Page 153 of Her Soul to Own

The social feeds are a bonfire, millions of comments screaming in every direction. Some are rallying behind me, calling me brave, calling me a hero. But others? They still call me spoiled, vindictive, and hungry for attention.

As if I wanted any of this.

I sit forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my fingers threading into my hair. My voice is barely above a whisper when I say, “This isn’t Evandery. It’s survival.”

Noah hears me anyway. “You’re doing what none of them had the guts to do, Lyra. That’s the only thing that matters now.”

I glance toward Fiona. “Is it holding?”

She nods, her voice clinical when she says, “The evidence packages are airtight. Even if someone tries to suppress it, it has already gone viral. You triggered a cascade.”

Zara steps closer, touching my shoulder softly. “Declan’s next. They’re moving in on him now.”

The feed cuts to live footage of Declan’s condo—glass, steel, luxury, and lit up like a crime scene. Helicopters circle overhead, their spotlights slicing through the night. Tactical agents swarm the entrance, black-clad silhouettes flooding his high-rise fortress. The glass door shatters inward with a deafening crash that echoes even through the muted speakers, and flashbangs explode like tiny suns.

Seconds later, they drag him out.

Declan’s in handcuffs, his head lowered, jaw tight, and hair disheveled, a man finally stripped of his carefully curated polish. Paparazzi flash bulbs strobe against his face as federal agents shove him into the back of a black SUV.

My face stays blank as my chest burns.

The betrayal isn’t new. But seeing him like this… it fucking twists something inside me.

It was the charity gala at the Waldorf years ago. I was barely twenty-one, my skin still too thin for this world. My father had just finished parading me around like a show pony to his investors. I had slipped away to breathe.

Declan had found me standing near the ballroom terrace, a glass of champagne trembling slightly in my hand. “Hey,” he said softly, stepping close. “You okay?”

I remember the warmth of his hand on my lower back, making me feel better. I remember the way his voice dipped into that protective register and the way he made it feel like I could trust him. Like he was the only one who saw through my father’s games.

“You don’t have to let them control you like this," he’d whispered.

“What choice do I have?” I asked him.

He smiled, gentle and calculated. “You have me.”

I stare at the screen as the SUV drives off with him inside.

“You never protected me,” I murmur under my breath. “You were always part of the machine.”

The sting of it hardens my resolve. My fingers tighten into fists, my nails digging into my palms.

Zara lowers her voice, glancing at me. “You okay?”

I look up at her, my voice steady now when I answer, “I will be. We’re just getting started.”

Silas pulled some strings so we’re able to get the footage from inside the interrogation room. An hour later, we’re still sitting in front of the screen, watching him shiver. From the goosebumps on Declan’s skin that’s visible even through the screen, I can tell it’s freezing cold. Every inch of the room screamsyou’ve got nowhere left to run, asshole.

Declan sits under the harsh fluorescent light, beads of sweat rolling down his temples. His carefully gelled hair is limp now, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his tie long gone. The man who once whispered fake promises in my ear doesn’t look so polished anymore.

On the metal table in front of him, they start stacking the evidence. File after file. Flash drives, printed records, photos. His entire fucking career laid bare.

Financial records from Isola’s medical cover-up, the money trail to the shell companies Evander funneled through his consultancy, the wire transfers offshore, the encrypted emails between him, Harper, and my father. The exact dates, the amounts, the goddamn signatures. Everything.

Declan tries to sit tall at first. He tries to keep that arrogant little smirk on his face. But with every new folder they slamdown, you can see him cracking. His foot bounces under the table, his fingers twitch, and his breathing shifts. And when they drop the real bomb, the altered medical examiner’s report from my mother’s death, I see the fight drain out of him completely.

He fucking did it. He signed off on erasing my mother. On covering up my father’s crime.

The agents don’t need to shout. They don’t need to threaten. The reality of his own lies is already choking him.

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