Page 84 of Her Soul to Own

I end the video, watch it once, then hit upload.

The second it posts, my shoulders drop. My hands start to shake like they finally got permission. My lungs deflate, and I slump against the iron railing like a puppet cut from its strings.

That smile? It’s a lie. A full-body costume I’ve worn since I was twelve.

But even the best performances have encores. And I just gave them one.

I glance at the garden, so perfectly manicured like nothing’s wrong. Like the girl who is crumbling two stories up doesn’t exist. Like I’m still Lyra Vane, darling of the spotlight. Not some sex tape scandal with designer bags.

My fingers curl into the railing, my knuckles whitening. My nails dig into my palm.

I haven’t heard from my dad. Not a text. Not a call. Not even a “clean it up” memo from one of his assistants.

And that silence? It’s louder than anything.

He probably disowned me the second the first screenshot leaked. No, wait, he disowned me the moment I opened my mouth in public. He has always hated my online presence. Especially after the letters started showing up.

The stalker. The scandal. The fucking security protocols I wasn’t allowed to question. All of it has been my fault, apparently. Because God forbid his daughter acts like she owns her body.

I should’ve run when I turned eighteen. But I was naïve. I thought maybe he’d change. Instead, he held the leash tighterand kept me here “for my protection.” I thought Mom would get better, and we’d be the perfect little family.

Bullshit.

Turns out families don’t protect us. They hide us.

A memory punches through, one I haven’t let myself think about in years.

The Vane ballroom glittered like a cut diamond, too polished and a little too perfect. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto champagne flutes and silk gowns. Everything smelled of old money and curated elegance. Waiters moved like ghosts, and the orchestra played Vivaldi in a minor key as if they knew something the rest of us didn’t.

I was playing my role. The perfect daughter.

All posture and poise, smiling wide enough to feel the strain in my cheeks. Laughing at jokes that weren’t funny. Touching elbows, trading pleasantries, knowing which forks to use and when to tilt my head like I was listening.

Dad stood beside me on the stage, one hand gently curled around my back like a leash dressed in velvet.

He addressed the sea of donors and socialites with his usual gravitas.

“Lyra,” he said, pausing for effect, “is a modern example of resilience in the digital age. Graceful, even under scrutiny.”

Applause broke out like gunfire. He smiled like a proud father. But it was hollow. A performance, just like mine.

Two days later, in his study, the door clicked shut behind us like a cell. The curtains were drawn.

His hands were balled into fists on the mahogany desk. His voice was a low, coiled thing.

“We don’t air laundry, Lyra. Especially not bloodstained.”

Not “I’m proud of you.” Not “You handled it well.”

Instead of comfort, he gave me a warning because I’d dared to mention my dead Mom. A threat, thinly veiled asconcern. He couldn’t stand facing the truth, which is that we were a fractured family, broken beyond repair, and he had no intention of piecing it back together.

That was the real version of him, not the polished magnate with the winning grin, but the man who understood image and silence as survival.

And now he’s gone. No handlers. No legal team. No one to spin the story. No final lesson. No parting strategy.

Just absence. It’s like he wants me to burn. And maybe I am. But goddamn it, I’m going to do it on my terms.

Because they love it when we fall. Just not when we jump.

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