Chapter 5: Five Million

RRRING!

The sharp sound of Lyra’s phone cut through the cold guest room. She arched her back against the hard wooden bed, every muscle aching, and fumbled for the device that had been ringing nonstop.

The screen’s glow banished the last of her sleep. Missed calls stacked one after another from the same unknown number. The time read 10:00 a.m.

She sat up too fast, panic flickering—she hadn’t made Tristan’s breakfast as she always did.

Then her eyes caught the mirror beside the closet. The dark, ugly bruise stretching across her cheekbone from yesterday's brutal encounter against the wall caught the morning light.

She touched it lightly, and the entire wreckage of her marriage rushed back. Nowhere to go. Nothing in her name. The pain settled deeper than the bruise.

KNOCK!

“Open the fucking door.”

The voice was familiar—the same one that had been moaning Tristan’s name in her bed. Lyra walked to the door and opened it.

“You lazy bitch.”

SPLASH!

Iced water hit her full in the face. The shock cut through everything. Droplets clung to her lashes. Before she could react, the rest of the pitcher soaked through the collar of her nightgown.

In the silence that followed, the only sound was water dripping from her nose onto the floor at her bare feet.

“Look at the time,” Bianca sneered, stepping into her space. Designer heels clicked sharply. She looked Lyra up and down with pure disgust. “Tristan is getting ready for work and he wants breakfast. Or did you forget your place in this house isn't as the wife anymore? It's as a servant. Get to the kitchen before I make you regret still being in this house.”

Lyra swallowed. The humiliation cut deeper than the cold. In her own home, she was being treated like a servant.

“Since you’re so eager to take my place,” she said quietly, water still running down her body, “why don’t you make the meal yourself?”

Bianca scoffed, her lips twisting into a vicious smile. She lunged forward, hooking her fingers into Lyra's hair and yanking her head back violently.

“Who the hell do you think you are talking to?”

“Ouch—!” Lyra gasped, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as pain lanced through her scalp.

“Next time you forget your place, I’ll rip that tongue right out of your head,” Bianca screeched, jerking her head backward once more before shoving her hard enough that Lyra nearly hit the floor.

Something in Lyra snapped.

SLAP!

Her palm connected hard with Bianca’s cheek. Bianca’s head jerked sideways and she hit the floor.

Before Lyra could process what she’d done, Tristan appeared in the doorway.

“What the hell is going on here?!” 

He saw Bianca on the floor and rushed to her. Lyra stood frozen, her hands trembling.

“She hit me, Tristan!” Bianca sobbed dramatically, burying her face in his shoulder. “I told you, we can't live under the same roof as her!”

Tristan’s eyes locked on Lyra. “Is that true? You hit her?”

“I didn't mean to—she poured freezing water all over me, Tristan, she started it—” Lyra pleaded, desperate for him to see the truth.

“Baby, you know I’d never start something,” Bianca cried harder. “I only came to ask her to make you breakfast before work.”

It worked.

Tristan helped Bianca up and turned on Lyra with cold disappointment.

“If you can’t accept her, there’s no reason to keep you in my house.”

“Tristan, what are you saying?” Lyra’s voice cracked, the terrifying reality of her destitution finally crashing down on her. 

“I don't have anywhere else to go, please don't do this—”

“You should have thought about that before you became violent,” he snarled, cutting her off completely. “GET OUT. And don't you dare take a single thing that belongs to me.”

He turned and walked out, wrapping his arm around a victorious, subtly smiling Bianca.

—

An hour later, Lyra pulled up in front of her mother's house across the city, dragging a single suitcase containing what little clothing she owned. She pressed the doorbell, her heart hammering against her ribs.

The door clicked open, revealing Mrs. Reeves. Her mother’s face instantly twisted into a scowl the moment she saw Lyra standing there with her bags.

“Mom?” Lyra whispered, her voice tight.

“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Reeves snapped, stepping back to block the threshold instead of opening the door wide.

“Can I please stay on your couch for a little while? Just until I figure things out, please—”

“And what happened to your husband's mansion? What fresh hell did you cause this time?”

Lyra swallowed hard, a bitter taste rising in her throat. Of course. Her mother never offered a safe harbor, always blaming her for every misfortune in life.

Lyra’s silence answered for her.

“Go back and fix it,” Mrs. Reeves said without a trace of sympathy. “Don’t be a proud broke idiot. There’s nothing for you here. I can barely feed myself, and thanks to you the monthly allowance has stopped. You’re a disgrace. Go back!”

“Mom, please, at least let me—”

SLAM.

The heavy front door slammed shut right in her face.

Lyra broke. She slid down against the wooden doorpost on the porch, crying uncontrollably, terrified of what night would bring with nowhere left to go.

She eventually forced herself back into a waiting cab, telling the driver to just keep moving across the city with no destination in mind. Her face was soaked, her tears refusing to stop.

Riiiiing.

The shrill ringtone of her phone cut through the silence. It was the same persistent number that had been blowing up her phone since morning. Fed up, she swiped the screen, snapping into the mic with all the hostility she had left.

“What?!”

The driver flinched at the sharpness of her tone.

“Oh—pardon me, am I speaking to Mrs. Lyra Quinn?” a polite, professional voice asked on the other end.

“Miss Lyra Quinn. What do you want?”

“We have a job offer for you at Helios Holdings. We need your attention immediately.”

Lyra let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. Everyone in the city knew Helios Holdings—landing a gig there was like winning a corporate lottery. To her, it sounded like an elaborate prank or a scam, especially given how thoroughly her life had just imploded.

“I’m not interested,” she muttered, moving to hang up.

“Ma’am, the CEO specifically asked for you. The company is in crisis.”

Lyra raised an eyebrow, letting out another sarcastic scoff. 

“Well, if your CEO is truly that desperate for me, how about paying me five million dollars?”

A brief pause hung on the line. Then, without a flicker of hesitation:

“Done. Can we receive you at the office today?”

Lyra’s eyes widened.

Done? Just like that?

Her mind raced. Even if it was a wild goose chase, she had nothing left to lose. And if it was real? That money would buy her safety, a fresh start, and a place to breathe away from Tristan’s wreckage.

“Text me the address.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The moment the message arrived, she passed it to the driver.

“Take me there.”