Page 82 of Her Soul to Own

I sit back, adrenaline buzzing in my teeth. The sound of Lyra shifting upstairs on the camera makes my spine lock for a second, like I’ve been caught. But it’s just her, restless, even in sleep.

I slide her phone closer and open her Instagram again. Her latest post of her in the champagne dress and laughing at the gala has a million views. But the comments are war.

“Send full vid. 500 cash.”

“Slut.”

“Marry me, please, goddess.”

“Damn, Silas’s got taste.”

That one makes me pause. It’s the only one that doesn’t make me want to break someone’s rib. But even then,theydon’t get to talk about her. Not like that.

I take a screenshot of the worst offenders. Names, usernames, and IPs where I can get them. One guy even posted it to a Telegram group with 30,000 followers.

So I launch a script that reports the group, floods their server with bogus DMCA complaints, and reroutes their admin panel to a fake login page. I’m not just erasing evidence. I’m making them fear the shadows they post in.

I work for another three hours and strip everything I can find. I bury data with false flags, redirect suspicious links to malware, and scramble metadata.

They wanted to destroy her. They wanted to break her.

But they don’t know one thing.

I’ve already lost one Vane woman. I won’t lose another.

Chapter 19 – Lyra - Pretty Things Shatter Loudest

The espresso on my vanity is ice-cold. I think I poured it an hour ago, maybe more. The cream has already dissolved into a bitter film, and the cup’s half-empty, forgotten like the rest of this fucking day. My laptop screen quivers, the glow sharp against the soft light of the vanity bulbs. I should look away, but I don’t.

Silas took my phone away, and I haven’t asked for it back.

I probably won’t. There’s no point anyway. I know him. I know that once he decides something is for my own good, there’s no prying it out of his hands until he’s damn well ready. And maybe, deep down, I’m relieved. Maybe I’m hiding behind his silence because I don’t have the strength to face what’s waiting on that screen.

Even if I asked, I know what his answer would be—calm, firm, and immovable. So I don’t bother.

And the truth is… I’m not sure I evenwantit back. Not right now.

Because that phone doesn’t just hold my schedule or my contacts or carefully posed photos. It holds a battlefield. A flood of venomous comments and hateful DMs. Words sharp enough to slice skin, dressed in emojis and hashtags. Speculation. Lies. Half-truths twisted into weapons. And people I’ve never met dissecting my life, my choices, and mybodylike they’re entitled to every piece of me.

So no, I don’t miss it. Not the weight of it. Not the pit in my stomach every time it lights up.

What I miss is peace. And for now, my solitude will have to be close enough.

My last Instagram post sits open on my laptop in a cruel parade. The picture was perfect—a picture of me with sunset-kissed skin, my hair swept up, and my chin angled like I owned the goddamn world. It was supposed to break the algorithm. And it did, but in the worst possible way.

“You’re not the victim here.”

“She always loved attention.”

“Didn’t take much to get her to spread her legs.”

“Honestly? She was asking for it.”

“Just another rich slut trying to play saint.”

Comment after comment. Like digital glass shards embedding into my skin. My eyes blur from reading them too many times. But it’s not from tears, it’s rage. I want to scream, to set the whole world on fire, but that would mean they win. That would mean I break.

I slam my laptop shut, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet. My hand twitches, my insides snap, and I grab the laptop by the edge and hurl it across the room. It hits the closet mirror with a sickening crack, and a spiderweb fracture blossoms across the glass, cutting clean through my reflection, my face splitting in half like some twisted art piece. Pretty things shatter loudest when they fall.

---