Page 60 of Her Soul to Own

And now? Walking into this event, feeling eyes follow me again, hearing the subtle whispers, and seeing the way lenses start to turn, I know this is the beginning. Not of going back, but ofreclaiming. This is step one in taking back my name, my space, myfire.

And I’m ready to burn for it.

Harper glides up to me first, all gloss and greed wrapped in a Balmain blazer. She air-kisses both my cheeks and gives me a look that peels my skin back. “You’re glowing,” she purrs. “Finally cracked the no-sex aesthetic?”

I laugh, low and smooth. “I got tired of being good.”

“You and me both,” she says with a wink before disappearing into a circle of high heels and influencer ring lights.

And then, “Lyra-fucking-Vane!”

The voice slices through the sound of artificial laughter like a champagne cork popping. I turn just in time to see Zara Monroe practically launch herself at me. She’s radiance in motion. Her black sequin mini dress clings to her curves like a second skin, catching the light with every exaggerated step. The deep V neckline dares gravity, and the hem barely brushes mid-thigh. Her combat boots are worn and scuffed, laced up over fishnet tights that scream bad decisions and late-night rooftop confessions. Her signature leather jacket swings open as she barrels toward me with her arms wide, grinning like she owns the damn room.

“Jesus Christ, you look like you got laid, fed, and emotionally recharged,” she exclaims, pulling me into a crushing hug.

I cling to her a second longer than necessary. God, I missed this. I missedher. The chaos, the honesty, and the fact that she’ll tell me my lipstick’s smudged while helping me to plot a murder.

“Ididget laid,” I whisper conspiratorially. “And fuck, Zar… it was transcendental.”

She steps back, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Was it Creed? Tell me it was the security god. Because I swear if you tell me it was some yoga instructor named Sage, I’m throwing you into that champagne tower.”

I just raise a brow and sip my drink.

“Oh my God,” she gasps, smacking my arm. “IT WAS. You kinky bitch. What did he do? Handcuffs? Leather? Rope? Don’t spare me.”

I give her a smirk that’s all heat and wicked memory. “Rope. And a mouth that should be registered as a weapon.”

“Holy shit.” Zara fans herself dramatically. “And here I was worried he’d turn out to be some dry ex-military type who only says ten words a day.”

“Oh, he talks,” I say, letting my voice drop. “Especially when he has me tied up and whimpering his name.”

Zara shrieks with laughter, spilling a little of her rosé. “Lyra. You arethriving.”

I wink, swirling the last of my champagne in the glass. “And I’m just getting started.”

She leans in again, her voice low. “Seriously, though, where the hell have you been? You vanished. We thought you’d gone full recluse or like, joined a cult.”

I shrug, my smile slipping a little. “I needed space. Time to reset. I’ve had… stuff going on.”

“Yeah? Anything I should know about?” Her tone shifts, the way it always does when she’s about to press.

I shake my head. “Not tonight. Tonight, I’m dancing and pretending the world doesn’t exist past that door.”

Zara studies me for a beat longer, then nods. “Alright. But you’re giving me the full scoop over brunch. And I wantdetails. Like… safe word level details.”

I clink my glass against hers. “Deal.”

The spotlight feels safe.

That’s the lie I tell myself as flashbulbs spark like fireworks across the wine bar. Laughter travels like white noise over the clink of designer glassware and the muted jazz floating from the corner speakers. I pose between Harper and a lifestyle blogger with 2.3 million followers and zero original thoughts. I arch a brow, cock a hip, and perfect my smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. It never does when I’m performing.

Inside, I’m knotted and tense in the way a tiger might feel pacing behind invisible bars.

The letter from this morning hasn’t left me.Waiting for the right moment.Just five words scrawled in a careful hand, but they’ve been replaying all day like a sick little lullaby. Even as another camera snaps. Even as someone hands me another champagne flute that I won’t drink from.

I haven’t had a sip all night. It’s not because I don’t want to, but because Ican’t. My instincts are screaming, too sharp and awake. That tight sensation curls in my stomach like I’m walking a tightrope high above a stage full of vultures. I smile, I pose, but my pulse is a loaded gun.

Snippets of conversation swirl just behind me.

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