The air in St. Moritz didn't just feel cold; it felt like a blade pressed against my throat.
Inside the Grand Alpine Gala, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of expensive champagne and even more expensive lies. I moved through the crowd like a ghost, a silver tray in my hands, my eyes scanning the room. People think because I don't speak, I don't exist. They treat me like furniture, or perhaps a shadow.
They are wrong. I am a witness.
My gaze locked onto a secluded balcony where Marcus Vance—the golden boy of Swiss politics—was leaning in close to a man in a dark trench coat. I adjusted the lace of my mask and focused. I didn't need to hear the words; I watched the way Marcus's lips curled, the sharp 'M' sound, the hard 'K' that followed.
"Midnight at the pier," Marcus's lips moved with cold precision. "Kill the girl. Make it look like an accident. No witnesses."
My heart plummeted into my stomach. I wasn't just a lip-reader tonight; I was the target. I had seen a ledger earlier that evening—a list of names that Marcus had spent a decade trying to erase. And now, my name was on the invisible top of that list.
I didn't wait. I turned, the silver tray slipping from my numb fingers and clattering onto the marble floor. The sound was like a gunshot in the silent room. Marcus's eyes snapped toward me. He didn't need to hear me to know I had seen him.
I ran.
I pushed through the heavy oak doors, the freezing mountain air hitting my face like a physical blow. My heels crunched on the fresh snow as I scrambled toward the dark woods bordering the estate. My lungs burned. I wanted to scream for help, to yell for the guards, but my throat remained a locked vault. The trauma of my past had stolen my voice years ago, leaving me with nothing but a frantic, internal monologue that no one would ever hear.
Move, Lyra. Don't look back.
The headlights of a black SUV cut through the darkness behind me. They were coming. My foot caught on a hidden root, and I tumbled into the snow, the freezing slush soaking into my thin dress. I tried to scramble up, but the roar of an engine grew deafening.
Suddenly, a set of sleek, silver headlights blinded me from the opposite direction. A black Rolls Royce Phantom drifted smoothly across the icy road, screeching to a halt just inches from where I lay.
The back door swung open.
"Get in," a voice commanded.
It wasn't a shout. It was a low, melodic baritone that vibrated through the cold air like a cello string.
I looked up, shivering. A man sat in the shadows of the backseat. Even in the dim light, his presence was overwhelming. He held an obsidian cane topped with a silver raven's head. His face was a masterpiece of sharp angles and haunting beauty, but it was his eyes that stopped my breath. They were a piercing, sightless grey—clouded like a winter morning.
He was blind.
"I won't ask a second time, Miss Thorne," he said, his sightless gaze fixed somewhere just above my head. "Unless you prefer the company of my brother's cleaners."
How did he know my name? How did he know who was chasing me?
Fear of the unknown fought with the terror of the certain death behind me. I chose the unknown. I lunged into the car, tumbling onto the plush leather seats. The door soft-closed with a mechanical thud, sealing out the world and the sound of the approaching SUV.
The car glided forward, the silence inside so heavy I could hear the ticking of the clock on the dashboard. The man beside me didn't move. He smelled of sandalwood and old books—a scent that felt strangely safe amidst the chaos.
"You're trembling," he remarked, his voice devoid of pity. He reached out, his long, elegant fingers moving through the air with haunting accuracy until they found my jaw.
I flinched, my back pressing against the door.
"Shhh," he whispered. His thumb moved upward, grazing my lower lip. His touch was electric, sending a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold. "I am Julian Vance. And you... you are the girl who sees too much."
I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. He was Marcus's brother—the reclusive architect who had lost his sight in a tragedy five years ago.
Julian leaned closer, his face inches from mine. Even though his eyes saw nothing, I felt like he was reading every secret written on my skin.
"My brother wants you dead because you have a gift," he murmured, his fingers still tracing the outline of my mouth. "I want you alive for the exact same reason. From this moment on, you belong to the Vance estate. You will be my eyes, and I will be your voice."
I reached for my small notepad in my pocket, my hands shaking. I scribbled a single word and shoved it into his hand.
Why?
Julian didn't look at the paper. He didn't need to. He ran his fingertips over the indentations the pen had made on the page, reading the pressure of my hand. A slow, dark smile spread across his lips.
"Because, Lyra," he leaned into my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "In the dark, we are the only ones who can see the truth. And I've been waiting a long time for a witness like you."
The Rolls Royce climbed higher into the Alps, disappearing into the white abyss, leaving the world—and my old life—behind in the shadows.