Page 130 of Her Soul to Own

The sun’s fading, but I don’t turn the lights on. I like the half-dark. It feels honest. Like the world is finally matching the burden sitting in my chest. The suite around me is silent and unnervingly clean. Too big and unwelcoming. It’s the kind of luxury that has started to suffocate me instead of comforting me. Zara left just as abruptly as she came because, while I appreciated her support, I needed to be alone.

I curl up on the oversized armchair with my knees tucked tight against my chest, my back pressing into the plush fabric. It’s meant to feel cozy, but right now it feels suffocating. My fingers run over the leather cover of my mother’s journal that’s resting in my lap. The edges are rough beneath my fingertips, worn and softened by time. The leather is also cracked, fraying a little at the corners where it’s been handled too many times—by her, by me, by ghosts.

The gold embossing of her initials,C.H.,is faded now, almost blending into the leather, like her name is trying to vanish right in front of me. But I won’t let it.

The pages are stiff and fragile, and years have yellowed them to a dull amber. They smell like dust, old ink, and something faintly sweet, a hint of the gardenia perfume she used to wear that clings to everything she ever touched. I bite my lip, forcing myself to stay focused when I’m met with the familiar scent.

The journal feels heavier than it should. Like it carries the gravity of every secret it holds and every warning my mother left behind while she tried to stay alive in this house.

I trace the final pages again, reading her words for what feels like the hundredth time, but each word still cuts like it’s fresh and still manages to twist the knife deeper.

“I think I’m in danger. I’ve changed drivers three times this week…”

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

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

“He’s watching me again… If anything happens, it wasn’t an accident.”

My stomach churns as I mouth the words silently. My jaw clenches tightly. I feel the sting behind my eyes, but I don’t let the tears fall. Not yet. Not while I’m reading. Not while her voice echoes in my head.

Because this wasn’t a journal. It was a confession. It was her last attempt to survive.

And he didn’t let her.

I exhale a sharp, shaky breath, then reach over to the pile of documents spread out across the coffee table—old foundation records, shareholder filings, and public speeches carefully framed like charity and empire-building were the same fucking thing. Everything my father ever touched is here. But every one of these perfect little public lies has cracks running beneath them.

The charitable trusts. The shell companies. The PR spin campaigns. It all connects together.

Noah traced them. He pulled the threads my mother left behind and followed them straight into the offshore accounts, the dirty wire transfers, and the boardroom betrayals. My mother knew all of it. She didn’t stumble onto a scandal. She built a fucking case.

And she never got the chance to release it. She didn’t vanish. She was erased, neatly and efficiently. The way only my dad can.

The thought hits me like a gut punch I’ve been trying to dodge for years. And finally, I feel my throat crack open. The tears start falling, slow at first, hot and unwelcome as they traildown my cheeks and land on the fragile paper. The ink blurs slightly where a drop touches one of her last entries.

I quickly swipe at my face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, breathing hard through my nose like I can somehow will the grief back into its cage. But it’s spilling over now. I clench the journal tighter against my chest, holding it like it might fall apart without my grip. Like I might fall apart without it.

She was planning to leave. She was planning to save me.

She was carrying a child I never knew existed.

And now she’s gone, reduced to whispers and rumors and polite family statements that never once mentioned how afraid she was and how close she came to breaking free before Evander made sure she couldn’t.

It’s all been a lie. All of it.

The woman they painted in the media wasn’t my mother. The loyal philanthropist’s wife. The woman who “passed too soon.” No. She was a prisoner. She was hunted. And I’ve been living in the gilded cage Evander built ever since.

I run my fingers across her handwriting again, trying to steady my breath and trying not to shatter completely.

“You tried,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “God, you tried so hard.”

My grief swells into rage—a sharp, hot pulse that spreads through my chest like a wildfire.

My phone vibrates, the sound pulling me out of my thoughts. I glance over, my heart hammering. I don’t even need to check the sender because I have a feeling I know who it is.

Father Dearest.

The name blinks on the screen.

---