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My legal counsel, recently hired by Silas after rejecting what felt like half the Ivy League, arrives like a blade in heels.

She’s sharp, precise, and terrifyingly efficient.

He went through dozens, maybe more. He fired three after the first interview, called one “a walking liability in a designer suit,” and told another she “had the backbone of a wet napkin.” But Ms. Keene?

He didn’t even blink before bringing her in.

She strides in dressed in tailored black like she’s here to attend a funeral, preferably my father’s. Without preamble, she slams a stack of folders onto the table, the sound echoing through the room like gunfire.

“Well,” she says dryly, peeling off her gloves like she’s prepping for surgery, “your father’s financial trail reads like a crime novel written by someone with a God complex and no concept of subtlety.

” She starts flipping through documents.

“Another thirty million rerouted overnight. Two new shell trusts in Luxembourg with imaginative names, by the way—real Bond villain stuff—and…” She slides a folder across the table, her red-lacquered nail tapping it twice.

“Several of his major donors are already talking to federal investigators. Quietly, of course. No one wants to spill champagne on their cufflinks just yet.” The, she glances up, smirking.

“By the way, tell Silas to stop trying to micromanage my inbox. If he wants me to gut your father cleanly, he needs to let me use my own knives.”

And just like that, the room somehow feels colder and a hell of a lot more dangerous.

I scan the names quickly, my stomach twisting. These were men who dined at our table and smiled at me like I was their niece. But now? They’re flipping to save themselves.

By the third day, sleep is just a fantasy we all stopped believing in. The constant vibration of my phone has become background noise. Notifications from journalists, legal teams, and financial analysts flood every channel.

Zara doesn’t bother with shoes anymore. She paces the estate barefoot, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other. “The Dubai meeting was confirmed an hour ago,” she reports, her eyes wide. “He’s scrambling for foreign investors now. Desperate capital.”

Noah doesn’t even look up from his screens. “The more desperate he gets, the sloppier his digital trails become. I’ve already breached two of his private communications with that Dubai contact.”

Zara smiles darkly. “If we keep applying pressure, his entire offshore empire collapses within weeks.”

My pulse quickens at the thought. Weeks. We’re that close.

But I know better than to relax because my father isn’t one to sit back while the walls close in.

The rumors start by late afternoon. Zara slides into the chair beside me with her eyes narrowed, her voice quiet. “He’s still in hiding, but some whispers say he’s meeting quietly with one of his oldest private contractors. A fixer.”

My stomach twists. “A fixer for what?”

“For anything,” she says simply. “That’s what they do.”

I knew he wouldn’t go quietly. I just didn’t know when he’d draw the first blade.

The fourth night hits harder. Silas comes into my suite after midnight, silent, watching me as I sit in front of the massive windows overlooking the gardens and barely breathing as the rain starts falling. The war outside hasn’t stopped, but this room, for one moment, is still.

“Come here,” he says softly.

His voice is the only steady thing I trust these days. I stand and let him pull me into his arms. I bury my face into his chest as my breath finally slows. The feel of his hand sliding up my spine, slow and warm, makes the knot in my chest loosen just enough for me to exhale.

“You’re holding up better than anyone should be,” he murmurs into my hair.

“I don’t have a choice,” I whisper back.

He pulls my chin up, his lips pressing against mine, soft at first, then deeper, hungrier. For a moment, I almost let myself sink into it. Into him. Into the only thing that feels safe in this house that’s been nothing but a gilded prison for so long.

But I pull back, breathless, before we fall too far into each other. “There’s still too much to do.”

He smirks softly. “You always spoil the mood.”

I manage a small, tired laugh. “You’ll survive.”

“Always,” he whispers, kissing my forehead once before stepping back and letting me breathe.

“Where have you been?” I ask, my voice sounding more desperate than I intend it to sound. I haven’t seen him in days, and I’ve missed him more than I want to admit.

“Taking care of this mess, my love.”

My love. Two simple words, but they land like an anchor in my chest. Steadying and certain. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear them until now.

A smile pulls at my lips, soft and a little shaky, as my chest tightens with warmth and safety.

How did I get so lucky?

Silas wraps his arms around me again, pulling me into his chest like he’s done it a thousand times.

Like it’s instinct. I bury my face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in and letting his heat seep into my bones.

His grip is firm and grounding, like he’s holding me together without even trying.

For a moment, the world quiets. No investigations, no betrayal, no empire crumbling under its own lies. Just the sound of his heartbeat against mine and the way his hand traces slow, calming circles along my spine.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and I believe him.

Because whatever comes next—chaos, consequences, or war—we’re in it together. And in his arms, I finally feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

XXX

By the fifth morning, the first formal subpoenas drop.

Ms. Keene shows up with a team of federal agents—quiet, professional, and unapologetic. The foundation’s main accounts have been frozen, and my father’s name, once untouchable, is now printed across federal legal documents in bold ink.

It feels surreal, watching his empire fracture under my fingertips.

The calls from my dad stopped entirely, not that he bothered contacting me or explaining himself to me. He hasn’t contacted me since the single text that started it all.

You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart. What do you think you’re doing?

I never answered. But I know he’s watching.

And now I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s buying time. As Zara said, he’s not retreating. He’s fortifying. Desperate and cornered, but still dangerous.

By the sixth day, the journalist calls me directly.

“We’ve uncovered enough to build the full timeline,” she says breathlessly.

“Your mother’s murder was orchestrated perfectly.

Every breadcrumb you gave me is corroborated.

The Cayman transfers, the private jet logs.

Even the fixer your father contracted weeks before your mother died. Lyra, it’s airtight.”

I internally scream, but I don’t cry. I won’t give him that power anymore.

He taught me to control my emotions. But what he didn’t realize, what none of them realized, was that he was building his own assassin.

I hang up and walk slowly back into the war room, where Silas, Noah, Zara, and Ms. Keene wait for me.

“It’s time,” I say, my voice sharp and steady. “We bring it all down.”

Silas steps closer, and his hand closes gently around mine. “And we don’t stop,” he says softly, “until nothing’s left standing.”

I nod.

Because this is no longer survival. This is demolition.

I can almost hear my father’s voice in my head, calm, controlled, and threatening beneath the velvet.

If I can’t control her, I’ll destroy her.

But not this time. Not ever again.

The storm finally begins to settle outside as the rain slows to a steady rhythm against the glass. The room quiets too, with everyone working, but uncertainty lingers thick in the air like smoke that refuses to clear.

I gently pull away from Silas and walk back toward my suite. The long corridor feels like a tunnel tonight, one I’ve walked down countless times as a daughter, as his pawn.

But tonight, I walk it as something else entirely.

The doors to my private suite close behind me with a final, satisfying click, sealing me off from the room and the enormity of it all, just for this moment.

I step in front of the full-length mirror. And I see her. The woman staring back isn’t the girl my father tried to shape.

She isn’t the daughter who flinched at his ruthless stares or swallowed her rage in exchange for approval. She’s the consequence of every choice he made.

Flawless. Regal. Terrifying. A queen of ashes.

Behind me, my laptop screen glows, another incoming flood of headlines stacking like dominoes, ready to fall.

HEIRESS VERSUS TYCOON: INSIDE THE CIVIL WAR OF THE VANE DYNASTY

The entire world is watching.

I don’t flinch. Instead, I smile.

“Let the world watch me set my father on fire.”