Page 87 of Her Soul to Own

I’ve also made sure to bury a single malformed transaction into Harper’s shell LLC’s quarterly report—a tiny inconsistency flagged by one sleepy bank clerk. But algorithms notice. The federal system’s already pinged it. That account is going to lock down so hard tomorrow that she’ll need a Pentagon clearance to buy coffee.

Click, type, drag, drop. This is music. A symphony of revenge played in keystrokes and heat signatures.

I don’t break rules. I rewrite them.

I drop a backdoor into Declan’s brand management app, something shiny he probably overpaid some Silicon Valley dropout to build. It waits, quiet and patient, like a landmine in a gilded hallway. His next press release is going to blast out screenshots of his most desperate, drunkest DMs. And for flair, a GIF loop of a goat licking a window.

That sweet Harper’s email now ghosts every outgoing message to her ex-agent, the one she betrayed on a fashion PR deal three years ago. He’s still bitter and heavily armed with screenshots. Let’s see what he does when he gets his hands on her new client list.

This isn’t self-defense. This is the kill switch, and I’m the hand that’s pressing it.

One line of code at a time, I’m burning the world that’s trying to bleed her.

And every time I hit “execute,” I whisper her name like a spell.Lyra.

She was supposed to be bleeding, right?

But they forget that I clean up messes with fire.

The room is shrinking around me by the time I peel myself away from the screens. Dusk slips in through the surveillance room’s narrow windows, painting everything in that in-between shade, the kind that makes the world look like it’s holding its breath.

I’ve done enough for now. The battlefield’s rigged, and the fire is set. All that’s left is waiting for the match to drop.

But I can’t fucking wait anymore.

I need to see her. I need to breathe the same air as her.

My body’s sore in all the wrong places, my shoulders stiff from unease, my fingers twitching from too much caffeine and too little food. I roll my neck, grab the USB stick from the table, and slide it into my jacket pocket.

It holds everything. Names, IPs, bank trails—the ugly truth coded into strings of evidence that could dismantle reputations and bankrupt bloodlines.

I don’t bring my gun with me. Because I don’t need it right now.

The stone chips crunch beneath my boots as I make my way to her wing of the estate, each step slow and measured.

At this hour, the place feels abandoned. The servants are asleep, and with Evander gone, they’ve likely taken to slacking off, not that I blame them.

Peace is a rare thing in this world. I’ll take it where I can find it.

When I reach Lyra’s door, I don’t knock. I don’t call out. I just stand there and wait.

A long minute passes. Then the knob clicks. The door cracks open, just enough for her to appear.

And… fuck.

She looks like war and ruin.

Her robe clings to her like it has forgotten how to fit. The belt is loose, her collarbone sharp and exposed. Her hair is unbrushed, and there’s a smear of mascara under one eye like a battle scar. She looks exhausted and hollow, but her eyes still burn. And she still looks beautiful.

She stares at me like she’s deciding whether to let me speak or burn me alive where I stand.

“Unless you’re bringing a flamethrower,” she says, her voice flat and empty in that terrifying way that makes her sound like a stranger, “I don’t want advice.”

I don’t retreat. I don’t answer. I just reach into my jacket, pull out the USB, and hold it out between us like it weighs more than it should.

“This has everything,” I say, my voice steady and low. “The servers. The firms. Names.”

She doesn’t move or blink. She doesn’t even reach for it. She just stares through me, her eyes glossy but dry, like her body hasn’t decided if it’s allowed to cry yet. And her stillness and quiet shred through me harder than any scream.

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