Prologue: The Cost of a Smile
The world thought Lyara McKinley lived in a fairy tale.
Whenever she walked down a red carpet, the air filled with the sound of her name being shouted by thousands. People looked at her and saw a goddess in silk and diamonds. They saw Mikael Roosevelt, the man the world adored, holding her hand like she was his most precious prize. To the public, their marriage was a masterpiece.
But Lyara knew the truth. She wasn't a queen in a palace. She was a bird in a golden cage, and though the world applauded, no one ever looked closely enough to see the bars.
The moment the door to their penthouse clicked shut, the lights of the city stayed outside. Inside, there was only a cold, heavy silence.
Mikael dropped his public mask like a costume he was tired of wearing. He didn't look like a hero anymore. He looked like a hunter.
“You’re late,” he said. His voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet.
He tossed a magazine onto the white leather sofa. The cover showed the two of them, leaning close, smiling perfectly.
“I… the traffic was bad,” Lyara whispered. She kept her eyes on her shoes.
“And you didn’t even check the seating list for the gala,” he continued, ignoring her excuse. He began to pace the room, his shadow stretching across the floor until it swallowed her small frame. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is? The wife of Mikael Roosevelt can’t even follow simple instructions.”
“I tried, Mikael. I really did.”
“‘Tried’ isn’t enough!” he hissed, stepping into her space. He was so close she could feel the heat of his anger. “You exist so I can be proud of you. That is your only job. And right now? You’re failing.”
Lyara felt tears sting her eyes, but she forced them back. She had learned early on that crying was a mistake. To Mikael, tears were just another sign of weakness, another thing he could use to mock her.
“Do you understand?” he barked. “One mistake and the world sees a crack. They see weakness. Is that what you want? Do you want them to see how pathetic you are?”
“No,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. “I’ll do better. I promise.”
He stopped pacing and looked at her. For a second, his gaze softened, but the coldness stayed in his eyes. He reached out and stroked her hair, a gesture that should have been sweet but felt like a threat.
“You’d better,” he said softly. “Because you know what happens when things break, Lyara. I throw them away.”
He turned and walked toward his study, leaving her alone in the middle of the giant, empty room.
Lyara sank onto the sofa. She pulled her knees to her chest and stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city of Los Angeles sparkled below her, a million lights reflecting off the glass. It looked beautiful, but it felt a thousand miles away.
Her mind drifted back to the life she had before Mikael. She remembered what it felt like to be free. She remembered late-night walks under dim street lamps where no one followed her with a camera. She remembered the smell of cheap coffee in a crowded café and the sound of her own real laughter. Back then, she could say whatever she wanted. She didn't have to measure her words. She didn't have to rehearse her smiles.
Now, even her dreams felt like they belonged to him.
A sharp exhale from the doorway brought her back. Mikael was standing there, watching her. He looked at her as if he were reading a book he had bought and paid for.
“Lyara,” he said, his voice dropping to that smooth, melodic tone that made millions of women fall in love with him. “You know why I’m hard on you, right? It’s to protect you. I’m the only one who truly knows how to take care of you.”
He walked over and kissed the top of her head. It was a cold, dry kiss.
“I love you,” he murmured.
Lyara stayed frozen. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to feel the warmth she thought she saw in him when they first met. But her heart was learning a hard lesson: Love with Mikael wasn’t about tenderness. It was about control.
“I love you too,” she lied. The words tasted like ash.
Later that night, Lyara lay in their enormous bed. The sheets were the finest silk, but they felt like spiderwebs against her skin. She listened to the steady rhythm of Mikael’s breathing next to her. He was sleeping peacefully, untroubled by the fear he had left in the room.
In the dark, she whispered a question she was too afraid to ask out loud.
“Is this what love is supposed to feel like?”
Only the silence answered her.
She closed her eyes, trying to find sleep, but a sudden, loud thump came from downstairs.
Lyara bolted upright, her heart hammering. Mikael didn't stir. She slipped out of bed, her bare feet silent on the cold floor. She crept to the top of the stairs and looked down into the darkened living room.
The heavy front door, which required a top-secret code to open, was standing wide open.
A tall figure was standing in the middle of the room. He wasn't one of Mikael’s usual guards. He was dressed in all black, and in the moonlight, she saw the glint of a silver knife in his hand.
The man looked up, his eyes locking onto hers. He didn't look like a burglar. He looked like he had been waiting for her.
He didn't move. He didn't speak. He simply raised a finger to his lips, telling her to be silent.
Then, he pointed the knife toward the bedroom where Mikael lay sleeping—and then back at her.
"Run," he mouthed.
And then, every light in the penthouse went out.
