Page 156 of Her Soul to Own

Lyra flashes me a small, almost amused smile. “Relax, Creed. I’m not made of glass.”

“No,” I mutter, my lips twitching, “you’re made of fucking titanium. But I’m still not taking chances.”

We enter through the side doors, away from the vultures. The moment the doors close behind us, the noise dies, replaced by the heavy courthouse dread. The kind that wraps around you like a noose.

Inside the courtroom, each heartbeat feels like thunder. The government spared no expense on the theatrics. The prosecution table is stacked with files thicker than bricks, and the federal seal gleams behind the bench. Every inch screamsthis is where empires come to fucking die.

Evander sits at the defense table with his cuffs glinting under the fluorescent lights, but his posture is still stiff with entitlement. His gaze scans the room like he’s assessing a boardroom. Still plotting. Fucking delusional.

His legal team, a small army of overpriced, cutthroat defense attorneys, perch around him, whispering strategies into his ear like vipers hissing poison. I recognize some of them.They’re the kind of sharks who charge six figures an hour just to delay the inevitable.

“Evander Vane has retained the best,” Noah had said earlier with that dry humor of his. “The best money can buy… assuming you’re laundering it through ten offshore accounts.”

But even the best won’t save him now.

Evander’s eyes drift to Lyra. He holds her gaze for a beat too long, like he still thinks he can intimidate her with nothing but his presence. Like his existence still carries meaning.

It doesn’t. Not anymore.

And watching him try, watching her not even blink… it does something darkly satisfying to me.

He still thinks she’s the girl he could break. He’s already lost, and yet he can’t see it.

The judge finally enters. The room rises, and formalities kick in.

Then, the prosecution begins.

Their opening argument is brutal and surgical. They don’t even waste time setting the stage. They start cutting throats from the first sentence.

“The evidence will show,” the lead prosecutor begins, his voice sharp as a blade, “that Evander Vane knowingly engaged in widespread financial fraud, conspiracy, and obstruction of justice, and that he orchestrated the cover-up of the death of his wife, Isola Vane, to protect his empire.”

Every file they reference lands on the jury like a hammer. Offshore accounts in Belize, Cayman shell companies, secret trusts funneled through fake non-profits, and money that should never have existed.

Then add to that Declan’s sworn testimony and his confession about falsifying Isola’s medical records under Evander’s orders and Harper’s entire criminal enterprise—exposed emails, payments, hush money trails, and obstruction efforts that tie directly back to Evander.

The courtroom is dead silent, but I catch the tiny shifts—jurors exchanging glances, reporters scribbling faster, and even a few of Evander’s own attorneys paling slightly.

Evander, though? He’s still sitting there like the narcissistic king who refuses to believe the guillotine is real.

My hand flexes slightly against my thigh, and I exhale to steady myself. Because all I want to do is walk across the floor, drag him out of that chair, and make him feel every ounce of pain he’s inflicted.

But not yet.

This isn’t my war to finish.

This is Lyra’s.

And watching her sit there, perfectly composed with her eyes forward and unflinching, is like watching the very fucking embodiment of vengeance given flesh.

She’s not surviving anymore. She’s commanding.

And for the first time since this whole goddamn war began, I realize something dangerous. Evander isn’t just on trial.

He’s already lost the only power that ever really mattered.

Her.

XXX

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