Page 64

The elevator whizzes quietly as we ascend, cutting through fifty-two floors of glass, steel, and corporate delusion. Vane Industries Tower looms like a fucking monument to Evander’s ego, but I’m not here to admire architecture. I’m here to escort his daughter to his throne room and burn it down.

Lyra stands beside me, unflinching.

She’s wearing a storm-gray suit that fits her like it was custom-forged from steel.

It has sharp lapels and a tapered waist. No frills, no distractions.

Just lethal intent wrapped in a tailored suit.

Her mother’s vintage watch ticks softly at her wrist, a quiet metronome counting down to the moment everything changes.

She isn’t shaking. She isn’t blinking.

And fuck, if I don’t love her more for it.

I glance down at the sleek and black hard drive in my palm. It holds every ounce of evidence we’ve gathered over the past few months. The rot beneath Evander’s empire, the offshore accounts, the shell companies, the blackmail trails, and the names of people he bought, threatened, or destroyed.

I didn’t bring my gun today. Just a hard drive and a stare that could kill.

Lyra exhales slowly, her eyes locked on the digital floor counter as it ticks higher. She’s calm and dangerous.

“You ready?” I ask, my voice low like a blade sliding from its sheath.

Her lips curve into a faint smile, not sweet but sharp. “I’ve been ready since the day he put my mother in the ground.”

Goddamn. The doors slide open with a soft chime.

The boardroom is a bastion of glass and arrogance.

The ceiling soars, and the walls are polished to a blinding sheen, reflecting the brittle egos that have thrived inside this place for years.

Half a dozen male executives sit in sleek leather chairs, with Evander at the head like some corporate deity presiding over his kingdom.

The air smells of expensive scotch and the kind of cologne that tries too hard.

We wanted this to be a surprise. No warning. No time for Evander to prep his mask. But judging by the smug curve of his mouth when we walk in, downstairs security must’ve tipped him off the second we stepped through the doors.

Evander smirks as if this is all some casual reunion, his eyes sweeping over Lyra with that brand of feigned warmth he wears like expensive cologne. “Ah, my daughter’s return to the fold.”

Lyra doesn’t flinch. Instead, she steps forward with surgical precision. “Try bastard heiress with receipts.”

The air practically vibrates.

Lyra places a single folder on the polished wood and slides it toward Evander like a loaded weapon. The Blackridge Files.

Evander’s smirk falters for half a second, and the others around the table shift uneasily.

“What is this supposed to be?” Evander asks, his voice smooth but tighter now.

“The truth,” Lyra replies. “Your truth. And the end of your illusion.”

She opens the folder, laying the evidence out piece by piece with lethal precision.

“First, the shell companies,” she begins, her voice steady. “Run through Declan, money laundered through fake consulting contracts and dummy corporations to funnel untaxed capital offshore. Hundreds of millions, gone.” She drops the first file with a sharp thud.

“Second, the trust fund manipulation. Marriage clauses buried into legal frameworks, designed to keep me under your thumb and secure your assets through forced alliances. Your attempt to control me, even as an adult.” Another file hits the table.

“Third, and this is where it gets personal. My mother’s journal.” Lyra’s voice wavers for just a breath, but she pushes forward. “She was pregnant when she died. Six weeks along. She didn’t tell you because she knew exactly what you’d do to her.”

The room is silent, eyes wide, breaths held.

“Fourth,” Lyra continues, flipping another document, “the death certificate anomalies. The missing medical records, the doctors you paid off to falsify reports, and the official narrative rewritten to cover up what really happened."

Evander’s fingers twitch against the table, his knuckles paling.

“And finally,” she says, placing the last file in front of him, “Harper’s leaked emails. Proof of hush money offers, media manipulation, and blackmail operations running directly through your PR networks to destroy me when I got too close.”

Then, her voice drops, venomous and final. “You didn’t just bury my mother. You tried to erase her. And now? You don’t get to hide behind your empire.”

Evander’s face cracks, and his voice rises, his hands trembling. “You think this circus will save you? You think this childish tantrum can destroy what I built?! Security!”

Nothing happens.

He shouts louder, “Security!”

Still nothing.

I finally take a step forward, pulling the small black transmitter from my jacket pocket and holding it up like a trophy.

“They won’t be joining us,” I say calmly. “I made sure of that.”

Evander’s breathing turns shallow, his gaze wild when he realizes the walls are closing in.

The boardroom doors swing open once more, this time revealing a new arrival.

Elijah Blake steps in, his FBI badge displayed proudly.

“Evander Vane,” Elijah announces, his voice loud, cutting through the charged air. “You are under federal investigation for conspiracy, financial fraud, and obstruction of justice.”

Evander’s mask slips entirely, his voice breaking into a sneer. “You self-righteous piece of…”

“Save it,” Elijah says, cutting him off. “You’re going to need your breath where you’re going.”

Two agents enter and flank Evander, and he’s cuffed swiftly, the metal clinking, sharp and final.

No one in the room speaks. The king just fell.

For the first time, Evander’s calm fully shatters. His jaw tightens, and his knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of the table before being pulled to his feet.

“You did this,” he hisses at Lyra.

“No,” she answers coldly. “You did this to yourself.”

As the agents escort him out, Evander throws one last glare at me. I stare right back, dead-eyed.

“You underestimated her,” I say quietly.

He says nothing in reply, and they disappear into the hallway.

The moment the doors close, the entire room exhales. Some of the board members whisper frantically, one woman openly weeps, and Whitaker, Evander’s little pet, slumps back in his chair like the bloated coward he is.

Lyra turns and walks back toward me, her heels echoing like gunshots. I meet her halfway.

“It’s done,” I murmur.

She looks up at me with eyes that burn like storm fire. “Not yet. But we just lit the first match.”

One by one, the board members begin to file out, avoiding our eyes, their arrogance crumbling beneath the weight of what just happened. They leave quietly, some shaken, others too proud to show it. I let them go—for now.

We’ll deal with those bastards later.

Suddenly, the boardroom is silent, eerily so. The air that once vibrated with ego and corporate bravado now feels like a vacuum, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. Evander’s gone, dragged out in cuffs, his reign shattered. But even with him gone, my pulse hasn’t slowed.

Elijah steps forward toward Lyra, and my entire body locks up tight.

“I cut a deal,” Elijah says, his voice soft but sure. “State’s witness. I had eyes on him the whole time. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you.”

Lyra stares at him, calm, poised, and deadly. “I figured,” she says, her voice soft and raw. “Thank you, Elijah. For everything.”

God, the way she carries herself, it’s fucking intoxicating.

The power, the control, the fire burning just beneath her skin, it radiates off her in waves.

My admiration for her grows with every word she speaks.

But under it, something darker twists in me, hot and primal.

The kind of raw hunger that makes my blood thrum like it’s trying to punch its way through my skin.

I want her. Badly. Right here, right now. Uninvited, my brain flashes me filthy images of how easily I could pull her against me, press my mouth to her throat, strip that power suit from her perfect body, and take her like we’ve both earned it after all this war.

Jesus. Fuck. What am I thinking? I’m not some goddamn pervert.

But it’s there—the edge, the lust, the fucking gravity of her strength. It’s magnetic and dangerous.

And then there’s Elijah. Standing too close and speaking too softly, his eyes lingering on her with a subtle softness that I fucking hate. The longer he stands there breathing her air, the more I want to drive my fist into his goddamn jaw.

When he breathes near her, I want to snap his goddamn neck.

Lyra turns toward me then, catching my anxiety like a sixth sense. She narrows her eyes, reading me.

And then she surprises me.

She shoves my arm lightly, her voice tight but laced with something softer. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

I exhale slowly, fighting the urge to puke. “Thank you for protecting her.”

Elijah acknowledges my thanks with a nod. “Anything for Lyra. I couldn’t tell you the details, but good thing you trusted me.”

“You were protecting me,” she says quietly.

“Every second,” I whisper back.

The jealousy that simmered when Elijah stood too close to her finally started fading into the background. She’s looking at me now. Only me.

And then Elijah takes a step back, his gaze dropping as he nods once, understanding the silent message I’m sending him. He turns toward the door, his shoes echoing through the room. Without another word, he opens the door, steps out, and shuts it quietly behind him.

Now it’s just us. Only us.

My pulse thrums in my ears as I stare at her, this woman who has bled and burned and clawed her way through hell to stand here like a goddamn queen.

I take a slow breath, my control already fraying as the hunger claws up at me. That sharp intelligence in her eyes, that fire… God, it’s dangerous. It’s lethal. And it makes me want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything.