Page 148 of Her Soul to Own

Chapter 39 – Silas – The Fall of a Tyrant

The elevator whizzes quietly as we ascend, cutting through fifty-two floors of glass, steel, and corporate delusion. Vane Industries Tower looms like a fucking monument to Evander’s ego, but I’m not here to admire architecture. I’m here to escort his daughter to his throne room and burn it down.

Lyra stands beside me, unflinching.

She’s wearing a storm-gray suit that fits her like it was custom-forged from steel. It has sharp lapels and a tapered waist. No frills, no distractions. Just lethal intent wrapped in a tailored suit. Her mother’s vintage watch ticks softly at her wrist, a quiet metronome counting down to the moment everything changes.

She isn’t shaking. She isn’t blinking.

And fuck, if I don’t love her more for it.

I glance down at the sleek and black hard drive in my palm. It holds every ounce of evidence we’ve gathered over the past few months. The rot beneath Evander’s empire, the offshore accounts, the shell companies, the blackmail trails, and the names of people he bought, threatened, or destroyed.

I didn’t bring my gun today. Just a hard drive and a stare that could kill.

Lyra exhales slowly, her eyes locked on the digital floor counter as it ticks higher. She’s calm and dangerous.

“You ready?” I ask, my voice low like a blade sliding from its sheath.

Her lips curve into a faint smile, not sweet but sharp. “I’ve been ready since the day he put my mother in the ground.”

Goddamn. The doors slide open with a soft chime.

The boardroom is a bastion of glass and arrogance. The ceiling soars, and the walls are polished to a blinding sheen, reflecting the brittle egos that have thrived inside this place for years. Half a dozen male executives sit in sleek leather chairs, with Evander at the head like some corporate deity presiding over his kingdom. The air smells of expensive scotch and the kind of cologne that tries too hard.

We wanted this to be a surprise. No warning. No time for Evander to prep his mask. But judging by the smug curve of his mouth when we walk in, downstairs security must’ve tipped him off the second we stepped through the doors.

Evander smirks as if this is all some casual reunion, his eyes sweeping over Lyra with that brand of feigned warmth he wears like expensive cologne. “Ah, my daughter’s return to the fold.”

Lyra doesn’t flinch. Instead, she steps forward with surgical precision. “Try bastard heiress with receipts.”

The air practically vibrates.

Lyra places a single folder on the polished wood and slides it toward Evander like a loaded weapon. The Blackridge Files.

Evander’s smirk falters for half a second, and the others around the table shift uneasily.

“What is this supposed to be?” Evander asks, his voice smooth but tighter now.

“The truth,” Lyra replies. “Your truth. And the end of your illusion.”

She opens the folder, laying the evidence out piece by piece with lethal precision.

“First, the shell companies,” she begins, her voice steady. “Run through Declan, money laundered through fake consulting contracts and dummy corporations to funnel untaxed capitaloffshore. Hundreds of millions, gone.” She drops the first file with a sharp thud.

“Second, the trust fund manipulation. Marriage clauses buried into legal frameworks, designed to keep me under your thumb and secure your assets through forced alliances. Your attempt to control me, even as an adult.” Another file hits the table.

“Third, and this is where it gets personal. My mother’s journal.” Lyra’s voice wavers for just a breath, but she pushes forward. “She was pregnant when she died. Six weeks along. She didn’t tell you because she knew exactly what you’d do to her.”

The room is silent, eyes wide, breaths held.

“Fourth,” Lyra continues, flipping another document, “the death certificate anomalies. The missing medical records, the doctors you paid off to falsify reports, and the official narrative rewritten to cover up what really happened."

Evander’s fingers twitch against the table, his knuckles paling.

“And finally,” she says, placing the last file in front of him, “Harper’s leaked emails. Proof of hush money offers, media manipulation, and blackmail operations running directly through your PR networks to destroy me when I got too close.”

Then, her voice drops, venomous and final. “You didn’t just bury my mother. You tried to erase her. And now? You don’t get to hide behind your empire.”

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