Page 96 of Her Soul to Own

When I approach her, she pulls me into a hug that I don’t return.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she murmurs, her voice tight and forced.

“Neither was I,” I reply.

Inside, the café is all faux charm and polished wood. Basically, small-town gossip disguised as brunch. I don’t belong here anymore. But I slide into the booth like I do.

He’s already waiting.

Elijah Blake. The Fed. The ghost from another life. He’s still tall, still disgustingly clean-cut. His navy suit is sharp enough to cut glass, and his tie is the kind you wear to testifybefore Congress. He’s sitting with a coffee in front of him, and it’s untouched and burning hot, just the way he likes it. It’s like he’s allergic to chaos unless he’s the one orchestrating it. When he sees me, he rises.

“Lyra,” he greets me, his tone warm but wary.

“Elijah fucking Blake,” I shoot back. I sit across from him without waiting for an invitation. Zara follows like a shadow and slides into the booth beside me.

“It’s been years,” he says, his eyes tracking every inch of me. “You look—”

“Don’t,” I cut in, pulling off my sunglasses. “You don’t get to say that. Please… not right now.”

I know it’s irrational, lashing out at Elijah and Zara, but right now, I’m too pissed to think straight.

He nods with no argument. “Fair enough.”

Zara fidgets with her straw. I glance sideways, daring her to speak, but she doesn’t.

Elijah reaches into his bag, pulls out a thin manila folder, and places it between us, sliding it across the table like a bribe or a bomb. I don’t touch it.

“Two weeks ago, one of our cybercrime analysts picked up chatter on a flagged node. The traffic rerouted through a Mirage server,” he says calmly. “You know them?”

“Mirage,” I echo. “That influencer marketing firm with the neon aesthetic and shady-as-fuck contracts?”

“Officially, yeah. Unofficially, they’re used for influence operations, soft disinformation, social narrative bending, and corporate blackmail buried under PR stunts.”

“Why the hell would Mirage care about me?”

Elijah doesn’t blink. “Because someone gave them clearance to run a narrative campaign through Vane PR’s digital arm. On paper, it’s just optics management. But underneath…”

I freeze. My dad’s name is already forming in my mouth like a poison I’ve swallowed too many times. “My father’s campaign?” I ask. Slowly. Carefully.

He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t deny it either, which tells me everything.

For a moment, the world shifts, and the floor tilts. I’m not surprised. This just confirms my suspicions. It’s fucked-up, I know.

Daddy dearest, Evander Vane, has always treated me like a brand asset with mood swings. A liability in red lipstick. Of course he’d sell me out to cover his own tracks. Of course he’d authorize whatever this is—an op, a leak, a humiliation campaign—to keep the spotlight off of me.

I stare at the folder. Unopened and ugly.

“So I’m not the problem,” I say bitterly. “I’m just the distraction. The decoy.”

“Let’s just say,” Elijah murmurs, “it would make more sense if you were the smokescreen. Not the target.”

I laugh. Loud and broken. People turn to look at me, but I don’t fucking care. Zara shifts in her seat, shrinking like she might disappear under the table.

Elijah leans back, looking certain. “Nothing in your life has ever happened by accident.”

My voice goes flat. “Why now? Why tell me this now?”

“Because this time,” Elijah says quietly, “you’re not just bait. You’re the detonator.”

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