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The blazer I’m wearing is slightly oversized, intentionally so.

It swallows my frame, the sharp lapels angling across my shoulders.

It was Noah’s idea. “Power in minimalism,” he said, half-joking, but he was right.

The outfit feels like a statement. I don’t need sequins or couture to command attention anymore.

My face is bare except for the same blood-red lipstick I’ve worn since the first post dropped.

The legacy of Isola breathes beneath my skin as I wait for my cue.

In the corner, Fiona Graves watches me with her arms crossed, her sharp gaze assessing everything. She gives me the smallest nod, like an invisible green light pulsing through the air. I wouldn’t even be here without her.

And the memory of how we got here plays like a reel in my head.

It started two days ago.

The phone rang while I was still boxing up the last pieces of my old life. I expected Zara. Maybe Noah. But the name flashing across the screen made my stomach tighten. Fiona Graves.

I answered quickly. “Fiona?”

“Lyra.” Her voice was calm but charged. “I pulled a string.”

My pulse kicked up. “A string?”

“There’s a vacant broadcast slot at one of the independent international networks I’ve worked with before. Offshore jurisdiction, encrypted servers. A clean, neutral platform. No filters. No edits. Total control.”

My chest tightened. “You’re serious.”

“I don’t do jokes, Vane. You know that.” She paused. “You want to torch your father’s empire for good? You need a global microphone. And this? This is a fucking megaphone.”

For a moment, I couldn’t even breathe. The world had been watching me fall for months. This would be the first time I could speak without being censored. No handlers. No PR firms. No corporate interests leaning over my shoulder.

“Send me the location,” I whispered.

When I hung up, my hands trembled. Not from fear, but from knowing what this truly meant.

That was when Silas appeared.

I didn’t even hear him come into the room. He moved like a shadow, like he always does. He studied me quietly for a moment, taking in my expression.

“You good?” he asked softly.

I turned and looked straight into those eyes of his. Calm. Deadly. And only for me. “I need you to come with me.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Always.”

The drive to the studio was quiet at first. The kind of heavy silence that sits between people who don’t need words anymore.

I glanced at him while the city lights streaked past outside the tinted windows. The sharp line of his jaw flexed as he watched the road. He had one hand on the wheel, the other resting near his thigh, his fingers tapping idly like a pulse.

“You don’t have to be there for this part,” I said softly, testing him. Testing myself.

He turned his head slowly toward me. “Lyra.”

My name in his voice was both a warning and a promise.

“I’m not leaving your side,” he said firmly.

His certainty should’ve scared me. It should’ve felt like pressure. Like every other man who tried to control my narrative.

But this was different.

With Silas, I don’t feel owned. I feel… protected.

For the first time in my life, I don’t feel alone.

As we arrived at the building, there were already people waiting. Cameras. Reporters. Onlookers who caught wind that something big was about to happen. The rumors were already swirling. The Heiress Returns. The Daughter Strikes Back.

The moment the car door opened, flashes exploded around us like a private storm.

And for the first time in my entire fucking life, I didn’t feel the urge to hide. I didn’t tuck my chin down. I didn’t reach for my sunglasses. I didn’t search for a PR handler to pull me into the shadows.

Instead, Silas stepped out first.

He extended his hand toward me, palm up. I took it. And just like that, the flashbulbs went wild.

His grip was firm as I stepped beside him with my hand in his, our fingers interlaced. And I let them photograph us like that. Like the power couple they didn’t see coming.

Because I wasn’t afraid anymore—not of my father, not of the world, and not of being seen with a man. Not when it’s Silas.

Because I know one thing for certain. Silas will never let me fall.

The flashes kept coming, but we didn’t break stride. His thumb gently ran along the side of my hand as we walked toward the studio doors, and that tiny touch anchored me more than any security team ever could.

Inside, Fiona was waiting for us, flanked by a handful of quiet technicians.

“You look good,” she said, nodding at me. “Like you’re ready to cut someone’s throat.”

I smiled faintly. “Oh, trust me, I am.”

Silas stood behind me, always watchful, while Fiona led us through the prep room and into the soundproofed broadcast chamber. The lights softened, and cameras angled toward the podium. A live global feed was waiting on my signal.

“This is your room now,” Fiona whispered as she left me alone at the podium. “Your stage.”

Now, I stare into the lens.

The small light blinks red. It’s live.

I take a breath. Slow and centered.

“You tried to make me a brand,” I say, my voice clear and steady. “Instead, I made myself a revolution.”

The words slice through the air like gunfire, sharp and impossible to take back. And I don’t want them back.

I hold my gaze on the lens, imagining the millions of people watching this live feed—their faces in front of laptops, phones, and televisions, scattered across offices, homes, hotel rooms, private jets, and dark boardrooms. All of them, watching and waiting to see whether I’ll finally implode.

But I don’t implode. I rise.

“My name is Lyra Isola Vane. And you know my story… or at least, you know the version that was sold to you.”

I let the words breathe for a moment.

“The scandal. The video. The collapse. You’ve seen the headlines. You watched the spectacle. The fall of the golden heiress. The ‘privileged, spoiled daughter who couldn’t handle the spotlight.’ The convenient narrative that made it easy to look away.”

A tightness builds in my chest, but I push through it, my voice unwavering.

“But what you never saw was the man behind the curtain. My father.”

I pause. Not out of fear, but to let it land.

“My father, Evander Vane, didn’t just build a company. He built an empire out of control. Out of betrayal. Out of power leveraged against the people who could not afford to fight back.”

Behind the glass partition, I catch subtle movements in the production room—technicians exchanging glances, one of them covering his mouth as his eyes widen. Good. Let them feel the shift.

“He used private security firms to intimidate whistleblowers. He manipulated tax codes across six different nations to avoid billions in liabilities. Shell corporations, offshore accounts, and fraudulent charitable foundations. The Isola Foundation, the one named after my mother, was nothing more than a front. Bribes disguised as donations. Auditors silenced. Lawyers bought.”

There’s a low murmur behind the glass. The crew can’t help it. Their reactions fuel me now.

“And most of all…” My voice wavers slightly now, but I do my best to keep it steady, locking my gaze on the lens as if my father himself is staring back at me from the other side. “He is responsible for my mother’s death.”

I see the collective reaction ripple through the people behind the cameras.

A woman in the corner gasps, her hand shooting up to cover her lips.

One of the producers stiffens, exchanging quick, alarmed glances with Fiona, who remains perfectly still and composed, the only person who knew this bomb was coming.

The atmosphere thickens like fog rolling into the studio.

“My mother was not sick. She was not weak. She was preparing to leave him, and she had evidence. Evidence that she never lived long enough to release. Evidence that I hold in my hands now.”

I raise the folder, which is already broadcast across the encrypted feed for millions to see.

“She knew he was tracking her. She knew he was watching. She tried to escape, and he made sure she didn’t.”

There’s silence now, a thick, heavy silence that weighs like iron on every pair of shoulders in this room. The kind of silence that only happens when people realize they’re hearing something that will cost people their careers, their freedom, and maybe even their lives.

I let that silence bloom before I continue.

“Many of you won’t believe me,” I say, my voice softer but still steel-hard beneath the surface. “You’ll say I’m just another spoiled little girl trying to stay relevant. A rich daughter with daddy issues playing victim for attention.”

I allow myself a bitter smile as I lean closer to the mic.

“I don’t need you to believe me. Not yet. Because facts don’t require your permission to exist.”

The red light above the camera blinks steadily as I let the next words settle deep into every watcher’s chest.

“The files are out there now. The documents, the recordings, the financial trails, and the names. They’re in the hands of journalists, federal investigators, whistleblowers brave enough to speak, and people my father failed to destroy.”

I see movement again behind the glass. One of the producers clutches a headset, his face pale, likely hearing the disorder exploding online, the feeds lighting up, lawyers scrambling, and newsrooms losing their collective minds.

My heart races at the power I’m holding at this moment. I’ve never felt this alive.

“You tried to make me a product. A brand. An image you could sell or discard.”

I let my rage bloom now, my voice sharp enough to cut through steel.

“But you forgot who you raised.”

I pause, my breath steady.

“You raised a revolution.”

In the corner, Fiona gives me the faintest nod, the kind of nod you give someone who’s just pulled the pin from a grenade and finally let it fly.

As I deliver the final words, I glance back toward the glass where Silas stands, steady as a shadow, immovable as stone. His arms are crossed, his jaw clenched, but his eyes, his eyes burn for me. For us. For this moment we’ve bled for.

My pulse finally steadies as I let my gaze lock into his. The world can burn around me. But as long as he’s there, I won’t break.

There’s no more waiting. No more lines to cross. What’s coming next is mine to shape.

And it starts with my father.