The invitation arrived without a sender.
No logo. No signature. Just an address, a time, and a single line printed in clean black ink:
Private Industry Mixer — Attendance Requested
Lyra turned the card over in her hands like it might confess something if she stared long enough.
Mara didn't like it immediately. "This is how they rebrand you," she said. "Quietly. Public setting. Pictures. Suddenly you're 'accepted' again."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "Or displayed."
"Same thing," Mara muttered.
The venue was a restored opera house turned elite event space—where art had been replaced by money pretending to appreciate it. Lyra stood outside for a long moment before going in, breath fogging slightly in the evening air.
Inside, the world was velvet and glass again.
Soft laughter. Sharp eyes.
She felt it immediately—heads turning, whispers weaving through the room like threads.
They knew her face now.
Not her name. Not her story.
Just the scandal.
A server passed with champagne. She took one without thinking, needing something to hold.
"You came."
Lyra didn't turn right away. She recognized the voice now.
"I wasn't sure if this was a trap or a test," she said calmly.
Aurelian stepped beside her, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed but gaze alert. He looked like he belonged here in a way that irritated her.
"It's both," he replied.
She glanced at him. "You sent this?"
"No," he said. "That's why I knew you'd get one."
Lyra studied the room. Fashion executives. Film producers. Label owners. People who decided who rose and who disappeared.
"They're watching us," she said quietly.
"Yes."
She sipped her drink. "Then let them."
Across the room, cameras pretended not to notice them. Conversations pretended not to pause.
Aurelian leaned slightly closer. Not touching. Never touching. But near enough that she could feel his presence like static along her skin.
"They expected you to hide," he said.
"I considered it," she admitted.
"What changed?"
Lyra's gaze stayed forward. "I'm tired of being chased out of rooms I deserve to stand in."
For the first time, Aurelian smiled—small, almost invisible. "Good."
A man approached them with polished confidence and a smile that never reached his eyes.
"Mr. Cross," he greeted smoothly. "And you must be Lyra Vale. Quite the entrance you've made into our little world."
Lyra returned the smile with surgical politeness. "I walked through a door. That's all."
He chuckled as if she'd made a joke. "We should talk. Opportunities. Rebranding. Damage control."
"I'm not damaged," Lyra said.
His smile faltered for half a second.
Aurelian watched silently, observing the exchange like a chess player watching an opening move.
"We'll be in touch," the man said, retreating.
Lyra exhaled. "I hate this."
"You're good at it," Aurelian replied.
She shot him a look. "I shouldn't have to be."
"No," he agreed.
Across the hall, from a balcony shadowed in dim light, Loxley watched them through a glass of amber liquid.
"They look comfortable," someone beside him noted.
Loxley's lips curved slightly. "They're not."
He lifted his phone and sent a single message.
---
Lyra felt the shift before she understood it.
Phones began lighting up around the room. Conversations stalled mid-sentence. Eyes flicked from screens to her, then to Aurelian.
A cold thread slid down her spine.
"What just happened?" she asked.
Aurelian's phone buzzed. He glanced at it once, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
"They released it," he said.
"Released what?"
He turned the screen toward her.
A photo.
Old. Grainy. Taken years ago outside that dive bar she used to sing in for tips. She was laughing, head thrown back, arm slung around a man she barely remembered.
The caption was worse.
Before the billionaire. Before the fame. The real Lyra Vale.
Her chest hollowed out.
"They're trying to make you look…cheap," Aurelian said carefully.
Lyra's hands trembled, but her voice stayed steady. "That was my friend."
"I know."
"They don't," she whispered.
The room felt smaller. Hotter. Judgment pressed in from every direction.
Aurelian stepped slightly closer—not touching, but close enough that the space between them felt intentional.
"Look at me," he said quietly.
She did.
"Do you regret that photo?" he asked.
"No."
"Then don't let them make you apologize for it."
Her throat burned.
Across the room, whispers grew louder. Some sympathetic. Some cruel. Most curious.
Lyra lifted her chin.
"They want me embarrassed," she said.
"Yes."
"Then I won't be."
Aurelian's gaze held hers for a moment longer than necessary. Something passed between them—unspoken, charged, dangerous.
For the first time since this started, Lyra didn't feel like prey.
She felt…seen.
And it terrified her.
---
From the balcony, Loxley lowered his glass.
"Interesting," he murmured. "Very interesting."
Beside him, someone asked, "Do we escalate?"
Loxley smiled. "No. We let them get comfortable first."
Back on the floor, Lyra set her untouched champagne on a tray.
"I'm not leaving," she said.
Aurelian nodded once. "Good."
They stood there together, surrounded by velvet, glass, and watching eyes—two people who had never intended to share a battlefield.
And somewhere in the quiet tension between them, the first spark of something neither of them wanted began to burn.