough.

The SUV stops, and the door opens.

A man steps out.

Even from here, I can tell that he’s tall and built like a fortress with broad shoulders under a fitted black coat. It’s not flashy. No designer logos or over-polished shoes. Just simple, efficient, and deadly looking.

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