Page 7 of Her Soul to Own

Spotify reveals a split personality with angry alt-rock and industrial beats, and then, at 3:14 a.m., jazz so soft that it sounds like she’s trying to seduce her own insomnia.

Her internet search history is loaded with questions she’ll never ask aloud.

“How to fix a father wound?”

“Is freedom a real thing?”

“Why do I feel safest when I’m being watched?”

I lean back in the chair with my arms crossed.So, she has a kink of being watched? Maybe I can do something about that.I smirk to myself.

“She wants to feel untouchable,” I murmur. “But she wants someone to touch the truth.”

And holy hell, the photos.

Her social media is a curated chaos, equal parts fantasy and fuck-you energy. A buffet of contradictions, dressed in thigh-highs and lip-gloss rebellion. Every post is a performance. Low angles, high heels, tongue out, attitude cranked to eleven. It’s like she knows exactly what kind of attention she draws and dares the world to stare harder.

The camera doesn’t just love her. It worships her.

One photo stops me cold. She’s in a black mesh dress that clings to her body like a second skin, all sharp lines and barely-there fabric. Her tongue pokes out, her middle finger sticks up, and the smirk on her face says she owns the moment and every poor bastard looking at it. Even her nipples are visible through the fabric, round and perky. There’s a smear of glitter across her cheekbone and a look in her eye that says sheknowsexactly what she’s doing. She knows the power of it and wields it like a weapon.

“The girl can’t be serious,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck, but my voice comes out rougher than I intend.

Because part of me wants to write her off as reckless, just another headline waiting to happen. But the other part of me—the deeper, quieter, and much harder to ignore part of me—can’t look away. There’s something magnetic in all that disarray and those familiar eyes. Something bold, unapologetic, and dangerous.

She’s not just posing. She’sdaringsomeone to come closer.

And damn it, I might be the fool who does.Who doesn’t love a challenge?

If I didn’t know what she looked like behind the filters, curled up in bed, her face soft in sleep, and her hand twitching like she’s fighting invisible enemies, I might believe she was exactly what the internet shows.

But I do know. And that’s the problem.

I’ve already watched her for too long, memorized her routines, and counted the ways she tests the fences. She moves like a challenge, like she’s begging for someone to saynojust so she can figure out how to make them sayyes.

And now she’s officially mine to protect. Which means mine to control.

I stand and stretch, listening to the subtle whir of the system at full function—every camera, every mic, every sensor feeding me her life in real time.

Above me, she’s awake.

I already snuck into her room and installed the night-vision cameras while she was dead asleep. It’s not exactly my proudest moment, but hey, stealth is part of the job description, right? She didn’t even stir. She was out cold, probably dreaming about lighting the world on fire in six-inch heels.

Convincing Evander to green-light the whole operation wasn’t exactly a walk in the park either. The man treats boundaries like sacred scripture, and I had to practically drag him to the altar of paranoia. But all it took was a carefully timed conversation, just a few well-placed comments about stalkers and overzealous fans and how fast bad press can spread when someone’s daughter ends up on the wrong side of a headline.

He tensed up instantly. I’ve known the man for years, so I know what works on him. Classic Evander. With his clenched teeth, the twitch in his temple, and his eyes darting like he was already imagining lawsuits and ransom notes.

I let the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat before I hit him with the closer:“But hey, if you’re comfortable risking her safety to spare her privacy, I’ll back off.”

Checkmate.

He cracked like a damp matchstick. He waved me off with a dramatic sigh and muttered something about “taking whatever measures necessary.” He didn’t even ask for specifics, which, let’s be honest, was a rookie move on his part.

So now, the cameras are in. They’re not the most discreet, considering I’m not some perverted bastard who wants to film women without their consent. I told myself it was for her protection. Mostly true. But there’s a part of me, the part that has watched her push boundaries like she was born to provoke, that wants to know what she’s like when the act drops. When no one’s watching, or she thinks they aren’t.

Turns out, someone always is.

Right now, she’s moving through her bedroom like a trapped animal. Barefoot and pacing. I watch on the thermal feed—red, orange, and yellow. She’s hot with adrenaline. That nightmare again.

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