Page 124 of Her Soul to Own

I slip the journal into the inner pocket of my coat and close the safe, pressing the panel shut until it clicks. Then, I lock the study behind me and slip the antique key back into my pocket with steady hands.

The hallway feels much cooler now, but I’m not retreating. I’m moving forward.

Why didn’t my father just get rid of the journal? Why keep it at all? Even if it was hidden, it’s practically a signed confession, proof that he was behind my mother’s death. I keep turning it over in my head, trying to make sense of it, but nothing fits.

My father, the man who calculates every move, who leaves nothing to chance, kept the one thing that could unravel him.

Why?

Was it guilt? Some twisted relic he kept close to punish himself? Or was it worse?

Was it pride?

Did he read it sometimes and smirk at her pain? Did he laugh at how desperately she clung to hope while he slowly pulled the ground out from under her?

Did he keep it because it made him feel powerful, knowing she’d never escape him, not even in death?

I don’t know.

But whatever the reason, it makes my skin crawl.

Because if there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that my father doesn’t make mistakes. So, keeping that journal… it wasn’t one.

I pass the main staircase, turning toward my wing, but my steps slow as I near a door I haven’t opened in years.

Mom’s old art studio.

The doorknob is untouched, the paint around it just slightly cracked. I don’t open it. I can’t bear to look at it again. But I place my hand on the knob. And I swear the air stops like it’s holding its breath.

Not tonight. Tonight, I won’t cry.

I’m done crying and breaking. Right now, I’m about to burn everyone with my wrath.

Chapter 33 – Silas – Trigger Lines

There’s something unholy about how quiet the Vane Estate gets after midnight. It’s the kind of stillness that feels predatory, like the house is listening and waiting to punish someone for breathing too loudly.

I move through the halls with my usual blend of charm and felony-grade stealth, dressed in all black and looking like the kind of guy you hope doesn’t notice you in a dark alley. Except here, I’m the one doing the noticing. And I’ve noticed a whole lot of bullshit in the last twelve hours.

The estate’s staff is slim tonight. Too slim. Just a few junior guards stationed at the gate. Most of the private security detail was conveniently rotated out after Evander went off-grid. There are no new orders, no check-ins. It’s like someone hit pause on the whole damn house.

But the system’s still running, and the cameras are active. Logs are updating, and the sensors are alive, which tells me one thing. The ghost king may be hiding, but his puppets are still dancing.

The main server room’s off-limits, but the secondary security hub—quiet and tucked behind the eastern corridor—is where the good secrets are kept. Less oversight and fewer questions. The kind of place Evander never advertised but always relied on.

I make my way past a sleepy-looking staffer who jumps when he sees me.

“Maintenance,” I say, flashing a fake ID with the Vane estate’s logo and a very convincing barcode.

He squints at it. “I didn’t see anything scheduled.”

I give him a slow, deadpan look. “That’s the point of a security test.”

He swallows hard and steps aside. “Right, yeah. Sorry.”

Good man.

I slide through the door like a shadow, keying in the stolen code I memorized off a clipboard left carelessly near the south stairwell. Sloppy. These people still think luxury equals immunity.

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