Chapter 92 up
“You can’t ignore this.”
Vincent’s voice sounded fractured—not loud, but cracked, as though it had been bent too many times without breaking. He stood across Nyla’s desk, both hands gripping the wooden edge as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. His knuckles were pale, almost bloodless. His jaw worked, tight and restrained, grinding down words he clearly wanted to shout.
Nyla didn’t answer immediately.
She reread the message on her phone for the third time. The letters no longer felt static. They seemed to shift, to crawl, to burrow beneath her skin and settle somewhere deep in her chest.
If you want to remain worshipped as a symbol, make sure I never tell your past.
Her thumb hovered for a second longer than necessary before she locked the screen.
Slowly. Too slowly.
“I’m not ignoring it,” she said at last. Her voice was steady, but it took effort—like balancing a glass of water on a trembling hand. “I’m facing it.”
Vincent exhaled sharply, turning away for half a step before spinning back. “This isn’t a private duel between you and her,” he said. “This is national media. Once it’s out—”
“—I’ll always be the story,” Nyla cut in. Her chest rose sharply, then stilled as she forced control back into her breathing. “Whether I speak or not.”
Vincent stared at her. His eyes were dark now, clouded with something between fear and anger. “So what—are you going to destroy yourself for what?” His voice dropped. “Pride?”
Nyla stood up abruptly. Her chair scraped backward with a harsh, slicing sound that echoed through the office.
“Not pride,” she said. “Dignity.”
The word landed like a hammer between them.
Silence followed—thick, pressurized. Vincent opened his mouth, then closed it again, as if the argument he’d prepared no longer fit the moment.
“If you want confrontation,” he said finally, quieter now, “I’ll come with you. I’ll stand there. I’ll—”
“No.” Nyla shook her head once. Her voice was firm, final. “I don’t want you standing between me and her. Not anymore.”
The name didn’t need to be spoken. It hung in the room regardless.
Nyla reached for her bag. Her fingers trembled as she pulled the zipper closed, the sound too loud in the silence. She slung it over her shoulder.
“I’ll be home late,” she said.
Vincent watched her back as she walked toward the door. “She will destroy you.”
Nyla paused with her hand on the frame.
“She can only destroy what she still owns,” she said quietly, without turning around.
Night clung to the city like an unhealed wound.
The café was nearly empty, its dim amber lights casting layered shadows across the walls and tables. Every surface looked soft and dangerous at once, as though anything touched too carelessly might leave a mark.
Selena was already there.
She sat with her back straight, legs crossed with practiced elegance, her posture effortless and precise. Her face was calm, composed—untouched by guilt, untouched by fear. To anyone else, she might have looked like a woman waiting patiently for a late friend.
Nyla felt her throat tighten as she approached the table.
“You came,” Selena said lightly, almost warmly, as if this were a casual meeting arranged weeks ago.
“Stop pretending,” Nyla replied as she sat down. Her hands curled tightly in her lap, nails digging into her palms until the pain grounded her. “What do you want?”
Selena lifted an eyebrow, mock offense flickering across her expression. “Straight to the point. You really haven’t changed.”
“You’re the one who never stopped,” Nyla said.
Selena smiled faintly—the same smile that used to make people trust her instinctively. “I’m just restoring balance.”
She slid her phone across the table. The screen lit up with headlines, partial quotes, carefully framed narratives. Words designed to dismantle a reputation without ever needing to lie outright.
Nyla didn’t look. She stared at the condensation on her glass instead, watching droplets slide down in uneven paths. If she looked at the screen, she knew she would falter.
“Do you know what’s most cruel?” Selena said softly. “Not lies. But truths rearranged.”
Nyla finally raised her eyes. “You’ve always been good at cleaning up your crimes.”
Selena laughed quietly. “And you’ve always been good at making people forget that you once stayed silent.”
The word silent struck harder than a shout.
Nyla swallowed. Her shoulders stiffened, a reflex she hadn’t fully unlearned. “I stayed silent because I was cornered.”
“You stayed silent because it benefited you,” Selena shot back. “Now everyone calls you strong. Clean. Inspirational.”
“And that bothers you,” Nyla said.
Selena leaned closer. Their voices dropped, sharp and dangerous, threading through the space between them. “What bothers me is that you walked out alive while I was left with the ruins.”
“You built those ruins,” Nyla replied, leaning in as well.
Selena laughed—short, brittle, cracking at the edges. “No. We built them together.”
Her hand struck the table too hard. The coffee cup rattled, liquid rippling outward in dark concentric circles. For a brief second, the mask slipped. Her eyes were red now. Her breathing uneven.
“I drowned,” Selena whispered, barely audible. “And you rose.”
Nyla felt her chest constrict, the memory of suffocation pressing in from all sides. “I almost died.”
“And I did die,” Selena whispered back, venom sharp beneath the softness. “Slowly. Every day.”
Silence returned.
Heavy. Sticky. Inescapable.
The café’s low hum continued around them—distant cups clinking, a chair scraping somewhere—but at the table, time felt stalled.
“What do you want from me?” Nyla asked at last, her voice hoarse.
Selena inhaled deeply, as if bracing herself against something she could no longer hold back. When she spoke again, her honesty was terrifying in its clarity.
“I don’t need to win.”
Nyla stared at her.
“I just want you to fall with me.”