Page 144 of Her Soul to Own

I remember how powerful I felt. Untouchable, desired, and worshiped.

But underneath the diamond smile, I was rotting inside. Merely performing and pretending.

Even then, I knew.

I gently tug the dress off the hanger, folding it with care and laying it inside the first velvet-lined box beside me.

I move down the racks with a quiet efficiency, pulling piece after piece from the hangers. The blood-red Tom Ford sheath I wore to the Met afterparty. The Balmain power suit that I thought made me look fierce enough to sit across from venturecapitalists twice my age. The beaded Valentino mini I wore when Harper convinced me to play the wild heiress for the press.

It’s all going.

Every single carefully engineered mask.

I work methodically, folding, wrapping, and boxing. The fabrics swish softly with every movement. It almost feels like wrapping corpses for burial, laying my old selves to rest one designer label at a time.

A soft laugh escapes my lips, bitter and sharp. My father would never come here himself. No. He’s too proud, too slick, too much of a coward. He’ll send proxies and threats and men with guns. But he won’t face me like a man.

He’s forgotten who I am.

He taught me to be his perfect daughter. His weapon. His commodity. He thought he could destroy me without consequence.

Now he’ll see what happens when you turn your weapon against you.

As I reach the last row of shelves, my eyes fall on the final box, tucked low in the far corner. It’s small, plain, and unassuming. My pulse slows as I crouch down and pull it carefully into the light.

The lid slides open, and there they are.

My mother’s ballet flats.

Soft, worn leather, the stitching frayed at the toes, faded blush pink, long since dulled by years of use. She used to wear them when she painted late into the night, or when she’d sneak me into the garden so we could sit in the moonlight, away from his eyes.

They don’t sparkle. They don’t scream status. But they’re real.

I swallow hard, a sudden knot catching in my throat.

This is who she was beneath all the tailored suits and carefully curated smiles he forced her to wear. This is who she tried to remain, even while the mansion closed in around her like a cage.

Without thinking, I slip them onto my feet.

They fit perfectly. Soft. Quiet. Steady.

I rise, feeling the difference immediately. No towering heels, no forced posture. Just me, flat on the ground and grounded in my own skin for the first time in years.

Turns out I don’t need six-inch heels to crush a man’s throat.

I glance around the room one last time. I glance at the rows of empty hangers and at the polished marble, and I inhale the faint scent of perfume still lingering in the air. This is the room that once owned me.

But not anymore.

The boxes are stacked neatly near the door, ready for donation. Some consignment boutique somewhere will flip them for insane profits, and some desperate influencer will snatch them up like sacred relics. Let them. They’re relics of a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore.

I walk out of the closet for the last time, my steps silent, measured. Not because I’m trying to sneak away from my father’s reach, but because I’m done letting him hear my heels echo down his gilded halls.

He won’t come to me.

So I’ll go to him.

I’m not waiting for him to make his next move. The only person who still thinks he holds the upper hand is him.

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