Lyra’s POV
Four days without Ashton.
The campus felt different now—exposed, dangerous, like someone had removed the walls of my house and left me standing naked in the street. I told myself it was paranoia. The aftermath of everything Donovan revealed. My mind playing tricks on my stressed body.
But the feeling persisted.
Every shadow seemed to hold a threat. Every stranger's glance felt like surveillance. I found myself looking over my shoulder constantly, reaching for a protector who was no longer there.
Donovan had been attentive. Too attentive.
He appeared outside my morning lecture with coffee, claiming he was "just passing by." He stopped me after practice to ask how I was holding up, his concern so thick it felt like syrup. He texted me inspirational quotes and reminded me that his door was always open.
At first, I was grateful for the support. Then I started counting.
Three visits in four days. Seven texts. Two phone calls "just to check in."
For a man who ran a hockey empire and had barely noticed my existence before the Ashton situation, he was suddenly very interested in my wellbeing. The attention that had felt fatherly now felt... suffocating. Possessive. Like he was making sure I stayed exactly where he wanted me.
On the fifth day, I pulled out the folder he'd given me and spread the contents across my bed.
I'd looked at these photos a dozen times, torturing myself with the evidence of Ashton's betrayal. But now I forced myself to look differently. Not with the eyes of a woman betrayed—but with the analytical mind that had made me a good team assistant.
Details. Patterns. Things that didn't add up.
I picked up the first photo. Ashton meeting two men in a parking garage. The lighting was harsh, fluorescent, casting sharp shadows. I studied his posture. His clothes. The angle of his shoulders. His watch—
His watch.
I froze, bringing the photo closer to my face.
On Ashton's wrist was a silver Rolex with a black face. Distinctive. Expensive. I remembered him mentioning that watch once, during our conversation at the park. How it had been a gift from my father after his first year of service. How he'd lost it two years ago in Chicago—left it at a hotel and never got it back. He'd been genuinely upset about it.
But in this photo—supposedly taken three months ago according to Donovan's timeline—he was wearing it.
Either Ashton had lied about losing the watch. Or this photo was much older than Donovan claimed.
Or it had been manipulated entirely.
My heart started to pound. I grabbed my laptop and pulled up the photo on a bigger screen.
I examined another image with fresh eyes. Ashton and an unknown man exchanging an envelope outside a warehouse. I studied the background—a billboard advertising a movie I recognized. Midnight Reckoning. A summer blockbuster from four years ago. I remembered seeing it with Angel during freshman year. That billboard would have been replaced long before the supposed date of this meeting.
I pulled up photo editing tutorials on my laptop, studied the telltale signs of manipulation. Then I zoomed in on the photos until the pixels blurred.
There.
Around the edges of Ashton's face in one image, the lighting didn't quite match his surroundings. The shadows fell wrong. The resolution was subtly different from the rest of the frame.
The photos were fake. Or at least altered.
Ashton's face edited onto other bodies, placed in locations he may never have been.
My stomach churned with something that might have been hope or might have been horror.
If Donovan lied about the photos, what else did he lie about?
I thought back to our conversation, sorting truth from potential fiction.
My father being in the mafia—that rang true. It explained too much about my childhood. The security. The distance. The unexplained wealth. The way people always seemed afraid of him.
My mother being murdered—that also felt true. Donovan knew details that a stranger couldn't guess. Details that matched fragments of memory I'd buried for years.
But Ashton being the leech? Ashton betraying my father, meeting with enemies, selling my secrets?
I remembered the desperation in his voice when he begged me not to sign the complaint. The way he'd fought Nate—not with random violence, but with targeted, protective fury. The way he'd stopped when I asked him to.
Would a man selling me to enemies beat another man half to death for touching me?
Would he argue with my father about giving me a choice instead of forcing me to safety?
Would he hold my hand and promise to protect me and our baby if he was planning to betray us both?
None of it made sense.
Unless Donovan was the liar.
Unless I'd been manipulated by the real enemy into destroying my own protector.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled to Ashton's contact. My finger hovered over the call button for a long moment.
What would I even say? "Sorry I accused you of betraying my family based on fake evidence from a man I barely know"? "Sorry I got you fired and told you I never wanted to see you again"?
But I had to try. I had to know.
I pressed call and held my breath.
"The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected or is no longer in service."
I tried again. Same message.
I sent a text: Ashton, please. I need to talk to you. I think I made a mistake.
The message failed to deliver.
He'd changed his number. Or something worse I didn't want to think about.
I was alone with a truth I couldn't prove and an enemy I'd just handed my trust to. And the man who might be the only one capable of protecting me was gone—because I'd sent him away.
That night, I lay awake making a plan.
If Donovan had fabricated evidence against Ashton, there had to be proof somewhere. His office. His files. His computer. The original photos before they were edited. The real documents that would show what he'd manipulated.
I knew his schedule from months of working with the team. Thursday nights he had a standing dinner meeting with college donors—something he never missed. He usually left around six and didn't return until after ten.
Four hours. I'd have four hours to get in, find what I needed, and get out.
It was dangerous. Possibly stupid. Breaking into the office of a man who might be connected to my mother's killers wasn't exactly a safe choice for a pregnant woman.
But I'd spent my whole life being protected and controlled by others. Letting them make decisions for me. Trusting the wrong people because I didn't know how to trust myself.
Look where that had gotten me. Alone. Pregnant. The man I loved thinking I'd abandoned him.
Maybe it was time to protect myself.
I placed my hand on my stomach and whispered to the baby growing inside me.
"I'm going to fix this. I'm going to find the truth." My voice trembled but I forced the words out. "And then I'm going to bring your father back. I promise."
The baby didn't respond, of course. But making the promise out loud made it feel real. Made me feel less alone.
Tomorrow night, when Donovan left campus for his usual Thursday dinner, I was going to break into his office and find the evidence I needed.
Whatever it took to undo the terrible mistake I'd made.
Whatever it took to get Ashton back.