Chapter 23 –
Lyra's POV
Thirty days.
That's how long it had been since I last heard the sound of power—stilettos clicking against marble, the hush of boardrooms folding under my gaze, the breathless anticipation of a room knowing I'd arrived.
Thirty days since blood stained my designer dress. Since I'd been reduced to sterile walls, IV drips, and pitiful looks from people too polite to admit they thought I'd never return.
But today?
Today, the crown wasn't just back on my head.
It fit better than ever.
The mirror greeted me with reverence. White and gold blazer dress, tailored to perfection. Red lips, unapologetic. Hair in a sculpted knot, sharp enough to cut expectations. I looked thinner. Paler. But that was the only mercy I'd allow the world.
Because Lyra Vale wasn't back to recover.
She was back to reign.
The door opened.
Of course. Who else but him?
Kieller Voss. Dressed like a Wall Street villain with a god complex. Leaning against the doorframe like he was the punchline to a very expensive joke only he was in on.
"You look..." he paused, eyes trailing with obvious calculation, "...like someone who's about to make headlines."
I didn't turn. Just adjusted my collar in the mirror. "Headlines bore me. I'm aiming for history."
He chuckled. A slow, amused sound that grated at my pride. "Let's see if the world's ready to kneel again."
"They won't have to," I said, brushing past him. "They never stopped."
We walked side by side down the corridor. Not equals—he just happened to be in step.
Outside, the city air greeted me like a familiar adversary. Sharp. Watching. Daring.
Gray was waiting near the entrance, mid-conversation with one of the junior execs. He turned when he saw me and froze.
"Miss Vale." He grinned. "Back from the dead?"
"Barely," I replied, brushing an invisible wrinkle off my sleeve. "But I've decided I like revenge better than rest."
Gray gave a low whistle. "Think you can clear a month's worth of chaos in a week?"
"A week?" I scoffed. "Give me until lunch."
"She's serious," Kieller said with that insufferable calm. "Though I imagine she'll collapse halfway through for dramatic effect."
I turned slowly. "Careful, Kieller. You keep underestimating me—you'll end up worshipping me."
"Again?" he asked, voice dipped in mock-sincerity. "Exhausting."
Gray rolled his eyes. "Alright,. Save the foreplay for your lawsuits. To the test track—we're late."
A royal blue Porsche waited, polished to a shine. Fitting. Royal. Cold.
Just like us.
The drive was quiet, but not empty. Every glance, every shift of breath was a loaded gun between us.
The test track unrolled like a cinematic set: black asphalt glinting in the sun, sleek banners fluttering, a luxury sports car gleaming like it had something to prove.
I changed inside the van—navy backless jumpsuit, stilettos that meant war, and skin like carved marble. I stepped out, and the entire crew looked up like they'd seen the queen rise from the ashes.
Good.
I hadn't bled for sympathy.
"Miss Vale," the producer approached, clipboard trembling, "Three segments: track sprint, drift test, and autopilot highway. You okay to do it all?"
"I don't do 'okay.' I do legendary."
Inside the car, it purred like a beast with manners. Diamond-stitched leather, chrome accents, voice-activated AI that whispered my name like a secret.
I revved the engine.
And I flew.
Speed. Drift. Perfection. I wasn't driving—I was performing. Every corner bowed. Every camera worshipped.
Even the autopilot test, which I loathed—relinquishing control made my skin itch—but I did it. I let the machine lead. And I looked da*n good doing it.
When we returned, the team clapped.
Of course they did.
The queen had returned to her throne.
Back at HQ, Callie met me with jittery respect.
"Ma'am, your cabin's ready. Reports waiting on the desk."
She guided me in, voice hushed like a museum curator unveiling a masterpiece.
And it was.
Obsidian walls. Marble desk. Gold trim. Floor-to-ceiling glass reflecting a city that would bend for me once again.
Inside the drawer: thirty-four files.
I smiled.
"Cute."
I sat and began.
Hours passed. The world faded. Contracts. Redlines. Strategy shifts. Leadership adjustments.
By midnight, only five remained.
My body ached. My throat burned. My eyes blurred.
But I stood—
And the world tipped.
My chest constricted. Vision fogged. My legs buckled.
No.
Not now.
I collapsed, air fleeing my lungs, fingers trembling. I gritted my teeth.
"Breathe, Lyra. You don't get to fall. Not here. Not now."
But I was drowning.
Until—
Hands.
Firm. Familiar.
Strong arms swept me off the floor, lowered me to the velvet couch like I was made of glass.
"Lyra. Breathe," Kieller said, voice void of mockery for once. "Inhale. Exhale. Come on."
His hand gripped mine, anchoring me. I wanted to push him away. I wanted to stay in that warmth.
"You're not alone," he murmured.
I looked up.
And for a moment, just a flicker—I believed him.
He didn't let go.
Didn't tease.
Just held me.
And I hated how safe I felt.
When the storm finally calmed, I sat up.
"I'm fine," I whispered, voice hoarse.
"You're not," he snapped. "You're reckless. You're bleeding ambition faster than your body can carry it."
"I wanted to prove—"
"You proved it. To everyone but yourself."
He stood, pacing. Angry. Beautiful. Dangerous.
"You're not a machine, Lyra. You're not some statue to be polished and paraded. You're—" he caught himself.
"Go on," I said, too tired to spar. "Say it."
He didn't. Instead, he extended his hand.
"Come on. I'm taking you to the hotel. You're done for today."
I scoffed. "You don't get to command me."
"I'm not asking."
I tried to rise. Pain flared. My heel snapped.
Of course.
I stumbled forward—right into his arms.
He caught me. Again.
"Are you staging these breakdowns?" he growled. "Do you secretly enjoy falling into my arms?"
"I'd rather fall into traffic."
He didn't dignify that. Instead, he lifted me.
Bridal style.
Effortless.
"What the hell are you doing?" I hissed.
"Carrying the chaos magnet to bed before she dies proving a point."
At the hotel, he kicked open the door, set me down, and knelt in front of me.
Removed my heels.
His hand grazed my ankle. It was swollen. Red.
"You're impossible," he muttered, pulling out the first-aid kit.
He worked in silence, bandaging me like I mattered. Like I wasn't just another chess piece in his empire.
"You could've just said you were tired," he murmured.
"I don't say it. I outwork it."
He looked at me then. Really looked.
And in that moment, there was no battle.
Just quiet understanding.
Maybe even something worse.
Something softer.
But I wasn't ready for softness.
So I leaned back, smirked, and said, "You can go now."
He didn't say anything and moved to his room.
Because maybe, just for tonight, I didn't want to be feel softer
but why kieller's behavour changed did he have any feelings for me?