Page 147 of Her Soul to Own

I pause. Not out of fear, but to let it land.

“My father, Evander Vane, didn’t just build a company. He built an empire out of control. Out of betrayal. Out of power leveraged against the people who could not afford to fight back.”

Behind the glass partition, I catch subtle movements in the production room—technicians exchanging glances, one of them covering his mouth as his eyes widen. Good. Let them feel the shift.

“He used private security firms to intimidate whistleblowers. He manipulated tax codes across six different nations to avoid billions in liabilities. Shell corporations, offshore accounts, and fraudulent charitable foundations. The Isola Foundation, the one named after my mother, was nothing more than a front. Bribes disguised as donations. Auditors silenced. Lawyers bought.”

There’s a low murmur behind the glass. The crew can’t help it. Their reactions fuel me now.

“And most of all…” My voice wavers slightly now, but I do my best to keep it steady, locking my gaze on the lens as if my father himself is staring back at me from the other side. “He is responsible for my mother’s death.”

I see the collective reaction ripple through the people behind the cameras. A woman in the corner gasps, her hand shooting up to cover her lips. One of the producers stiffens, exchanging quick, alarmed glances with Fiona, who remains perfectly still and composed, the only person who knew this bomb was coming.

The atmosphere thickens like fog rolling into the studio.

“My mother was not sick. She was not weak. She was preparing to leave him, and she had evidence. Evidence that shenever lived long enough to release. Evidence that I hold in my hands now.”

I raise the folder, which is already broadcast across the encrypted feed for millions to see.

“She knew he was tracking her. She knew he was watching. She tried to escape, and he made sure she didn’t.”

There’s silence now, a thick, heavy silence that weighs like iron on every pair of shoulders in this room. The kind of silence that only happens when people realize they’re hearing something that will cost people their careers, their freedom, and maybe even their lives.

I let that silence bloom before I continue.

“Many of you won’t believe me,” I say, my voice softer but still steel-hard beneath the surface. “You’ll say I’m just another spoiled little girl trying to stay relevant. A rich daughter with daddy issues playing victim for attention.”

I allow myself a bitter smile as I lean closer to the mic.

“I don’t need you to believe me. Not yet. Because facts don’t require your permission to exist.”

The red light above the camera blinks steadily as I let the next words settle deep into every watcher’s chest.

“The files are out there now. The documents, the recordings, the financial trails, and the names. They’re in the hands of journalists, federal investigators, whistleblowers brave enough to speak, and people my father failed to destroy.”

I see movement again behind the glass. One of the producers clutches a headset, his face pale, likely hearing the disorder exploding online, the feeds lighting up, lawyers scrambling, and newsrooms losing their collective minds.

My heart races at the power I’m holding at this moment. I’ve never felt this alive.

“You tried to make me a product. A brand. An image you could sell or discard.”

I let my rage bloom now, my voice sharp enough to cut through steel.

“But you forgot who you raised.”

I pause, my breath steady.

“You raised a revolution.”

In the corner, Fiona gives me the faintest nod, the kind of nod you give someone who’s just pulled the pin from a grenade and finally let it fly.

As I deliver the final words, I glance back toward the glass where Silas stands, steady as a shadow, immovable as stone. His arms are crossed, his jaw clenched, but his eyes, his eyes burn for me. For us. For this moment we’ve bled for.

My pulse finally steadies as I let my gaze lock into his. The world can burn around me. But as long as he’s there, I won’t break.

There’s no more waiting. No more lines to cross. What’s coming next is mine to shape.

And it starts with my father.

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