Chapter 3: Can we talk now?

Lyra's POV

"Oh my poor child, you must have suffered so much. Your father and I will make it up to you. Please come home with us, won't you?"

I've always known I was adopted.

My mom—my real mom, the one who raised me—never hid it from me. And now, on the very day she died, my biological parents appear out of nowhere, offering to take me home?

The Moon Goddess must be laughing at me.

The timing is too perfect, too cruel.

But as I lie here on the floor, broken and bleeding, with nowhere else to turn—what choice do I have?

Perhaps they're real. Perhaps they're scammers.

But a drowning person will grasp at any piece of driftwood, no matter how fragile.

"Can you give me a hundred thousand dollars?" I ask, my voice steadier now.

If they're scammers, this will end the conversation quickly.

She's silent for a moment. When she speaks again, her tone shifts—becomes superior. "Of course, but on the condition that you return to our side."

My heart pounds. She didn't hesitate.

She didn't question why. She just agreed.

This is it. This is my way out. I don't know who these people are or what they want from me, but right now, I don't care.

Mom is dead. I couldn't save her. But Mia is still alive, still fighting, and she needs treatment I can't afford on my own.

"What's your decision, Lyra?" On the phone, my biological mother urges me, as if she knows I'm teetering on the edge.

I take a shuddering breath. My chest feels like it's being squeezed, but I force the words out. "I agree to return to you, but I have conditions."

"It's only a hundred thousand, right? We'll give you a million." Her response is immediate, almost eager. "The driver will come get you now."

A million dollars.

Said so casually, as if it's nothing. The fog in my head begins to lift.

If she can offer that kind of money without blinking, this family has real power. And if they have power, they have something I can use.

The thought cuts through my grief like a blade—cold, sharp, clarifying.

I'm not just accepting help. I'm identifying a resource.

"Transfer one million to my account immediately," I say, my voice cold and deliberate. "We'll discuss the rest when I arrive." Without waiting for her response, I hang up.

The transaction clears faster than any normal bank transfer should, The money hits my account in under five minutes, and I stare at the balance on my screen.

For the first time since I kicked open that bedroom door, I feel something other than despair.

Not hope, exactly. Something harder. Determination.

If Vern has betrayed me, if my world has collapsed, then I'll rebuild it using whatever tools I can find.

And right now, these strangers—my biological parents—are the sharpest tools within reach. Their motives don't matter.

I only know I need leverage, and they've just handed it to me.

I transfer the entire million to Mia's medical account immediately. She is all I have left. I have to save her.

Then I force myself to move.

My phone is still in my hand, but my body feels like it's made of broken glass.

Each breath sends a spike of pain through my ribs, and when I press my hand to my shoulder, it comes away sticky with blood.

The room tilts for a moment, and I brace myself against the wall, willing the dizziness to pass. I can't afford to collapse.

Not yet.

I stagger to the bathroom and find the first aid kit under the sink.

My hands shake as I clean the gash on my shoulder, biting down on a towel to keep from screaming.

The wound isn't deep enough to need stitches, but it's close. I press gauze against it and wrap it as tightly as I can bear, then do the same for the cut on my temple.

My ribs are another problem—likely cracked, possibly broken—but there's nothing I can do about those except breathe shallowly and hope they hold.

I change into clean clothes, moving slowly, methodically.

Every motion is calculated to minimize pain, and by the time I'm done, I'm sweating and shaking.

But I'm upright. I'm functional. That will have to be enough.

About half an hour later, my ride arrives.

I drag myself to the door, gripping the frame for support, and find a sleek black car idling at the curb. The driver—a middle-aged man in a crisp uniform—steps out and opens the rear door without a word.

His eyes flick to my injuries, and for a moment I think he'll say something, but he just nods and gestures toward the car. Professional.

Discreet. Exactly what I'd expect from a family with this kind of money.

I climb into the back seat, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through my battered body.

My ribs scream in protest as I settle against the leather, and I can feel the sticky warmth of blood seeping through the gauze on my shoulder.

But I grit my teeth and lean my head against the cool window, closing my eyes.

Pain is just information now—a reminder that I'm still alive, still capable of fighting back.

The driver says nothing as we pull away from the curb.

I catch his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror once or twice, but he doesn't ask questions. Good. I wouldn't have answers anyway.

Three hours later, the car slows and turns onto a private road lined with trees.

When we finally stop, I step out to find myself before an opulent estate—manicured lawns, marble columns, glittering windows that reflect the late afternoon sun. Maids and servants move across the grounds, but none of them look at me.

It's as if I don't exist.

The driver gestures toward the front entrance but doesn't escort me. Another test, maybe.

Or maybe they just don't care. I walk inside on my own, my legs unsteady but determined. Each step is deliberate, measured, because I refuse to collapse here. Not in front of them.

At the entrance hall, I hear voices—a deep male voice, sharp with irritation.

"Moon Goddess! This girl is nothing like our child! She's greedy, of poor character—she demanded a million dollars from us before even meeting!"

I freeze just outside the doorway. That must be my father. His voice drips with contempt, as if I'm something distasteful he's been forced to acknowledge.

Then comes my mother's voice, sharper and more pragmatic.

"What choice do we have? Someone has to marry him in Cynthia's place. You wouldn't want our precious daughter marrying such a man, would you?!"

A third voice—younger, panicked—cuts in.

"No! I don't want to marry him! Mom, Dad, please! That man is hideous, crippled—I heard he has a terrifying sex addiction and disturbing fetishes. He's tortured several omegas to death!"

Understanding dawns on me, cold and clear as winter ice.

My birth parents desperately searched for me after eighteen years for one reason—to marry me off in place of their beloved adopted daughter.

For a moment, the grief surges back—not for them, but for Mom.

For the woman who raised me, loved me, protected me. She would never have done this. She would have fought for me until her last breath.

And she did.

She died trying to give me a future, and these people want to use me as a pawn.

But grief is a luxury I can't afford right now.

I let it harden into something colder, sharper.

If they want me to be the sacrificial lamb, they're going to find out I have teeth.

I’ll never drive myself to the brink again.

I grab an expensive-looking vase from a nearby table and smash it on the floor.

The crash echoes through the hall like a gunshot, and the conversation inside stops abruptly.

"Sorry to interrupt," I say, "But can we talk now?"