Bloodlines and Backlash

"Blood connects. But it also stains."

Two days after the press conference, the invitations arrived.

Formal. Sealed in wax. Stamped with the Reyes family crest.

The same crest she hadn't seen since she was nineteen—since the night her name was turned to ash.

"You are cordially invited to a private arbitration session with the Reyes Family Trustees and Estate Board. Attendance mandatory for all heirs."

Lyra stared at the envelope on the table, hands motionless.

Dominic looked over from his seat beside her.

"They're not trying to reconcile," he said. "They're trying to contain you."

"I know."

"They want to remind you who still holds the ink in the family ledger."

Lyra nodded.

"They want to bury me again. Only this time... under legal paperwork."

Dominic's voice was firm. "Then don't go."

She looked up.

"I have to."

He frowned. "Why?"

Her jaw tightened.

"Because the last time I stayed silent… I almost died. I won't give them the satisfaction of thinking I'm afraid of a room full of cowards in suits."

He didn't argue.

He just reached across the table and took her hand.

"Then let me come with you."

The meeting was held at the Reyes estate.

Not the burnt husk where she was raised—but the newer one, built like a monument to shameful wealth and memory suppression.

As Lyra and Dominic stepped out of the black car, her heels tapped across the marble path like a countdown to reckoning.

The staff stared.

Some with recognition.

Most with fear.

All with silence.

They were led to a formal hall—polished wood, sterile lighting, too many old paintings that tried to rewrite the past.

She stood in the center of it all, head held high.

Dominic beside her.

And before her, seated like they were a tribunal of kings:

Her mother.

Two uncles.

Three aunts.

And the family's long-standing estate lawyer.

The same people who had signed her away.

Who had profited from her disappearance.

And now... smiled as if she were a returning niece from study abroad, not a phoenix come to burn the throne.

Her mother, Regina Reyes, was first to speak.

Still elegant. Still poised. Still cold.

"You've made quite the scene this week, Lyra."

Lyra didn't blink. "You taught me well."

"You put our name in every headline."

"It's mine too."

"You've threatened legal action against the family trust."

"I've exercised my right to claim what was stolen."

Regina's mask cracked slightly.

"You think this is justice?"

"No," Lyra replied. "I think this is long overdue."

One of her uncles leaned forward, voice oily with condescension.

"You disappeared. You forfeited your stake. You can't expect to waltz back in and demand—"

"I was almost murdered," Lyra cut in, her voice sharp. "You think I left? You think I had a choice?"

The room fell silent.

"I woke up in a hospital bed with half my body wrapped in gauze and not a single one of you at my side."

Her mother's lips parted—but Lyra didn't give her the chance.

"I've spent years rebuilding. Alone. And every time I got closer to reclaiming what was mine, someone tried to stop me. A leak. A forged file. A blocked call. And now, this"—she waved the envelope—"like I should be grateful for the scraps of civility."

"You're speaking from emotion," the lawyer said calmly. "Not legality."

Lyra turned to him.

"Do you want the documents now or after I make a public statement about the missing Reyes estate funds your firm helped reroute to Navarro Holdings?"

He blinked.

She smiled.

"I'm not here for a seat at the table. I'm here to flip the table over."

Dominic remained quiet the whole time.

But his presence alone was power.

She didn't need him to speak.

She just needed him there.

As proof that someone still believed in her when her own blood tried to convince the world she didn't deserve to exist.

Finally, her mother stood.

"I know you hate me."

Lyra laughed softly. Bitter. Cold.

"I don't."

Regina blinked.

Lyra stepped forward.

"I don't hate you. That would mean I still felt something. That you still mattered."

She paused.

"But you don't. You lost the right to affect me the moment you watched your daughter burn and chose your reputation over her survival."

Regina's face didn't change.

But her eyes...

They cracked.

And Lyra saw it.

Regret.

Shame.

Or maybe just fear that her daughter had grown into something she could no longer control.

The meeting ended with no agreement.

But it didn't matter.

Because Lyra didn't come for agreement.

She came to show them she wasn't their pawn anymore.

She was the one holding the board.

And the timer was running out.

Outside the estate, in the car, Dominic didn't speak at first.

But Lyra's hands were shaking.

She didn't hide it.

Didn't pretend.

He took one of them in his and kissed her knuckles without a word.

It wasn't affection.

It was anchoring.

And she let him.

"I thought it would feel good," she said finally.

"To face them?"

"To break them."

"Did it?"

She leaned back against the seat, eyes closed.

"It felt necessary."

Dominic nodded.

And in his quiet way, he told her what no one ever had:

"That's enough."

That night, back in the estate, she opened the box at the back of her private closet.

The one she hadn't touched in six years.

Inside were pieces of her old life.

A bracelet from her grandfather.

A burned photograph of her and her parents.

And a letter she had written on her 18th birthday but never sent.

She read it now.

And cried.

Not because she was weak.

But because even queens bleed behind closed doors.

Blood had tried to bury her—but Lyra no longer bowed to the people who shared her DNA. She was done proving her worth. Now she would collect what was owed.