Chapter 3 3

~ LYRA ~

Laying flat on a cold, white floor. The fluorescent lights flicker like dying fireflies, casting a harsh, flat glow. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block the blinding light. My head throbs in time with the steady beep of a monitor somewhere behind me.

"Where am I?" I tried to sit up, but the room tilted. My legs are tangled in a thin hospital gown that clings to my skin, and the sharp, chemical smell slams into me, this is a hospital.

"What am I doing here?" I pushed myself up, heart hammering, and froze when the nurse's steady gaze met mine.

"Thank goodness you're awake!" she said, pressing my shoulder gently, urging me to sit back. "You're fine, Ma, just relax, while I inform the doctor."

Where am I? How did I get here? The questions swirled in the fog of my mind until a jagged memory pierced through, sharp as a blade. My hands flew instinctively to my stomach.

"My baby?" My voice was a hollow rasp. "How is my baby?"

"Hey... hey, sis."

The voice came from the shadows at the edge of the bed. Michael. His face drifted into the light, his eyes bloodshot and swollen. He reached out, his hand hovering near my shoulder as if I were made of glass that had already shattered.

"You're okay," he whispered, though his voice broke. "You're in the hospital. You... you passed out. Lyra, it was a miscarriage."

Miscarriage. The word didn't just hurt; it leveled me. It was a physical blow to the chest that stole my breath. My secret weapon against Lucian, the only leverage I had left to force him to look at me, the only piece of my future that felt real, was gone.

"No," I whispered, my voice trembling. "This isn't real. It's a dream. Tell me it's a dream."

"I'm so sorry, Lyra."

"I wasn't ready!" I shrieked, the sound echoing off the cold, tiled walls. "Not now! Not when everything is already burning!"

The tears didn't just fall; they erupted. Hot, relentless, and animalistic. I curled into a ball, clutching the hospital sheets as if they could hold my life together. "I can't do this," I choked out through the heaving sobs.

"I can't survive this, Michael."

His hand tightened on my shoulder, his grip the only thing keeping me from floating away into the dark. "You have to," he said, his voice hoarse with his own grief.

"For Papa. For yourself. For the future he wanted for you. Please, Lyra... stay with me."

A soft knock at the door signaled the entrance of Dr. Paulin. He approached with a heavy, practiced sympathy. "I'm sorry, Mrs. White," he said quietly. "We can't give you a definitive reason for the loss yet. But you must be gentle with yourself. You've just come out of a coma; your body is incredibly weak."

Mrs. White. The name felt like a brand.

"I know the reason," I spat out, the words tasting like bile.

The doctor paused, but I wasn't looking at him. I was looking at the ghosts of the last three years.

"It was him," I whispered, my crying suddenly stopping, replaced by a terrifying, cold clarity.

"He caused all of this. I gave him everything. I buried my career, my dreams, my soul into that marriage. And he did me dirty. He broke me on the worst day of my life, right after Papa died."

I fell back into Michael's arms, but the warmth was gone. I felt hollow. Every bit of the reality I had built for three years had been stripped away. I had no husband. No home. No father. And now, no child.

I was left with nothing.

And in that emptiness, a new fire began to crawl up my throat. It wasn't the heat of sadness anymore; it was the frost of a promise.

They think they've left me with nothing, I thought, staring at the sterile white wall until my eyes burned. But they've just given me the freedom to burn their entire world down...

The car slowed, then stopped. The mansion loomed ahead, the place I once called home, and the sight sent a shiver down my spine, as if every memory was waiting to crawl out of the shadows.

"Are you okay, sis? Are you sure about this?" Michael asked, his voice low. He turned off the engine and the sudden quiet let his worry flicker into view.

I didn't say a word. I just gave him a look, one pitiful, weary stare that said everything I felt.

"It's fine... Just a few minutes, then I'll be back."

I slipped out of the car, my feet hitting the gravel with a quiet thud. Inside, the living room smelled different, the air thick with someone else's perfume.

Aryan lounged on the sofa, a bikini barely covering her, a glass of wine in hand, laughing and having a good time all alone. The sight made my stomach twist with disgust.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice sliced through the silence of the foyer, sharp and uninvited. "This is my house now. Not yours."

I looked at her, my supposed best friend standing in the middle of the home I had built.

"The last time I checked, you're the only intruder here." I kept my voice steady, though my chest burned. "I should have seen it years ago. The way you tried to talk me out of marrying Lucian... and then the way you lingered, waiting for our anniversary to finally strike."

She didn't flinch. Instead, she let out a slow, chilling smile that reached from ear to ear, a twisted, Joker-like grin. "You were just too blind to notice that Lucian was never yours. I simply helped him realize the truth."

"I should have known," I whispered, the realization tasting like poison. "All those years playing the 'loyal friend' while you were just a desperate, hollow shell."

"I did what I had to do," she snapped, her eyes flashing. "To protect the only man I've ever loved."

"Protecting him?" A harsh, jagged laugh escaped my throat as hot tears finally blurred my vision.

"You destroyed a home! You're a liar and a thief!"

She opened her mouth to retort, but I held up a hand, cutting her off. "I'm not here to trade insults with you. I'm here for my things. Then I'm leaving you two betraying bastards to rot in this house together."

I turned toward the stairs.

"Where do you think you're going?" she shrieked, lunging forward to block my path. "You have no right to be here! Lucian isn't home,"

I brushed past her, my momentum carrying me up the stairs before she could grab my arm. I burst into the master bedroom. To my surprise and perhaps my final heartbreak, my things were already packed. Neatly. Efficiently. As if I had already been erased.

I grabbed my suitcases, but paused at the vanity. I looked at the diamond ring on my finger, the weight of a thousand broken promises. I twisted it off, the metal feeling cold against my skin, and clicked it down onto the marble shelf.

As I hauled my bags back to the landing, she was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed. "I hope you didn't take anything that wasn't yours," she sneered.

I stopped at the final step, inches from her face. "I'm not you, darling. I never could be."

"Loser," she spat. "Don't show your ugly face here again."

I leaned in, my voice dropping to a low, lethal silk. "Oh, I won't. But I promise you this: when you see me again, you'll be the one begging for mercy. I am going to make your lives a living hell. Tell my 'husband' he'd better start looking over his shoulder."

The smugness on her face wavered, replaced by a flicker of genuine shock.

"I wish you both exactly what you deserve," I said, stepping past her and out the front door without looking back.