(Lyra’s POV)

The sunlight pressed through my blinds in long golden streaks, slipping across the room like it had been waiting for me to open my eyes. I blinked against it, groaning softly as I rolled onto my side. For the first time in days, the heaviness in my chest had eased—just a little.

It wasn’t peace. Not really. But it was something I could breathe through.

I lay there for a while, listening to the muffled sound of the city waking outside. Horns honking, someone shouting on the street, a dog barking somewhere far below. Life going on, steady and loud, not caring whether I was ready for it or not.

Eventually, I dragged myself out of bed. A shower helped clear the fog in my head, the hot water pounding over my shoulders, washing away some of the restlessness. By the time I stepped out, wrapping myself in a towel, I almost felt like I could face the day. Almost.

Work. That was where I needed to keep my focus. Not the club, not the dizzy blur of that night, not the stranger whose face kept sliding into my thoughts when I least expected it. I pressed my lips together, scolding myself silently as I dressed—a cream blouse tucked into tailored black pants, blazer sharp enough to make me look more put together than I felt.

By the time I slipped my feet into black heels and tied my hair back neatly, I looked like the version of myself I needed the world to see: calm, professional, untouchable.

But beneath the surface, I was still uneasy. The folder on my desk last night hadn’t left my mind. His name. That case.

Cassian Veyra.

The sound of it made my stomach twist.

I grabbed my bag and left the apartment, convincing myself that today was just another workday. I’d go in, handle my caseload, maybe read more into the file Soren gave me. Nothing more.

But the universe wasn’t about to give me that luxury.

–––

By mid-morning, I had settled into my office, my desk scattered with notes and old files. I was halfway through writing a session summary when a sharp knock tapped against my door.

“Dr. Calloway?”

It was Harper from reception, leaning in with her usual cheerful expression. She held a slip of paper in her hand. “Message for you. Appointment request. High priority.”

My chest gave a small jump. “Who is it from?”

She walked in, handing me the slip. “Direct from the Veyra estate. They want to schedule your first session—today.”

The words felt unreal, even though I’d been bracing for them. My fingers tightened on the paper.

Today.

Not next week. Not tomorrow. Today.

I forced a calm nod. “Thank you, Harper.”

“Of course.” She gave me a curious look, like she wanted to ask more, but wisely held back. “They’ll send a car. The driver will meet you downstairs in an hour.”

When she left, the office door clicked shut again, leaving me alone with the slip of paper that suddenly felt like a weight.

My first instinct was to run. To say no, to tell Soren I wasn’t ready, that this wasn’t my case after all. But the thought of his face—the sharp disappointment that would etch into his features—stopped me. He’d trusted me with this. And I wasn’t the kind of person who breaks under pressure.

Or at least, I’d always told myself I wasn’t.

I shoved the paper into my planner and sat very still for a moment, pressing my hand against my racing heart.

This was it.

–––

An hour later, I was seated in the back of a sleek black car, the city blurring past the tinted windows. The driver didn’t speak. I didn’t either.

The silence was heavy, filled only with the hum of the engine and the rush of cars weaving through traffic. I tried to steady my breathing, tried to remind myself that I was trained for this, that I’d handled worse. But deep inside, a different kind of tension coiled—one I couldn’t name, one I didn’t want to admit.

When the car finally turned off the main road and onto a private drive, my throat went dry.

The Veyra estate rose ahead of us like something out of another world. Towering wrought-iron gates swung open at our approach, revealing a long stretch of stone driveway that led up to a mansion too large, too perfect, too intimidating.

My fingers twisted together in my lap. Money had always unsettled me—the kind of money that could bend rules, erase mistakes, and bury secrets deep where no one could find them.

And Cassian Veyra had more than anyone.

The car stopped smoothly at the front entrance. The driver got out, walking around to open my door.

“Dr. Calloway,” he said politely, with a small bow of his head.

My heels clicked against the stone as I stepped out. The air smelled faintly of pine and something cleaner, sharper. Too quiet, compared to the chaos of the city I’d left behind.

A man in a dark suit greeted me at the door. “This way, please.”

I followed him through a wide hall with marble floors and high ceilings. Everything gleamed—chandeliers dripping with crystal, paintings framed in gold, furniture that looked untouched. The kind of wealth that didn’t need to prove itself. It just existed, effortlessly commanding the space.

My pulse quickened with every step. I kept reminding myself: professional. Detached. This was work.

We stopped at a set of double doors. The man pushed them open silently and gestured inside.

“Mr. Veyra is expecting you.”

I stepped in, my breath caught in my throat—

And froze.

Because there he was.

Sitting on the edge of a leather sofa, tall, broad-shouldered, impossibly composed despite the shadow in his eyes. His gaze lifted slowly, catching mine, holding it.

I knew that face.

I knew it far too well.

The stranger from the club. The man from the hotel room.

The man whose presence had haunted me in flashes I couldn’t explain.

My chest constricted. My heart slammed against my ribs. The world seemed to narrow to just him—those piercing eyes, the sharp cut of his jaw, the quiet intensity that filled the room without effort.

Cassian Veyra.

His name echoed in my mind like a drumbeat.

For a long moment, we just stared at each other. Neither of us moved.

Finally, his lips parted. His voice was low, steady, almost careful. “Dr. Calloway .”

The sound of it nearly knocked the breath out of me. I wanted to answer, but my throat had closed. My professional mask—my carefully constructed calm—was slipping, cracking around the edges.

Because sitting across from me wasn’t just a client.

He was the ghost of a night I didn’t understand.

And now, I was expected to unravel him.

I steadied myself, forcing the words out, though they trembled at the edges. “Mr. Veyra,” I said softly. “I’m Dr. Calloway. I’ll be handling your case.”

But inside, my thoughts screamed louder than my voice ever could.