Chapter 57:
POV: LYRA
A month passed without explosions.
No kidnappings.No rescues.No threats disguised as protection.
Just silence.
And silence stretches. It settles into spaces between people and refuses to leave.
Kieller and I returned to what we understood best: competition.
Boardrooms became arenas again. We dismantled each other's strategies with calm smiles and sharpened arguments. Investors watched us like spectators waiting for one of us to slip. We didn't speak outside meetings unless required. We didn't mention Aren. We didn't mention Canada.
Everything unsaid felt heavier than everything that had happened.
Then the envelope arrived.
8:13 AM.
Black. Matte. Expensive.
Not couriered.
Placed directly on my desk.
Which meant access.
Inside was a single card.
PRIVATE SCREENING — TONIGHT.Coordinates.Formal attire required.
At the bottom — a gold insignia.
I had seen that insignia once before.
On the ring of the man who kidnapped me.
Aren.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I answered.
"Planning to attend?" Kieller's voice came through — controlled as always.
"You received one too."
"Yes."
A pause.
"Don't go."
"That wasn't concern," I replied evenly. "That was control."
"That was risk assessment."
"Same difference."
"It's a setup."
"Yes."
"And you're still going."
"Yes."
A quiet exhale.
"I won't extract you if you make it worse."
"You never do."
We hung up.
The location sat on the outskirts of the city — industrial architecture polished into something almost legitimate. Black cars lined the entrance. Security stood too composed to be legal. The guests wore masks — anonymity disguised as sophistication.
I stepped out of my car alone.
Across the lot, Kieller exited his.
Our eyes met briefly.
No greeting.
No alliance.
Just acknowledgment.
Inside, the venue glowed under low amber lights. Velvet seating. Crystal glasses. A large projection screen centered on the stage.
This wasn't an auction.
This was a curated audience.
Media executives.
Private intelligence brokers.
Reputation management firms.
People who specialized in shaping narratives — and destroying them.
Kieller stood near the bar.
We observe.
The lights dimmed.
The screen lowered.
"Tonight's feature," a distorted voice announced calmly, "is a case study in resilience… and leverage."
The screen flickered.
My face appeared.
Small.
Twelve years old.
The air left my lungs.
It was my birthday.
Pink dress. Plastic tiara slipping sideways. My mother's laughter behind the camera.
Alive.
The footage jumped abruptly.
Headlights.
Screeching brakes.
Shouting.
The cake box crushed under a tire.
Then silence.
The clip cut.
A funeral.
Me kneeling beside a coffin, crying so violently my body shook.
Whispers in the background.
"She's cursed."
"Unlucky child."
The footage glitched.
Winter.
A door opening.
My father's voice — cold and final.
"You bring death wherever you go."
The door slamming shut.
Snow swallowing the street.
I was twelve.
Alone.
The screen shifted again.
Grainy warehouse footage.
My kidnapping.
Hands restraining me.
Then another clip — me afterward. Silent. Emotionless. Standing like nothing could break me.
The lights brightened slowly.
No one applauded.
No one spoke.
They were studying.
Analyzing.
Cataloging.
This wasn't entertainment.
It was positioning.
A quiet message: We can reach your past. We can shape your future.
Across the room, Kieller was no longer watching the screen.
He was watching me.
His Aren wasn't watching the screen either.
He was measuring my reaction.
The distorted voice continued calmly.
"Reputation is architecture. Trauma is foundation. Control the foundation… control the structure."
The screen went black.
Just silence.
I walked toward Kieller.
"Who had access to that?" he asked quietly.
"I don't know."
But I did know something.
Only one person knew every detail of that winter night.
Only one person knew the exact street.
Luna.
Movement shifted near the entrance.
Security repositioned too quickly.
Then—
A gunshot cracked through the room.
Not random.
Intentional.
Guests panicked. Glass shattered. The lights flickered.
Two masked men moved toward us near the exit.
Kieller reacted instantly. Precise. Controlled.
The fight was short and efficient. One man dropped. The other retreated into chaos.
He grabbed my wrist — not possessive.
Strategic.
"We're leaving."
Outside, cold air hit my lungs sharply. Engines roared. Sirens began to rise in the distance.
We got into his car.
Silence filled it.
Not tension.
Something heavier.
I stared at my reflection in the window. I looked composed.
I wasn't.
After several minutes, I spoke.
"When I was five, my mother died bringing my birthday cake home."
Kieller didn't interrupt.
"She never made it back. I remember waiting at the window, thinking she was just late."
The city lights blurred past us.
"When I turned twelve, my father remarried. My stepmother believed I was cursed. That winter night wasn't dramatic. It wasn't poetic. It was just cold. They locked me outside and told me I brought death with me."
His grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
"I survived because I refused to disappear."
My voice remained steady.
"Later that night, some men found me. They thought I was alone enough to take advantage of. I ran."
A breath.
"I ran until I crashed into someone."
I closed my eyes briefly.
"Luna."
The name felt fragile now.
"She brought me home. Hid me. Let me stay for weeks. She was my first friend. I owe her everything."
The car slowed at a red light.
"The only person who knew every detail of that night… was her."
The light turned green.
We moved again.
"And now someone has footage that should not exist."
Silence filled the car.
Not anger.
When I said Luna's name—
Kieller froze.
Just slightly.
But enough.
And that—
Scared me more than the screening ever could.