Page 95 of Her Soul to Own

I snort—the kind of disbelieving, bitter sound that tastes like acid.

Blake? Seriously? The Fed with the tailored suits and empty eyes? What the actual fuck is he still doing in my life? I know it’s selfish to think that, considering I cashed in a favor just a few weeks ago, but honestly, I don’t have enough fucks to give right now.

And Zara… God, Zara decides now is the time to crawl out of whatever guilt-soaked rock she’s been hiding under? After radio silence for days? She thinks a little text is enough to patch over betrayal? Like we’re still two brats on a penthouse rooftop, drunk on stolen vodka and each other’s secrets?

My fingers twitch around my phone, the urge to throw it just barely suppressed.

I turn toward the glass pane behind me and catch my reflection. Jesus. I look like a headline waiting to happen. Disheveled Heiress Spirals Into Hermit Chic.

My hair’s a rat’s nest, my eyes are swollen and red, my skin is patchy like a bad foundation job at a bargain salon, and Silas’s shirt is hanging on me like a disaster’s aftermath.

That won’t do. That won’t fucking do.

I storm across the estate like a woman possessed. I storm back to my room, slam the door, and fling the shirt onto the bed like it cursed at me. Then, I step into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and crank the heat until steam billows around me like battle smoke.

The water scalds me. Good.

I scrub like I’m trying to erase the last week, my past, and my name. I use shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and luxury products meant to soothe, which are now being used like weapons. By the time I step out, my skin’s red and raw. And I feel new. Not totally clean, but better.

Time to pick a deadly weapon.

I go for straight black jeans, boots that could kick down reputations, and a midnight-blue satin blouse that’s cut lowenough to start rumors and end conversations. My lipstick is blood-red, my eyes winged like a threat. My hair’s also curled into soft spirals, a siren’s halo. I dab my mother’s expensive and enchanting perfume behind my ears and across my wrists.

The scent hits me like a ghost, like whispered curses and glittering expectations. It feels like love dressed up as poison.

I’m going to make them look. Make them talk.

By the time I click the door shut behind me, the echo isn’t of defeat but a fucking war drum.

Let the bastards remember why I was dangerous.

I’m no longer Lyra the torn daughter, the viral slut, and the whisper on every forum.

I’mLyra Vaneagain.

I come face to face with Sebastian, my driver, who’s standing there in his charcoal suit, his eyes darting everywhere except at me. His jaw is tight, and his ears are practically glowing red with guilt, humiliation, and avoidance. The holy trinity of someone who’s definitely seen something they weren’t supposed to.

I raise one perfectly shaped brow and mutter, “Great. Even my driver saw me fucking myself.”

Sebastian clears his throat but says nothing, stepping aside with mechanical precision. I strut past him like the goddamn scandal queen I am, my heels tapping out defiance with every step.

He opens the car door for me, still avoiding eye contact like it might blind him.

I slide into the backseat, smooth and poised, and the door shuts me in with a muted thud.

Now it’s time to face whatever bullshit Zara thinks she has to offer.

XXX

People don’t always stab you in the back. Sometimes, they kiss you on the cheek while twisting the knife, and then call it love.

Willowridge Café is too fucking bright for secrets. The air reeks of over-steamed milk and deceit. It’s the kind of place where everyone pretends not to be listening, while leaning in just enough to catch every word. The sun is out in full force, exposing every crack in my perfectly constructed outfit. It’s like a fucking spotlight on my shame.

Zara waits by the door. She’s all gloss and grace in a blouse, with those ridiculous heart-shaped sunglasses perched on her head and her designer bag clutched like a trophy. She waves nervously when she sees me, like she’s hoping I’ll smile back and not set fire to the entire street.

Spoiler alert: I don’t smile.

I step out of the car in full “fuck around and find out” mode—dark red lipstick, heels that could kill, and a satin top so sharp that it should come with a disclaimer. I walk like I own the sidewalk, like I haven’t spent the last week quietly coming apart at the seams. I can’t let them see that the scandal got under my skin.

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