Page 68 of Her Soul to Own

And God help me, I forgot how much I fucking missed it. It’s messed up, I know.

Not just the fame, but the performance. The adrenaline of walking into a room and owning it. The silk, the lashes, the champagne that tastes like ambrosia and poison at once. I was born for this—rich, wild, and dangerous. A perfect storm wrapped in Valentino and venom.

I haven’t seen Silas. Not once.

Which, logically, is smart. Because if I did, I’d probably pin him to the nearest marble column and beg him to fuck me again. And I don’t beg. Not out loud. But fuck, I miss him. It’s like a dull throb under my skin. Every shadow, every flashbulb, and every low masculine voice that isn’t his feels disappointing.

But I’ve had too much on my plate. Between salvaging my reputation, chasing brands that are on the fence, and re-establishing my social capital, I barely had time to think. Still, he lingers, like scent on tender skin. Like teeth marks on memory.

But tonight is not about Silas.

Tonight is a charity gala hosted by one of the newer influencer elites, Fiona Moore, the sun-kissed YouTube lifestyle oracle with a five-year plan and a diamond watch. It’s all sponsored by Coastal National Bank, which means money is flowing like wine, and people are pretending to care about clean oceans while wearing $10,000 gowns.

It’s the kind of party where alliances are formed through glances, and careers die without a second thought.

And tonight, I’m not here to survive. I’m here to dominate.

I arrive late, just as the sun begins to melt into the horizon, bleeding gold across the ocean. The coastal estate shimmers like a fantasy, with columns wrapped in jasmine, candlelight dancing on mirrored glass, and crystal chandeliers swaying in the breeze of hidden fans. It’s opulence dressed as charity, secrets dressed as gowns.

I step out of the car, and the world stops.

I’m wearing a pale pink mini dress that’s as tight as a second skin. It barely covers my ass, and it dips just low enough to threaten a wardrobe malfunction. My hair’s twisted into a high updo, with soft curls spilling out as though I didn’t spend two hours perfecting it. My tits look fucking incredible. All held together with strategic tape and a prayer.

And my smile is weaponized.

The article pissed me off, so I came dressed for revenge. And the spotlight. Let them see what happens when they try to write me off.

Cameras turn, and photographers freeze like prey spotting a predator. Then… a flash. Flash. Flash. Their lenses devour me like I’m something decadent and forbidden.

“Miss Vane!”

“Lyra, over here!”

A murmur rolls through the crowd like a wave breaking on glass. I feel it, the judgment, curiosity, and hunger. I strike a pose, my legs just so, my chin held high, my eyes smoldering. I smile like I own the night. Like nothing inside me is cracked or hollow. Like I didn’t spend yesterday deleting contacts I once trusted like my own.

And then…I see her. Fucking Harper.

She’s clinging to a venture-capital heir like her life depends on it. She’s dressed in silver, a calculated contrast to my blush pink, like she thought she’d be the star tonight. Her smile falters the moment she sees me. Her posture stiffens, her hand tightening around her date’s arm.

She looks at me and then looks away just as quickly. That bitch blocked me.

For a beat, my heart hammers, all those whispers, the betrayal, and the isolation rushing at me. For a split second, I tremble, feeling the urge to duck, to shrink. But I breathe, taking in a deep breath.

I straighten and flash her my brightest, most vicious smile, along with a wink tossed like a dagger.

Harper goes pale. Gasps flutter, and whispers spiral.

People turn and watch Harper squirm. I hear one influencer mutter, “She’s got guts showing up like that.” Another snaps a story, tagging me in real-time.

Good.

Let them all fucking wonder. Let them gossip. Let themfearme.

Inside, the house glows with candlelight, string quartets, and soft murmurs drenched in money and ambition. It’s beautiful and toxic. It feels like a homecoming.

My friends are here. Well, what’s left of them anyway. But nothing feels safe anymore. Every hug feels loaded, every compliment like a veiled threat.

I glance around, scanning the room for Zara. She’s not in the corner with the usual suspects, not by the champagne tower, or near the string quartet. Unease curls in my gut. I reach for my phone and check the latest message from her: “Just arrived. Powder room in five. Save me from Fiona’s recycled speech about saving the turtles.”

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