Page 90 of Her Soul to Own

He always hated Declan’s family. Westwood Hotels were the competition until they got entangled in some tax fraud mess, at which time, Pierce Holdings practically begged for bailouts. Evander spat on that legacy and said it was weak-blooded. So what the hell are his fingerprints doing in this mess?

My pulse thuds. Could all this have been his play from the start? To discredit Lyra? Break her spirit? Pull her back under his control?

Or worse, was this to protect something else entirely?

Because if Evander Vane is involved with Harper and Declan, then this isn’t just betrayal. This is war.

And Lyra is not just a pawn. She’s the goddamn queen they’re trying to box in. And that one slaps like a sucker punch.

What the fuck is happening?

If I were an ordinary person, my head would be spinning right now.

Instead, I’m charged and wired like a live wire ready to snap.

I reroute their burner phone signals to my backup server, clone the numbers, and clone the threads. I’m in their inbox before they even finish their hissy fit.

“Tell me what you’re selling. And I’ll find out who paid the price.”

My laptop beeps with an incoming messagethat says, “Meet me at Black Lungs Bar in an hour.”

I stare at the screen. Then I laugh, a short, sharp sound that barely feels human. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Black Lungs Bar is a hellhole with a liquor license. It’s the kind of place where neon signs flicker like they’re afraid to stay lit, and no one ever makes eye contact unless they’re looking for a fight. It smells like old beer, puke, and a metallic scent that no mop ever fully cleans.

The floor’s always sticky, like it’s trying to trap you. The booths are torn vinyl and bleach-stained wood—places you sit only if you’ve given up on dignity. Half the regulars carry weapons, and the other half are weapons. The bartenders don’t smile. Instead, they size you up. And yes, they carry Tasers. You learn that fast.

Black Lungs is where you go to get stabbed in the parking lot or offered a suitcase of bad decisions. It’s not neutral ground. It’sno man’s land.

I mutter to myself, already slamming the laptop shut and throwing my bag over my shoulder, “Perfect. Nothing says,‘confidential intel’like a beer-soaked crime scene.”

But I’m going.

Because if this woman’s reaching out now with what’s going on, she’s either brave, reckless, or scared enough to finally matter.

And honestly, I don’t care which. Just as long as she talks before I lose my grip.

Chapter 22 – Lyra – The Silence Between Screams

I spent two more days in the same robe, same crumpled sheets, and the same lull. The kind of lull that rings in your ears like an old war wound.

The wine bottle on the nightstand is now more empty than half-full, a testament to how many times I’ve tried to take the edge off without success. Four unread emails mock me from my inbox. Each one is a professionally wrapped “fuck you” in corporate speak, saying, “We regret to inform you…”

Regret, my ass.

Two weeks ago, I was every brand’s wet dream. LuxeMara, Vivino, GlimmerGloss, all dying to pin their labels to my body like I was some high-end mannequin with a pulse. Hell, even a fucking start-up that sold vegan gummies for better orgasms wanted in. And now? Crickets. No replies. No callbacks. Nowe’re here for you during this difficult timebullshit.

I emailed the LuxeMara rep directly, twice. But I just got left on read—radio fucking silence—like my very existence is toxic now. Like I’ll crawl through the Wi-Fi signal and infect their PR team.

I look at the TV, which is playing some random old season ofGossip Girl. Irony of ironies. Serena van der fucking Woodsen never had to worry about revenge porn. Maybe she did… I keep forgetting the plot. But I’m sure she never had to scrub the internet for pieces of herself she didn’t authorize.

The screen glows in blues and whites, detached and artificial. I haven’t paid attention to it for hours. Maybe days.

I grab a throw pillow and hug it to my chest because it’s the only fucking soft thing around here lately.

My phone’s buried somewhere under the blankets. I dig through the tangle of sheets and pizza boxes to find it. I swipe through the messages—the same fucking garbage from the same fucking assholes.

“Bet you liked being watched.”

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