Lyla Monroe
“Good morning, Ms. Kingsley. Your breakfast,” the driver said with a soft smile, handing me a warm box and my signature drink. “A hot truffle-mushroom pizza with arugula and extra parmesan… and your signature drink—iced caramel matcha latte, oat milk only, two pumps of caramel, extra ice, one shot of espresso.”
“Thank you,” I said, grabbing both as the crisp morning breeze blew across the sidewalk.
My Christian Louboutin heels clicked on the clean pavement—red soles sharp and glossy. I moved with ease, confidence in every step. My Balmain blazer hugged my curves perfectly, sleek black with gold buttons that caught the sunlight. Underneath, I wore a cream silk Hermès blouse, tucked into high-waisted Chanel trousers, tailored to perfection. My gold Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet gleamed on my wrist, and the pearl studs in my ears matched the delicate necklace resting on my collarbone.
Gone were the crooked glasses. Gone was the frumpy cardigan from some forgotten Goodwill rack. Gone was the stiff, cheap black wig.
I brushed my fingers through my hair—long, dark, cascading waves that gleamed with each soft movement. My real hair. My real skin. My real face.
I slid into the backseat of the Mercedes-Benz S-Class, placing my breakfast neatly on the center console. The leather seats hugged me like they remembered me.
“Are you excited to go back home, Ms. Kingsley?” the driver asked, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.
I smiled softly. “Please, call me Lyla. I go by Lyla Monroe now.”
He chuckled. “To me, you will always be Ms. Kingsley.”
I didn’t say anything.
He drove toward the airport, the city fading behind us. I took slow bites of my pizza—warm, cheesy, and decadent. I sipped my matcha latte, letting the caffeine swirl through me.
When we arrived, we didn’t go through any security checkpoint or regular departure gates.
The car turned past the terminal, slipping through a private access gate onto the runway.
And there it was.
The Kingsley jet.
Polished. Sleek. Intimidating. The metal gleamed under the early sunlight. A flight attendant stood waiting at the steps, dressed in navy and gold. She smiled as I stepped out of the car.
“Welcome aboard, Ms. Kingsley.”
I held my head high and walked up the steps, my heels tapping against the metal stairs.
Inside the jet, everything smelled like expensive leather and fresh orchids. A Louis Vuitton duffel sat by my seat—Jonathan must’ve packed it. The space was clean, luxurious, and cold—just like the life I ran away from.
I sat down in the plush cream seat, crossing my legs with practiced grace.
And then he entered.
Jonathan.
Dressed in a perfectly pressed suit, hair slicked back, holding an iPad and that same smug smile I’d always hated.
“Are you excited to go home, Miss Kingsley?” he asked as he took the seat across from me.
I rolled my eyes. “Please, Jonathan. You couldn’t even do the one thing I asked you.”
He sighed, setting the tablet down. “I’m sorry. But I had to. And… besides, your father didn’t tell you everything.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean?”
Jonathan leaned forward, his voice soft, serious.
“It’s your father. He’s dying.”
