Page 1 of Surrender to Me
Chapter One
Lyra
Denver, Colorado
The door to the quirky coffee shop creaks open with a familiar jangle, the sound swallowed by the warmth and chatter.
Denver’s early September air has been nipping at my nose and ears, teasing with a promise of autumn, but the leaves are still stubbornly green.
Once I’m inside, comforting scents hit me—espresso and steamed milk, a curl of cinnamon, a whisper of vanilla from someone’s scone.
It’s normal. A reassuring lie I wear as easily as lip balm and borrowed names.
I pull my hoodie closer, like the motion can somehow shield against the weight of the locket that’s pressed against my chest. The metal is a teardrop shape, nothing remarkable.
The barista waves as I approach, grinning wide beneath a glinting nose ring and a mop of curls streaked purple. “Hey, Allie!”
The name makes me blink.
Allie.
For a second, I forget it’s the name I go by, and I almost correct her—before I remember.
Lyra is dead. Dead and buried beneath a pile of aliases and ashes and a secret no one can ever know about.
I force a smile for the ever-chipper barista. “Morning, Tanja.”
She’s already scribbling on a to-go cup. “Chai with oat?”
I nod. “You know me.”
Another lie. And God, I hate how natural it’s become.
She doesn’t blink.
To her, I’m just Allie. A graphic designer. Chai drinker. A regular person out for a morning run.
She doesn’t know I’m watching everyone around me, looking for anything out of the ordinary, always on guard. And she sure doesn’t know I’m the daughter of the man who pulled off the infamous Hollingsworth Collection heist.
I pay cash and make my way to the far end of the counter, brushing past a chalkboard that reads “Pumpkin Spice Returns! Let’s Get Basic.”
How is coffee made with real pumpkin supposed to be basic? The irony makes me grin.
After one of the baristas calls out my name, letting me know my drink is ready, I snag my cup, then claim a small table in the corner. It’s my usual perch. Half in shadow. Near the windows, but not visible to someone passing by. The seat that lets me see everything without being seen.
Outside, Wash Park stretches across the street—lawns damp from the overnight sprinklers, a golden retriever bounding toward a Canada goose with more enthusiasm than skill. A couple jogs past, laughing, hands brushing. Not watching their backs. Not keeping secrets.
For a moment, I envy them—the unthinking intimacy, the kind that doesn’t come with consequences.
Then I drag myself back.
That’s not for me.
Not in this lifetime.
I sip my chai, the burn of clove and ginger dragging me back into my body. Back into now.
A man from a nearby table stands, drops his to-go cup in the compostable bin, then opens the door.
