~ LYRA ~

The priest voice was a low, steady drone, like a boring motor running too far away to matter. I leaned into my brother, letting the solidness of his shoulder be the only thing holding me upright.

The wind gusted, whipping the ends of my veil across my mouth. It tasted like dust and cheap wool. I wished it would blow harder, flatten me, rip the black dress right off and expose the lie of my composure.

It was Papa's funeral, the day he was finally going to be laid to rest. I should be weeping, convulsing, tearing my hair for Papa. Instead, I'm just... cold. And the cold wasn't the air's fault. It was the glacier of disbelief that formed in my chest from yesterday which was my anniversary.

Thank God for Michael, who bailed me out from the bar. If not, I would have drunk myself to a stupor after such a horrible scene.

The gathering was full, everyone was present yet it felt incomplete, my eyes kept on hovering each moment hoping to see Lucian in the crowd. He was supposed to be standing next to me, but he is nowhere to be found.

I had already given up, when I noticed a ripple in the back of the crowd. A sudden, noticeable shift. Whispers began to spread, hushed at first, then growing bolder.

Heads turned, and a few people even craned their necks to get a better look. My gaze followed theirs, curiosity warring with a growing sense of dread.

My breath hitched at the sight of Lucian, and walking next to him was my so-called best friend, Aryan. They looked like a nearly wedded couple on their way to a honeymoon. The sight made my heart give a painful lurch, a mixture of anger and utter confusion.

Why was he here late? Why is she still with him? Was he really serious about yesterday? I still chose not to believe it, but seeing them felt as if the floor had suddenly dissolved, leaving my stomach to lurch into a cold, empty void. The air in my lungs turned to lead, heavy, unbreathable, and stagnant. I stood boiling in rage, holding myself back from walking up to them and causing a scene.

Soon the funeral ended in a blur, and right when. Lucian was about to slip away with Aryan, I hurriedly confronted them knowing fully well that I couldn't let it go.

"Lucian, why did you come here late? " I choked at him right when he was about to get into his car.

"What do you want, Lyra?" His tone was flat, chilling.

My anger flared. "What do I want? What was that, Lucian? Where have you been since all this while I have been calling your line yet you chose to ignore my calls? And now showing up late, to Papa's funeral, with Aryan. What were you thinking?" My voice trembled.

He sighed. "It doesn't matter, the last time I checked the old man is late and takes no note of time anymore..and also about Aryan she is the only lady I see who is worth me." He added.

"It doesn't matter?" I scoffed, a bitter laugh catching in my throat. "Papa's funeral doesn't matter? What's gotten into you Lucian?" I asked, gazing at him.

He finally met my gaze, a cold resolve in his eyes as he stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Lyra just like I have said before, I want a divorce. I'm not in this marriage anymore."

'Divorce?' The world tilted. "Don't tell me you are seriously believing those pictures from yesterday?"

I stared at him, shattered, tears streaming. "No," I whispered, broken. "No. You can't be serious. This can't be happening. Not now. How could you even... how could you bring this up today?"

"We just laid Papa to rest, Lucian! All this can wait, please, let's talk this out. Whatever is going on, we can solve this together. Just the two of us." I pleaded with him. My voice was barely a whisper, alien even to my own ears, like my whole world was just, you know, falling apart right there and then.

He was being deceived by the woman I called my best friend, the woman I confided in, and I wasn't going to back down without a fight. I wasn't going to let my marriage go down the drain, because of Aryan's jealousy and evil.

"I've wasted enough time on you. Don't come near my house again. My lawyer is already drafting the papers; expect them by the end of the week." His gaze curdled with a disgust so visible it made my heart recoil.

"But I'm carrying your baby, two weeks already." I said, even though I knew it wasn't the right time to drop that news.

His expression didn't change, but his eyes seemed to flicker with a hint of surprise before hardening again

"Pregnant...so you think I would believe that?" he said coldly. "You and I know that child is not mine, so you'd better take the bastard child to the rightful owner."

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. I had expected.. Some spark of compassion? A glimmer of responsibility? But his reaction was ice cold, and it terrified me.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "This is our child we're talking about. Our baby."

"You're making a mistake, Lucian. Don't

let Aryan's lies ruin three years of what we've built with each other. You're letting her ruin our marriage."

"Please, you're not like this. You know me. You know the truth. You've seen me through the good times and bad. You've shared every part of yourself with me, don't let her ruin everything we've worked so hard for. Please, believe me."

I begged, holding his hands in mine, but he

ripped them out of my grasp.

"You think begging is going to get you anywhere? Well, guess what, it won't. The sooner you accept the fact that you've lost, the better for both of us." He stated.

"But Lucian, the baby," I began, heart pounding.

"I don't care what you do with it. Get rid of it. That child isn't mine," he snapped, sliding into his car and slamming the door, leaving me hanging.

"Please, Lucian, don't, I'm the woman you love, the woman you married," I pleaded, lunging after him. A searing pain ripped through my stomach, and I felt myself splinter like glass.

My knees gave way. One moment I was standing; the next I was a crumpled heap on the cold floor, the sting of the grass grounding me in a nightmare I couldn't wake from.

A faint, familiar voice cut through the haze. "Sis...?" My brother Michael's face swam into view, eyes wide with panic, his hand hovering near my shoulder as if afraid to touch me. Behind him, my mother's voice, distant yet urgent, called my name, pulling me toward something I could no longer see.

The world narrowed to a single, blinding point of darkness. The murmurs from the crowd grew louder, a frantic rhythm that matched the storm inside me.

Then everything went black.

~ LYRA ~

Laying flat on a cold, white floor. The fluorescent lights flicker like dying fireflies, casting a harsh, flat glow. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block the blinding light. My head throbs in time with the steady beep of a monitor somewhere behind me.

"Where am I?" I tried to sit up, but the room tilted. My legs are tangled in a thin hospital gown that clings to my skin, and the sharp, chemical smell slams into me, this is a hospital.

"What am I doing here?" I pushed myself up, heart hammering, and froze when the nurse's steady gaze met mine.

"Thank goodness you're awake!" she said, pressing my shoulder gently, urging me to sit back. "You're fine, Ma, just relax, while I inform the doctor."

Where am I? How did I get here? The questions swirled in the fog of my mind until a jagged memory pierced through, sharp as a blade. My hands flew instinctively to my stomach.

"My baby?" My voice was a hollow rasp. "How is my baby?"

"Hey... hey, sis."

The voice came from the shadows at the edge of the bed. Michael. His face drifted into the light, his eyes bloodshot and swollen. He reached out, his hand hovering near my shoulder as if I were made of glass that had already shattered.

"You're okay," he whispered, though his voice broke. "You're in the hospital. You... you passed out. Lyra, it was a miscarriage."

Miscarriage. The word didn't just hurt; it leveled me. It was a physical blow to the chest that stole my breath. My secret weapon against Lucian, the only leverage I had left to force him to look at me, the only piece of my future that felt real, was gone.

"No," I whispered, my voice trembling. "This isn't real. It's a dream. Tell me it's a dream."

"I'm so sorry, Lyra."

"I wasn't ready!" I shrieked, the sound echoing off the cold, tiled walls. "Not now! Not when everything is already burning!"

The tears didn't just fall; they erupted. Hot, relentless, and animalistic. I curled into a ball, clutching the hospital sheets as if they could hold my life together. "I can't do this," I choked out through the heaving sobs.

"I can't survive this, Michael."

His hand tightened on my shoulder, his grip the only thing keeping me from floating away into the dark. "You have to," he said, his voice hoarse with his own grief.

"For Papa. For yourself. For the future he wanted for you. Please, Lyra... stay with me."

A soft knock at the door signaled the entrance of Dr. Paulin. He approached with a heavy, practiced sympathy. "I'm sorry, Mrs. White," he said quietly. "We can't give you a definitive reason for the loss yet. But you must be gentle with yourself. You've just come out of a coma; your body is incredibly weak."

Mrs. White. The name felt like a brand.

"I know the reason," I spat out, the words tasting like bile.

The doctor paused, but I wasn't looking at him. I was looking at the ghosts of the last three years.

"It was him," I whispered, my crying suddenly stopping, replaced by a terrifying, cold clarity.

"He caused all of this. I gave him everything. I buried my career, my dreams, my soul into that marriage. And he did me dirty. He broke me on the worst day of my life, right after Papa died."

I fell back into Michael's arms, but the warmth was gone. I felt hollow. Every bit of the reality I had built for three years had been stripped away. I had no husband. No home. No father. And now, no child.

I was left with nothing.

And in that emptiness, a new fire began to crawl up my throat. It wasn't the heat of sadness anymore; it was the frost of a promise.

They think they've left me with nothing, I thought, staring at the sterile white wall until my eyes burned. But they've just given me the freedom to burn their entire world down...

The car slowed, then stopped. The mansion loomed ahead, the place I once called home, and the sight sent a shiver down my spine, as if every memory was waiting to crawl out of the shadows.

"Are you okay, sis? Are you sure about this?" Michael asked, his voice low. He turned off the engine and the sudden quiet let his worry flicker into view.

I didn't say a word. I just gave him a look, one pitiful, weary stare that said everything I felt.

"It's fine... Just a few minutes, then I'll be back."

I slipped out of the car, my feet hitting the gravel with a quiet thud. Inside, the living room smelled different, the air thick with someone else's perfume.

Aryan lounged on the sofa, a bikini barely covering her, a glass of wine in hand, laughing and having a good time all alone. The sight made my stomach twist with disgust.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice sliced through the silence of the foyer, sharp and uninvited. "This is my house now. Not yours."

I looked at her, my supposed best friend standing in the middle of the home I had built.

"The last time I checked, you're the only intruder here." I kept my voice steady, though my chest burned. "I should have seen it years ago. The way you tried to talk me out of marrying Lucian... and then the way you lingered, waiting for our anniversary to finally strike."

She didn't flinch. Instead, she let out a slow, chilling smile that reached from ear to ear, a twisted, Joker-like grin. "You were just too blind to notice that Lucian was never yours. I simply helped him realize the truth."

"I should have known," I whispered, the realization tasting like poison. "All those years playing the 'loyal friend' while you were just a desperate, hollow shell."

"I did what I had to do," she snapped, her eyes flashing. "To protect the only man I've ever loved."

"Protecting him?" A harsh, jagged laugh escaped my throat as hot tears finally blurred my vision.

"You destroyed a home! You're a liar and a thief!"

She opened her mouth to retort, but I held up a hand, cutting her off. "I'm not here to trade insults with you. I'm here for my things. Then I'm leaving you two betraying bastards to rot in this house together."

I turned toward the stairs.

"Where do you think you're going?" she shrieked, lunging forward to block my path. "You have no right to be here! Lucian isn't home,"

I brushed past her, my momentum carrying me up the stairs before she could grab my arm. I burst into the master bedroom. To my surprise and perhaps my final heartbreak, my things were already packed. Neatly. Efficiently. As if I had already been erased.

I grabbed my suitcases, but paused at the vanity. I looked at the diamond ring on my finger, the weight of a thousand broken promises. I twisted it off, the metal feeling cold against my skin, and clicked it down onto the marble shelf.

As I hauled my bags back to the landing, she was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed. "I hope you didn't take anything that wasn't yours," she sneered.

I stopped at the final step, inches from her face. "I'm not you, darling. I never could be."

"Loser," she spat. "Don't show your ugly face here again."

I leaned in, my voice dropping to a low, lethal silk. "Oh, I won't. But I promise you this: when you see me again, you'll be the one begging for mercy. I am going to make your lives a living hell. Tell my 'husband' he'd better start looking over his shoulder."

The smugness on her face wavered, replaced by a flicker of genuine shock.

"I wish you both exactly what you deserve," I said, stepping past her and out the front door without looking back.

~ LYRA ~

"Sign here, Mr. Greg, we have a deal," I said, sliding the pen and the document across the table. "Trust me, you've made a great decision. You won't regret this." I glanced up and caught the bright grin spreading across his face.

"I know," he chuckled, eyes shining. "If there's nothing else, we should get going, our flight won't wait."

"Of course," I replied, shaking his hand with a firm, practiced grip. As they left, the contract already inked, I felt a quiet, steady pride settle in my chest. The day's work was done

It's been SIX years since the divorce, and the world I inhabit now feels both larger and smaller than the one I left behind. When my father passed, his company teetered on the brink of ruin.

I stepped into his office with nothing but raw determination and a relentless drive to prove first to myself, then to everyone who ever doubted me, that I could rebuild what had been broken.

I turned the business around, lifting it from bankruptcy to become the second‑largest empire on the planet. Billions now flow through our accounts, and each number feels like a silent affirmation of every sacrifice: the late‑night emails, the missed family dinners, the endless pressure that threatened to crush me.

The satisfaction of proving them all wrong is a fire that never quite burns out, even when my eyes sting from fatigue.

"Ms. Jones?" Mida's voice was filled with anticipation as she followed me into the office. "I can tell from that grin on your face... we got the deal, didn't we?"

I didn't say a word at first. I simply turned to her and let a slow, triumphant smile spread across my face as I gave a single, firm nod.

"Congratulations," Mida breathed, her eyes shining with genuine pride. "You do it so effortlessly, Lyra."

I had insisted she use my name when we were alone. In this cold world of business and vengeance, she was the only one I allowed to see the person behind the title.

"It only looks effortless because they don't see the work we do in the dark, Mida," I replied, as I sat on my chair.

"But thank you. We've earned this win."

I glanced at the clock, "That will be all for today. Go home and get some rest. You've worked hard for this."

"Alright, then, don't forget, your final schedule for the day is the gala at 6 p.m.," she announced, her voice crisp as the paper in front of her. I glanced at the clock, gave a curt nod, and dismissed her with a quiet, "Thank you, Mida. I won't."

The door clicked shut behind her. I rose, straightened my skirt, and walked to the floor‑to‑ceiling windows.

Below, the city sprawled, its neon veins pulsing like a living thing. It was his city, my city, the place I'd fought for, bled for, and lost so much in. I let the view settle in my chest before turning away to prepare for the night ahead.

I chose a midnight‑blue velvet gown that seemed to swallow the light around it. The dress hugged my shoulders with delicate, embroidered lace sleeves that fell into a subtle, cascading train. Its deep hue echoed the night sky, giving me a sense of calm authority.

A single, discreet slit traced the side of my thigh, not for daring, but for effortles movement as I glided across the marble floor. The back was modest, a high‑collar of silk that whispered against my skin, while a thin, silver chain of tiny pearls traced the neckline.

My brother, Michael, would be my plus‑one, my anchor in the storm of expectation.

The limousine halted at the red‑carpet entrance. Cameras flashed, a sea of lenses and shouting voices.

"Ms. Jones! Over here!"

"How does it feel to run the family empire?"

"Did the divorce affect the business?" I rolled my eyes, ignoring the personal barbs, and slipped inside with Michael at my side.

The familiar sting of intrusion mixing with a practiced patience. Michael slipped his hand into mine, grounding me. "You okay?" he whispered.

"Just... a lot of noise," I replied, forcing a smile. "They haven't seen me in six years. Let them stare."

"They'll tire soon."

Inside the ballroom, the chandeliers threw golden light across polished marble. The crowd's murmurs formed a low tide that rose as soon as the doors opened for the next guest..

He nodded, but his eyes lingered on the crowd. "I heard the Whites might be here tonight."

My fingers tightened around the glass I was holding. The name sent a jolt through me. "Probably just a rumor," I said, though my pulse told a different story.

A waiter approached with a tray of champagne. "Ms. Jones?"

I took a glass, raised it to my lips, and the doors at the far end swung open. A murmur rippled through the room. "Mr. White is here."

My breath caught. Lucian White, tall, immaculate in a tuxedo, a woman with a subtle baby bump on his arm. Aryan. A sudden, fierce wave of anger surged, tightening my grip on the glass until it threatened to shatter.

"Lyra," Michael murmured, his voice a thin lifeline. I turned away, the sudden rush of memories, courtroom whispers, the cold finality of the divorce papers, the hollow ache of abandonment, crashing over me like a tide. My heart hammered against my ribs, a mixture of betrayal, grief, and a strange, lingering love that refused to die.

I moved toward the balcony, the night air a promise of escape. The cold wind brushed against my cheeks, cooling the heat of my fury. I pressed my palms to the railing, the metal biting into my skin, trying to ground the storm inside me.

Six years of healing, six good years of pretending I'd moved on, and one glance had ripped it all open. I wasn't prepared for our paths to cross so soon.

I stared into the night, the midnight‑blue gown shimmering faintly in the moonlight, feeling the layers of my emotions settle like sediment: anger, grief, lingering affection, and an unshakable resolve.

The door opened again. Michael stepped out, his expression a mix of concern and resolve. "Lyra, we need to get back inside. The event's about to start."

I stared into the night, the weight of the city, the empire, and the ghost of a love I thought I'd buried pressing down on me.