Page 146 of Her Soul to Own

His certainty should’ve scared me. It should’ve felt like pressure. Like every other man who tried to control my narrative.

But this was different.

With Silas, I don’t feel owned. I feel… protected.

For the first time in my life, I don’t feel alone.

As we arrived at the building, there were already people waiting. Cameras. Reporters. Onlookers who caught wind that something big was about to happen. The rumors were already swirling. The Heiress Returns. The Daughter Strikes Back.

The moment the car door opened, flashes exploded around us like a private storm.

And for the first time in my entire fucking life, I didn’t feel the urge to hide. I didn’t tuck my chin down. I didn’t reach for my sunglasses. I didn’t search for a PR handler to pull me into the shadows.

Instead, Silas stepped out first.

He extended his hand toward me, palm up. I took it. And just like that, the flashbulbs went wild.

His grip was firm as I stepped beside him with my hand in his, our fingers interlaced. And I let them photograph us like that. Like the power couple they didn’t see coming.

Because I wasn’t afraid anymore—not of my father, not of the world, and not of being seen with a man. Not when it’s Silas.

Because I know one thing for certain. Silas will never let me fall.

The flashes kept coming, but we didn’t break stride. His thumb gently ran along the side of my hand as we walked toward the studio doors, and that tiny touch anchored me more than any security team ever could.

Inside, Fiona was waiting for us, flanked by a handful of quiet technicians.

“You look good,” she said, nodding at me. “Like you’re ready to cut someone’s throat.”

I smiled faintly. “Oh, trust me, I am.”

Silas stood behind me, always watchful, while Fiona led us through the prep room and into the soundproofed broadcast chamber. The lights softened, and cameras angled toward the podium. A live global feed was waiting on my signal.

“This is your room now,” Fiona whispered as she left me alone at the podium. “Your stage.”

Now, I stare into the lens.

The small light blinks red. It’s live.

I take a breath. Slow and centered.

“You tried to make me a brand,” I say, my voice clear and steady. “Instead, I made myself a revolution.”

The words slice through the air like gunfire, sharp and impossible to take back. And I don’t want them back.

I hold my gaze on the lens, imagining the millions of people watching this live feed—their faces in front of laptops, phones, and televisions, scattered across offices, homes, hotel rooms, private jets, and dark boardrooms. All of them, watching and waiting to see whether I’ll finally implode.

But I don’t implode. I rise.

“My name is Lyra Isola Vane. And you know my story… or at least, you know the version that was sold to you.”

I let the words breathe for a moment.

“The scandal. The video. The collapse. You’ve seen the headlines. You watched the spectacle. The fall of the golden heiress. The ‘privileged, spoiled daughter who couldn’t handle the spotlight.’ The convenient narrative that made it easy to look away.”

A tightness builds in my chest, but I push through it, my voice unwavering.

“But what you never saw was the man behind the curtain. My father.”

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