Page 155 of Her Soul to Own

Noah adds, “Her private server’s wide open. We’ve got her conversations with Evander. Multiple documented bribes, influence peddling, and blackmail plots. She’s not just going down. She’s taking a fucking nosedive straight into hell.”

Zara sits down, tapping furiously on her tablet. “And her lawyers? Dirty as fuck. I’ve got evidence they were fabricating legal documents and paying off witnesses to keep Harper’s name clean.”

“Good,” I say, my voice low. “Then we pull the trigger.”

Fiona glances over. “Are you sure you’re ready? Once this goes out, it’s nuclear. There’ll be no coming back.”

I meet her eyes confidently. “Press the goddamn button.”

Fiona’s fingers fly across the keys. “Sending full evidence package to the Justice Department, federal prosecutors, andevery major journalist we’ve vetted. Anonymous leaks hit social feeds in T-minus thirty seconds.”

We sit in anticipation as the digital clock ticks down. And then, the blast radius detonates.

Screens light up across the table, and live news feeds erupt with breaking headlines. Every channel, every journalist, every influencer. Harper’s name is now tattooed across every glowing screen for the world to feast on.

I watch the destruction play out like a goddamn symphony.

Just then, the footage cuts to a live broadcast outside her private resort villa. A fortress of white marble and glass now crawling with federal agents and tactical units. Helicopters hover above like vultures waiting for a corpse.

Within moments, Harper’s voice pierces through the feed, shrill, broken, and hysterical. She paces the balcony like a caged animal, her mascara running in jagged streaks down her face. She’s screaming into her phone like it might still save her. “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND! I HAVE POWER! I STILL HAVE POWER!”

No, bitch. You don’t.

Federal agents breach the villa with brutal efficiency—doors smashed open, guns drawn. They swarm her like sharks tasting blood, and within seconds, Harper’s face slams into the marble, her arms wrenched behind her back. Cuffs click shut as she thrashes, screaming obscenities that bleed into incoherent sobs.

The charges spill from the lead agent’s mouth: “Harper Kingston, you are under arrest for fraud, money laundering, witness intimidation, and obstruction of justice.”

Zara lets out a long, satisfied exhale beside me. “Fucking finally.”

I watch Harper’s face—ravaged, hollow, and broken—one last time on the screen. The mask she wore so well for so long finally shattered to dust.

My lips curve into a small, dangerous smile. “Checkmate.”

That night, I walk alone through the estate garden, the cool air brushing against my skin like a silent reminder that nothing can ever return to what it once was. The moonlight casts long, haunting shadows across the manicured hedges and marble statues, monuments to a past that tried to break me. I inhale deeply, my fingers brushing against the delicate necklace Silas had given me, feeling its weight against my throat. Despite the Evanderies, despite the collapses of Harper and Declan, there’s still a hollow place inside me—not empty but scarred. The damage they inflicted is permanent. But I’m not broken. Not anymore.

Chapter 41 – Silas – The Final Reckoning

The courthouse feels like a fucking mausoleum. Tall, gray stone columns tower above me like gods judging every soul walking through the doors. Cameras flash like lightning strikes, reporters swarm like piranhas around the marble steps, and microphones are shoved into the faces of anyone stupid enough to pause.

And me? I stand to the side, away from the circus, and watch it all unfold like the twisted finale of a show I never wanted to star in. My eyes scan the crowd, tracing every corner, every shadow. It’s not because I’m paranoid… no, it’s because paranoia is survival when you’re dealing with the kind of men Evander Vane once played poker with.

The empire may be crumbling, but snakes don’t die quietly.

The security perimeter reinforces as the armored transport pulls up. Evander steps out, shackled but still radiating the smug arrogance that he wears like cologne. The bastard walks like he’s just late to a business meeting, not like a man about to face federal charges that would make most people piss themselves.

Of course, Evander doesn’t believe the rules apply to him. Never has.

I glance back toward the motorcade pulling in behind him. Lyra steps out of the second vehicle, and for a brief moment, the world fucking stops.

Dressed in a sharp, tailored black suit that screams power, she walks through the anarchy like she’s immune to it. The cameras flick toward her instantly, the bulbs flashing so fast thatit looks like a goddamn light show. Her chin is high, her steps steady. No flinch. No hesitation.

My chest tightens with equal parts pride and something dangerously close to worship. She’s been through hell, but fuck if she doesn’t look like she owns every inch of this nightmare.

And yet, beneath all that steel, I still feel the burden she carries. The war might be turning, but the damage and scars never fully fade.

The moment she’s within arm’s reach, I step forward instinctively, blocking an overeager cameraman who gets a little too close.

“Watch it,” I growl. He backs off instantly.

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