Page 67

The courthouse feels like a fucking mausoleum.

Tall, gray stone columns tower above me like gods judging every soul walking through the doors.

Cameras flash like lightning strikes, reporters swarm like piranhas around the marble steps, and microphones are shoved into the faces of anyone stupid enough to pause.

And me? I stand to the side, away from the circus, and watch it all unfold like the twisted finale of a show I never wanted to star in.

My eyes scan the crowd, tracing every corner, every shadow.

It’s not because I’m paranoid… no, it’s because paranoia is survival when you’re dealing with the kind of men Evander Vane once played poker with.

The empire may be crumbling, but snakes don’t die quietly.

The security perimeter reinforces as the armored transport pulls up.

Evander steps out, shackled but still radiating the smug arrogance that he wears like cologne.

The bastard walks like he’s just late to a business meeting, not like a man about to face federal charges that would make most people piss themselves.

Of course, Evander doesn’t believe the rules apply to him. Never has.

I glance back toward the motorcade pulling in behind him. Lyra steps out of the second vehicle, and for a brief moment, the world fucking stops.

Dressed in a sharp, tailored black suit that screams power, she walks through the anarchy like she’s immune to it. The cameras flick toward her instantly, the bulbs flashing so fast that it looks like a goddamn light show. Her chin is high, her steps steady. No flinch. No hesitation.

My chest tightens with equal parts pride and something dangerously close to worship. She’s been through hell, but fuck if she doesn’t look like she owns every inch of this nightmare.

And yet, beneath all that steel, I still feel the burden she carries. The war might be turning, but the damage and scars never fully fade.

The moment she’s within arm’s reach, I step forward instinctively, blocking an overeager cameraman who gets a little too close.

“Watch it,” I growl. He backs off instantly.

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 screams this 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

The safehouse smells like old whiskey and expensive paranoia. It’s a converted loft with steel beams, bulletproof windows, and multiple exit points. My kind of place. The kind of place you use when you’re prepping for the kind of war that doesn’t end clean.

Noah drops a flash drive on the table like it’s radioactive. “He’s still playing.” His voice is tight, almost impressed. “Two federal clerks and one juror. Bribed through offshore proxies.”

“Even in shackles, he’s still playing chess,” I mutter, my jaw tightening.

Lyra sits beside me, silent but razor-focused, her face carved from stone. She’s been like this all night, controlled and locked down. But beneath it? I can feel the storm brewing in her.

Fiona’s already tapping into secured channels. “I’ve secured direct contact with federal oversight. These files are going straight to the ethics committee, the AG, and the judicial protection office. They won’t be able to hide this.”

I rub a hand over my jaw, forcing the old part of me to stay buried. The part of me that wants to fix this with violence instead of paperwork.

“Once,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else, “I would’ve handled this with a bullet. But now? I use their own weapons against them.”

Noah grins, dark amusement flashing in his eyes. “Growth, brother. It’s disgusting.”

Lyra finally speaks. Her voice is low and steady, but lethal. “Just burn it all to the fucking ground.”

And we do. By morning, the entire legal system is fully exposed to Evander’s desperate bribery attempt. Judges reinforced, prosecutors protected, and journalists fed the final act of Evander Vane’s spiral. He’s not just losing. He’s rotting in public.

The next day, she asks to see him.

Not for closure or peace. For the kill shot.

I walk with her through the federal detention center, my nerves razor-wire tight. I’m armed. Not because I think Evander has any moves left, but because he’s still a snake, and even a dying one can bite.

As we approach the visitation chamber, I glance down at her. She looks like royalty walking into a tomb. Calm, unforgiving, and dangerous.

“You sure?” I ask her, my voice low.

Her answer is instant. “Yes.”

I open the door for her, but I stay just outside, close enough to intervene but far enough to let her have this.

Inside the cell, Evander sits at a metal table, his hands shackled but still carrying that oily arrogance like it’s the last currency he owns.

He smiles when she enters. It’s the kind of smile that used to control her. The kind that used to work.

“You’ve made your point, sweetheart,” he says smoothly, like they’re discussing a dinner party instead of his impending life sentence. “Enough damage has been done.”

Lyra doesn’t flinch. “You’re not here because of me. You’re here because of you.”

He leans forward, his voice softening, fake fatherly concern dripping from every word. “I protected you, Lyra. You don’t understand the threats I kept away. Your mother was unstable. She would’ve dragged you down. I did what I had to do.”

The old gaslight. The same manipulative rot he’s used for years. But this time? It bounces off her like nothing.

“No,” she says sharply. “You didn’t protect me. You controlled me. You used me. And you killed her.”

Evander’s mask slips, just for a second. A hint of rage beneath the polish. He tries one last time, his voice tightening, grasping at whatever weak thread he has left. “The world forced my hand. Everything I built was for you. For your future.”

Lyra steps closer, towering over him now, her voice like a goddamn scalpel. “You didn’t just lose your empire, Father. You lost me. And that was always your real power. Control.”

Her words hit him like a fucking bullet, and for the first time, truly, his face crumbles. His lips part, and there’s no comeback or smooth deflection.

He’s just a man who finally realizes he’s nothing, but he still goes on. “You’re going to regret this, Lyra.”

“Dad, I wish I cared enough to regret. But I don’t. Not anymore.”

XXX

The sentencing is public. On national broadcast, every seat in the courtroom filled, cameras locked in, and reporters packed shoulder to shoulder.

Lyra stands beside me in the front row, her head held high. I can feel the nervousness radiating from her, but there’s no shaking. No tears.

The judge reads the sentence without ceremony: “Evander Vane, you are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. All personal and corporate assets seized. The court finds no grounds for leniency.”

Gasps ripple through the room. Followed by whispers and flashbulbs.

Evander is led away in cuffs, his face pale, hollow, and a ghost of the king he once imagined himself to be.

I glance sideways at Lyra. She isn’t smiling. She isn’t crying.

Her expression is something more honest. It’s not exactly joy, but I can see the sense of freedom behind her eyes.

That night, we sit quietly on the estate balcony.

The storm outside mirrors the one that’s been raging inside her for years.

Rain pelts against the glass as thunder rolls in the distance.

She holds a glass of whiskey in her hand—her new ritual.

And the necklace I gave her catches the gleam of lightning.

“You did it,” I whisper.

“We did it,” she corrects, her voice soft but edged with finality. “But it’ll never undo what he did.”

I want to tell her that she’s free. That the worst is over. But we both know better. Scars don’t vanish. They just stop bleeding.

Later that night, after the cameras stop flashing and the reporters disperse like scavengers finally full, I drive us to the courthouse. We stand outside it. The air bites against my skin, sharp and clean like a blade slicing through the stench of everything we’ve crawled through to get here.

The city lights fade in the distance, but here, right here, it’s silent.

Lyra stands beside me, close but not leaning, not needing. She doesn’t need to cling to me. She never has. But I feel her heartbeat in the way her breath fogs the air, steady and alive.

My fingers twitch at my side, the old instincts always ready, always waiting. But there’s nothing left to guard against. No snipers hiding in shadows, no mercenaries plotting behind unwelcoming boardrooms. Just us. Just this moment.

And for the first time, my reality shifts into something beautiful.

I look at her, really look at her, and my chest tightens with something I still don’t quite have words for.

I was trained to kill for power. To eliminate threats, enforce order, and diminish weakness. That’s what the military built me for, what I let everyone build me into. But for her? I learned to fight for something far more dangerous.

Love.

She turns her head slightly, catching my stare. Those eyes… fuck, those eyes, they’ve haunted me since the day I met her. And they still fucking undo me every time.

“It’s finally over,” I whisper, my voice rough.

But she gives me that faint, knowing smile, the one that says she’s always two steps ahead.

“Maybe,” she murmurs. “It’s finally our time now.”

And fuck if that doesn’t feel even better.