[Lyra's POV]
I should've known the moment I saw the red heels.
Familiar. Cliché. The kind of thing you only see in movies—or nightmares. Hauntingly familiar. And yet… I didn't want to believe it.
The heels lay discarded on the floor, paired with shoes kicked off in a hurry. The room smelled faintly of perfume and sweat, every detail screaming that something was horribly, irrevocably wrong.
The refrigerator hummed. The light above flickered. The apartment felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for me to break.
Then I heard it.
Laughter. Soft. Careless. Intimate. From Leo's bedroom.
Then the moans.
My hand hovered over the doorknob, trembling. My stomach twisted into knots. My heart slammed against my ribs, begging me to run.
I should have. I should have turned away, pretended I hadn't seen the heels, hadn't heard the sounds. But some foolish part of me pushed the door open.
And there they were.
His hands tangled in her hair, her lips pressed to his, the way their bodies moved together… My world burned in slow motion. Their clothes were scattered across the floor, a chaotic testament to my worst fears.
The bed—the same bed where he held me when I cried, the same sheets where I thought I was safe—was now a grave for every memory we shared.
Leo. The boy I had built my future around.
Sophia. My best friend. The girl who had painted my nails at sleepovers, who had held my hair back when I was sick, who had whispered promises in the dark that we'd always protect each other.
Something inside me cracked—sharp, sudden, unrelenting. My lungs collapsed, my chest hollowed out. My knees wobbled, but I stayed standing. Running would mean acknowledging this reality, and I wasn't ready. Not yet.
"Leo?"
My voice was hoarse and brittle, like I'd swallowed glass. It barely reached them but carried all the pain, disbelief, and betrayal building inside me.
His head jerked up, eyes wide, guilty—but it was too late.
Sophia didn't even flinch. She smirked faintly, a cruel curl of satisfaction.
I wanted to scream. To cry. To rip something apart.
But instead… I felt nothing.
Hollow. Not angry, not yet. Just empty. Like someone had ripped out the pages of my life and left jagged edges behind.
Leo's mouth opened. "Lyra, it's not—"
I almost laughed. Almost. Was he really going to start with that? The classic "It's not what you think" line? The one every cheater thinks will fix everything?
No. Not this time.
I turned. Slowly, painfully.
Because there was no point in arguing. No point in questioning. No point in listening to whispers, apologies, or—God forbid—excuses.
My heels wobbled, but I forced each step forward. Out of the apartment. Away from them. Away from the betrayal.
"Lyra… wait—listen—"
SHUT!!
The night air hit me like ice. Cold. Harsh. Unforgiving. My chest rose and fell in sharp, jagged bursts. For a moment, I thought I might collapse right there, face-first onto the concrete.
And then… my phone buzzed.
MAYA.
The sound should have been comforting. Should have been normal. But in that moment, it felt like a lifeline tossed to me while I was drowning.
I swiped the screen.
"Lyra, perfect timing," Maya's voice cut through the chaos.
Crisp. Calm. Professional. But beneath it… I could hear concern. "Your last manga is still topping the charts. The company wants you to start a new project immediately. We're setting up a meeting tonight. Big opportunity. Don't be late."
I blinked. My lips parted, but no words came. The world felt unreal. Betrayal. Loss. And now… responsibility? Work? A meeting? Tonight?
I whispered to myself, shaking, "I'll… I'll be there."
Because my stories… my art… they were the only pieces of me that hadn't been stolen. The only place I could still breathe.
And somehow… I needed them more than ever.
My last series, "First Blossom," had become a phenomenon. Everyone knew Luce, the mysterious, anonymous manga creator who had captured hearts with tales of unrequited love, stolen glances, and quiet longing. But nobody knew it was me. I had poured every ounce of my own secret feelings into it—the longing, the small stolen glances, the quiet hope that love would always win in the end.
I had even given them a happy ending. A wedding. A life together. I had believed, while writing it, that love could be patient, kind, and true…
And yet, as I walked away from Leo and Sophia tonight, I realized life had a cruel sense of irony. My perfect ending, the one I had imagined for my characters, had never existed for me. The very people I had trusted, the ones I had loved…were the ones who shattered my whole world.
And just like that, the world adored Luce's creations… while my own heart lay in ruins, hidden behind a mask no one would ever suspect.
***
[Hotel Paradise—V.I.P. Room—Later]
The velvet carpet muffled my footsteps. Chandeliers cast a warm glow over polished wood and leather chairs—a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me. Everything screamed wealth, control, perfection… everything my life was not.
Maya stood near the sleek glass table, her sharp eyes softening when they landed on me. She slid an envelope across the table.
"Here… your hardworking payment," she said, calm but warm—a small comfort amid chaos.
I stared at it. Every sleepless night, trembling hand tracing the lines of First Blossom, every tear shed for heartbreak… this envelope was proof that my art, my secret self, was still mine.
Maya leaned closer. "Lyra… you've done something incredible. They don't know it's you, but everyone feels it. Your work changes people."
I swallowed. "I just… tell the stories I wish I could live," I whispered.
"And that's why they love Luce," Maya said, smiling. "Tonight… we start a new story. Something bigger. Something only you can do."
I nodded, trying to focus, to breathe. Her words should have lit a spark. Instead, they pressed against the hollow space in my chest.
Because I knew the truth.
Sometimes the most beautiful stories are born from the ugliest pain.
"So… when are you going to start?" Maya asked, her eyes bright with expectation.
I glanced at her, voice low and flat. "I don't know… I need time."
Maya arched an eyebrow, then gracefully sank into a leather chair, uncorking a bottle of red wine. "Alright… take your time. But make sure you create your second best manga, at least. If you want, I can arrange a writer to help brainstorm."
I nodded, eyes on her wine glass. "Alright."
She lifted hers, excitement bright in her eyes. "Good… I believe you'll create something fabulous. Something unforgettable."
But my eyes never left her glass.
"Can I have some too?" I asked suddenly, my voice hollow, almost childlike.
"…Excuse me? What?"
"The wine," I said flatly, still staring. "… Can I have some?"
She studied me, tilting her head. "…So… what's your age again?"
"Twenty," I said, lifting my chin slightly, "…so can I have some now?"
After a moment's hesitation, she laughed softly, finally conceding. "Fine… but only a single glass. I don't want you fainting on me."
I nodded solemnly as she poured. I lifted the glass and sipped carefully. The first taste hit my tongue and made me recoil.
"…Yuck!" I exclaimed, scrunching my nose.
Maya chuckled, clearly entertained. "Yes, that's the classic reaction of a first-timer."
"How can you even drink this?" I asked, my face twisting.
She laughed, tilting her head back, swirling her glass. "Habit… part of the job. A little wine keeps the creative blood flowing."
I smirked faintly. "Creative blood, huh… guess mine's still on life support."
Maya laughed again, shaking her head. "Don't worry. You'll survive. And maybe even enjoy it by the second glass… someday."
***
[Outside Hotel Paradise—Later]
Maya waved from the lobby, her smile warm and encouraging.
"See you…" she called softly.
I nodded, forcing a small smile, and rubbed my temples. "Sigh...I just drank one glass and I'm already having a headache," I muttered, trying to shake off the lingering warmth from the wine and the bitter weight of betrayal.
The street was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. My mind wandered, lost in memories I didn't want to feel, when suddenly…
A firm hand yanked me sideways.
"What—!" I gasped, stumbling, heart hammering.
A man slumped against me, nearly falling. "Help… help me," he whispered, urgent, trembling.
What? A pervert?
Then I looked up.
And froze.
He was impossibly tall, his presence impossible to ignore. Broad shoulders and a strong frame that seemed sculpted for protection and command. His hair fell just slightly into his eyes, and those eyes—dark, sharp, but almost… haunted—locked onto mine.
"Wait… did someone spike your drink?" I asked, my voice low, a mix of suspicion and concern.
He huffed, nodding once, pressing closer. His grip on me was tight, almost protective, and I felt his body warmth seep into mine. For a moment, my own pain, my own heartbreak, faded—not entirely, but enough to leave a hollow space that… perhaps, just perhaps, helping him could fill.
I swallowed, forcing myself to steady my trembling hands. "Alright," I whispered, my voice a mixture of challenge and invitation, "I'll help you… but you'd better make me forget the pain while you're at it."
He blinked at me, just for a second… and that fleeting moment, that shared weight of unspoken understanding, sent a strange thrill through my chest.
And just like that, the city around us blurred, the bitterness of betrayal dulled slightly, and the first hint of something dangerous, something thrilling, stirred in the night.