Page 122 of Her Soul to Own

I start with the drawers. I find legal docs, financial reports, more bullshit about Vane Holdings, quarterly projections, and shareholder updates with blacked-out annotations. Clinical, soulless, and ruthless.

This isn’t what I’m looking for.

I move to the bookshelf behind the desk. Same drill—military biographies, leather covers, and gold-embossed egos. I press against the wood instinctively, like something might give.

And lo and behold, it does.

There’s a soft click, a whisper of resistance. One of the panels pops open, and behind it… a wall safe. Of course.

I kneel, my hands shaking as I touch the keypad. I stare at it for a second, then type in the first combination that hits my mind.

My birthday.

It beeps. Unlocks.

My laugh is dry, humorless. “He never forgets the dates that make him look good.”

Inside is a single item. One small leather-bound journal with no lock and the initials I.V. etched on the corner in delicate gold script.

Isola Vane.

My mother.

I sit on the floor. The carpet bites into my knees as I open the journal. I don’t know what I’d do if my mother hadn’t kept records. Maybe she knew I’d need it.

The entries are spaced out, almost hesitant. Her handwriting, elegant loops and curved flourishes, remains unchanged. But there’s something in the words. An apprehension. Like she’s writing in code, even though no one’s watching.

I think I’m in danger. I’ve changed drivers three times this week, but I’m skeptical of everyone and everything.

My breath catches. My pulse kicks.

Noah said he could make a connection. One more meeting, then I’ll go.

Lyra’s too smart. She’s asking questions. I’m afraid he’ll use her.

My hands are trembling now. My eyes scan too fast, devouring every word like I’ll lose them if I blink.

The doctor confirmed it. Six weeks along. I didn’t tell him. I couldn’t. He’d make it his weapon.

My heart flatlines.

He’s watching me again. I saw it in his eyes tonight. If anything happens, it wasn’t an accident.

The journal slips from my hands and thuds softly onto the carpet.

I can’t breathe.

Tears fill my eyes without permission, hot and heavy, blurring everything. I blink them back, but more come. My throat is raw, and my chest feels like it’s caving in. I clutch at the rug, grounding myself as it hits me.

She was pregnant. She was going to run. She didn’t trust him.

And now she’s gone.

And I’m all alone.

“I could have had a sibling,” I whisper, my voice cracking and breaking. “I might’ve been left with more than loneliness.”

My dad isn’t just a murderer of my mother, but also of my unborn sibling. The thought is too much and not enough. A ghost of someone who never existed but suddenly matters more than anyone.

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