Chapter 45 –
POV : Lyra
The morning light arrived like royalty—quiet but impossible to ignore.It crawled across the satin curtains of my villa, painting them gold, touching the marble floor and stopping at the edge of my bed as if seeking permission to wake me. I let it.
For a few precious seconds, I just lay there—breathing, not thinking. The silk sheets were cool against my skin, the faint scent of lavender from last night's candles still lingering in the air. No alarms, no shouting, no threats in the shadows. Just stillness.
It was strange how luxury could feel lonely sometimes.
I turned my head toward the empty side of the bed—cold, untouched. Kieller's side.He'd left before dawn. Typical. Always gone before I woke, always with a note or a warning, never with a goodbye.
On the nightstand lay a folded piece of black stationery—his handwriting, precise and sharp as his tone.
"Morning, Lyra. Don't trust anyone wearing calm like perfume."
I exhaled through a soft laugh. Kieller. He couldn't even leave a good-morning without sounding like an encrypted threat.
I swung my legs out of bed, toes touching the polished floor. The villa was silent except for the distant hum of the city outside my glass balcony. The world looked small from here—tiny cars, glinting towers, people who didn't know they were walking inside someone else's chessboard.
And I was the one holding the board.
I slipped into my silk robe, tied it lazily, and walked toward the mirror. The reflection that looked back wasn't soft anymore. My bruises had healed, the fear had faded, and the woman in the glass now carried the calmness of someone who'd burned and rebuilt herself more than once.
They tried to bury me, I thought, brushing my hair slowly, but they forgot I thrive in the dark.
By nine, I was in my dressing room—a sea of ivory, velvet, and designer chaos. I chose a fitted cream blouse, gold-trimmed cuffs, and a high-waist skirt that kissed the floor when I walked. My heels—custom, Loro Piana gold—clicked against marble with every confident step, like the universe was keeping tempo with me.
When I stepped outside, my driver was waiting beside the black Maybach. The air smelled of monsoon and ambition. I slid into the back seat, opened my iPad, and skimmed through messages from investors, suppliers, and that one overly-bold journalist who thought my silence was an invitation. I ignored all of them.
"Destination, Ms Lyra?" my driver asked, adjusting his tie.
"The Luxe Galleria," I said. "And take the long route. I like watching the world crawl."
He nodded.
As the car glided through the city, I watched people rush across zebra crossings, coffee cups spilling, phones glued to ears. There was something intoxicating about their chaos—the kind of disorder I could control if I wanted to.
The Luxe Galleria stood tall like a crystal palace. An exhibition of rare designs and modern art, it was where money came to be admired. As I stepped out, cameras flashed—not paparazzi, just attention. My name carried a weight even in silence.
The marble floors gleamed under chandeliers shaped like falling stars. Soft classical music filled the air. People turned as I passed, their whispers following like perfume trails. I didn't slow down; I never did.
The host rushed toward me, nervous smile, trembling voice. "Ms Lyra! You honor us again—this way, please!"
"Relax," I said, smiling faintly. "I'm just here to see if art still remembers how to impress me."
He laughed too quickly. I'd already walked past him.
I moved through the hall, pausing only when something caught my attention—a sculpture in the center, glass shaped like fire frozen mid-flame. It shimmered beneath the lights, and for a moment I saw myself in it—chaos contained.
That's when a voice cut through the quiet.
"Careful. The clasp of your bracelet's loose."
I turned sharply.
A man stood a few feet away, tall, posture relaxed yet calculated. He wasn't dressed like the others—no flashy suit or desperate attempt to impress. Simple black shirt, sleeves rolled up, silver watch glinting. His hair was dark, slightly disheveled, and his eyes… silver-gray, cold and curious.
Before I could speak, he stepped closer and caught my wrist, his fingers brushing the inside of it as he fixed the clasp with precise care. No hesitation, no apology.
My pulse skipped once. Not from his touch—no. From his audacity.
"Touching someone's wrist without permission?" I said coolly, one brow lifting. "Interesting way to introduce yourself."
He smiled—not wide, just enough for arrogance to show. "Some people waste words when they could act. You don't seem like one of them."
"You assume a lot about strangers," I replied, pulling my hand back slowly. "Does it usually work for you?"
"Depends," he said, eyes glinting with amusement. "On the stranger."
His tone was smooth, but there was something beneath it—an awareness, a weight. He looked at me like he already knew who I was, maybe more than he should.
"Do you often hover near women at art events?" I asked, my voice wrapped in mock sweetness.
He gave a quiet laugh. "Only the ones who make a room go silent when they walk in."
I should've walked away. I didn't. Something about him was… unnerving, like a mirror that reflected too much.
Before I could say more, the host's voice called me to the main stage. "Ms Lyra, the presentation is ready!"
I turned toward the spotlight, brushing past him. But his gaze followed—steady, unflinching. When I looked back once, he was gone. As if he'd melted into the crowd.
By evening, the sky was streaked with violet and silver when I returned to the villa. The city glowed below the balcony like molten gold, and the faint breeze carried the scent of rain. I should've felt peaceful. Instead, my mind replayed that stranger's voice over and over.
You looked like the kind of woman who prefers action over permission.
He said it like he'd seen through every wall I'd built. I hated that it lingered.
I changed into a loose silk dress, poured a glass of red wine, and walked barefoot through the hall. The villa was too quiet—just the hum of distant traffic, the faint tick of the antique clock, and my thoughts crawling louder than ever.
The bracelet still clung perfectly to my wrist. I looked at it under the lamp's light and wondered if I'd imagined his touch—or if he'd truly known how to fix it that easily.
My phone buzzed.Unknown number.
Unknown:You left before I could introduce myself.
My pulse froze for a second. Then I smiled—sharp, fearless.
Lyra:Then don't. I prefer mysteries quiet.
I set the phone down, letting the message hang unanswered in the digital silence.
Outside, thunder rolled softly. A storm was coming—gentle now, but not for long.
I walked to the balcony, glass in hand, watching the lightning flicker across the city's edge. Somewhere out there, that man—whoever he was—still had my attention. And I hated it.
But deep down, under the silk and confidence, a whisper lingered: this wasn't random. He hadn't just appeared. He'd known I'd be there.
I leaned against the railing, smirking to myself. "Whoever you are, silver-eyed stranger… play carefully. I invented the game."
Below, the wind picked up.And parked just beyond the villa's gates, a black car sat waiting, engine silent, headlights off.
Inside, those same silver eyes watched the upper balcony—calm, calculating.And when my lights went out, his lips curved into the faintest, knowing smile.