My jaw ached from clenching. Julian’s words echoed in the quiet intimacy of the room, cutting through the lingering adrenaline from the gala. He stood before me, unyielding, his eyes fixed on mine, demanding answers I'd buried so deep they felt like another person's story.
Deep breaths did little to calm the tremor in my hands. I’d spent years perfecting the art of composure, a shield against the world, against *them*. But Julian’s fierce protection earlier tonight had chipped away at its foundation, leaving me raw and exposed.
'A ghost or a current enemy?' I repeated, my voice barely a whisper. The question hung in the air, a stark choice, and the truth felt like both.
His gaze softened marginally, a flicker of concern replacing the steely resolve. 'Lyra, talk to me. What's going on?'
Swallowing hard, I forced myself to meet his eyes. It was terrifying, this vulnerability. Every fiber of my being screamed to retreat, to build the walls back up, but something in his steadfast presence urged me forward.
'It… it started a long time ago,' I began, the words rusty, unused to daylight. 'Before the music, before the fame. My birth parents… they weren’t fit to raise a houseplant, let alone a child.'
A small, humorless laugh escaped me. 'They were addicts, chasing their next fix, and I was just… collateral. A burden to be passed around.'
Julian remained silent, his expression a careful mask of attentiveness, encouraging me without interruption.
'Then came the Westons,' I continued, my voice gaining a brittle strength. 'My adoptive parents. They seemed like saviors then. Wealthy, influential. They gave me a home, a name, a chance.'
But the chance came with conditions. Strict ones. My life became a performance, every step curated, every ambition meticulously planned by them.
'They saw potential in me, not as a daughter, but as a project,' I explained, the bitterness sharp on my tongue. 'My singing wasn't a passion; it was an investment. They pushed me into competitions, connected me with the right people, shaped my image.'
Every decision, from my clothing to my social circle, required their approval. My supposed career was meticulously managed, down to the smallest detail.
'I was their perfect prodigy,' I confessed, a wave of shame washing over me. 'Their trophy. And I played the part beautifully, desperate for their approval, for a shred of genuine affection.'
My hands balled into fists at my sides. 'They controlled everything. My finances, my endorsements, even who I could associate with. If someone wasn't good for my