Page 53 of Her Soul to Own

“Go ahead,” he says, his voice low. Controlled. “I’ll be in later.”

I pause, narrowing my eyes slightly. “Where are you going?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just flicks a look toward me for a brief moment and then looks back out of the windshield. “Just need to clear my head,” he finally answers.

I know he’s lying. I feel it in my bones, in the way his voice strains, and how still he’s gone, tensed up instead of calm.

But I’m too damn tired to dig. The emotional whiplash of today, fuck, ofthis whole week, has caught up to me, even with caffeine buzzing in my blood.

So, I just nod and mutter, “Fine.”

I grab my flowers, open the door, and step out into the cooling air. Gravel crunches beneath my boots. The estate looms in front of me, elegant and monstrous, like it always does.

I don’t look back as I walk inside.

But I feel his eyes on me, like a ghost’s hand trailing down my spine.

Inside, the house is quiet. Still. It always is, despite the servants. Solitude hangs here like a second skin, one you either get used to or drown beneath. I toss my bag on the nearest chair, drop the flowers on the foyer table—screw getting a vase—and head upstairs. My boots thud softly on the old hardwood.

Once I’m in my room, I change into a tank top and sleep shorts and kick off the rest of the day like it’s a bad habit. I leave the choker on. Because of course I fucking do.

I throw myself onto the bed, one leg slung over the side, and try to read. Something trashy. Fast-paced. Distracting.

But the words don’t stick. The letters blur. My mind keeps drifting to Silas’s voice, the brush of that asshole’s hand, and the way the sunlight hit the pendant as I clasped it this morning like a collar and said nothing about it.

Eventually, I toss the book across the room. It lands with a soft thump against the dresser.

I wander down the hall barefoot, the marble floor cool beneath my feet. The house feels quiet in that thick, almost smothering way it always does when the sun dips low. There’s no real reason I go to the living room. I tell myself it’s boredom, but maybe it’s just the part of me that still aches for something familiar.

When I push open the door, he’s there.

My father.

Evander Vane. Every inch the image of control and old money, sitting stiffly in his leather chair. A glass of something dark in his hand, as always, his eyes locked on the television. The volume’s low, just enough to hear, just enough to ignore. The fire crackles quietly in the fireplace even though there’s not much need for it. Everything in this room screams curated warmth, but it’s more reserved than a tomb.

I hesitate at the threshold.

I could turn around and go back to my room. Pretend we’re not strangers living in the same house, like ghosts circling the same grief.

But I refuse to do that.

Instead, I walk in and sit down at the far end of the couch. He doesn’t look at me or even try to talk. He just lets out a grunt, his version of hello, or maybe just a reminder that he’s still breathing.

We don’t talk. We never do, not really. Not since Mom died.

Back then, we were a family. Or at least, we pretended well enough. She was the glue and the warmth. The translator between my moods and his absence. Without her, it’s all empty air and unsaid things that hang like smoke in the room.

I pull out my phone and scroll, pretending to be invested in the endless feed of updates. Group chat is still alive, Zara posted another story from last night, someone’s dropped a thirst trap, and there’s a poll about which club to hit next weekend. I scroll through it all, detached, not really absorbing anything.

And then I hear it.

“…authorities discovered the vehicle abandoned off the main highway…”

I lift my head slowly.

On the TV, the screen flashes to a silver car, its tires flat, the door slightly ajar, the hazard lights flashing like eyes blinking in panic.

My stomach knots.

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