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The rooftop has come alive with cameras flashing like fireworks and drones buzzing in synchronized patterns overhead, the entire fucking world watching.

And I stand in the center of it all.

The newly renamed Isola Initiative glows behind me, the black and gold phoenix emblem stretched high across the digital banners, burning like a warning shot.

It’s not a monument to Evander Vane. Not anymore.

That bastard’s personal empire, his private accounts, offshore holdings, and vacation properties were all seized under federal order for tax evasion, conspiracy, and enough legal violations to keep the courts busy for the next two decades.

The few scraps left behind? This. My mother’s vision. My revolution.

I take a breath, steady and controlled, as I glance at the sea of flashing bulbs and wide-eyed journalists packed onto the terrace. Live feeds stream to every corner of the planet, the headlines already spinning:

THE RISE OF LYRA VANE: FROM HEIRESS TO AVENGER.

My tailored suit fits like a glove, custom-made in sleek black with a thin line of gold embroidered along the lapels, an echo of the phoenix wrapped around me.

Beneath the jacket, a silk blouse in muted gold catches the breeze and shimmers under the rooftop lights.

My heels click softly against the marble, sharp and steady.

My hair, a severe, slicked-back bun, shows no softness, no fragility.

They tried to bury me beneath scandal, but tonight? Tonight, I’m going to burn.

Zara moves like a fucking machine beside me, directing the press and organizing the approved interview queue, her earpiece flashing. She’s in her element, and she looks hot as hell doing it in her black dress and sharp stilettos.

“Ten minutes to broadcast,” she says, giving me a once-over. “You’re terrifying, by the way.”

“Good.” My lips curve into a small smile. “Let them be terrified.”

Noah is off near the edge, his dark sunglasses on even though the sun has long dipped below the horizon. His team fans out in tight formation, their eyes locked and guns holstered but hands ready. If anyone, anyone, makes a wrong move tonight, they won’t make a second one.

Further back, beyond the lights and the cameras, I catch the one pair of eyes that matter most. Silas.

He stands slightly apart, dressed in matte black like my personal shadow, the same tailored suit he wore to Evander’s sentencing. His arms are crossed. Watchful. Dangerous. Silent. And yet…

His gaze on me is something else entirely.

It’s not the eyes of a man protecting a client.

It’s the eyes of a man watching the woman he would burn the whole fucking world for.

My stomach tightens, but not with nerves. No. This isn’t fear. This is power.

I straighten my back as the director signals. The cameras shift, microphones tilt toward me, and the red lights blink.

With a deep breath, I step forward… into the spotlight.

“We’re live,” Zara whispers behind me.

Let them watch me burn.

The cameras shift as the broadcast director signals. Red lights blink, and all eyes land on me. Every lens, every satellite feed, and every goddamn whispering network is tuned in. The weight of the world presses against my back, but I don’t flinch. This is where I was always meant to stand.

I walk slowly toward the podium, my heels striking the polished marble like drumbeats to my own war march.

The storm of lights strobe across my face, the flashes catching in the faint shimmer of the gold embroidery tracing my lapels.

The white suit clings to me like a second skin, elegant and lethal.

A nod to my mother’s grace, but all sharpened edges now. No softness left. Only steel.

The whispers of the crowd fade into nothingness as I reach the microphone. Instead, the air sharpens around me. The kind of charged stillness before a blade cuts it clean.

I breathe in through my nose, letting the moment settle into my bones. This isn’t nerves. This isn’t fear. This is ownership.

I let my voice cut through the rooftop like glass when I say, “This isn’t just a foundation.”

The words ring sharp in the still air.

“This is a reckoning.”

The crowd stills even further, like they’re holding their breath and waiting for whatever the hell comes next.

I see them out of the corner of my eye—press junkies leaning forward and journalists tightening their grips on their pens, every single one of them salivating for the next scandal soundbite.

But they won’t get a scandal. They’ll get the truth.

“My mother once told me that luxury without conscience is just greed. And greed,” I pause, feeling the burn in my throat, “is what built the empire that tried to consume us all.”

I don’t look down at my notes because there’s no need for them. These words have been carved into my fucking skin.

“Today, we rebuild her vision. Not in her name—but in her truth.”

A shift rolls through the audience, a subtle murmur of emotion.

I catch glimpses of faces I recognize. Survivors and whistleblowers—the quiet victims that my father’s empire fed on for years.

Some of them are crying while some are just frozen, their hands gripping the arms of their chairs like anchors.

I hold my gaze steady and keep going.

“The Isola Initiative will not be another vanity project. It’s not charity. It’s not image rehabilitation.” My voice hardens. “It is a goddamn declaration.”

I let my eyes sweep the sea of faces before me, making them all feel seen, exposed, and implicated.

“We will protect the whistleblowers who were silenced.”

The first ripple of applause starts in the back rows.

“We will dismantle financial corruption wherever it festers,” I continue.

Another wave of clapping ensues, louder now.

“We will support every victim who was told to stay silent, to accept abuse as the price of survival, to sacrifice themselves so men like my father could continue playing gods.”

Now, the crowd starts to come alive. The applause thickens into something louder and stronger, pulsing through the rooftop like a heartbeat.

“And let me make one thing painfully clear—”

I lean slightly into the microphone, my voice dropping just enough to force every bastard watching from behind a screen to lean in.

“What my father built was not power. It was fear.”

The words echo.

“What we build now, what we rise from, is justice.”

The rooftop fucking explodes.

Applause crashes like a wave. Cameras flash in wild staccato bursts, and a thousand clicks hammer against the marble walls, drowning out even the helicopters circling above us. Journalists leap to their feet and reporters scramble for coverage as the world watches.

But I’m not finished.

“For every voice that was silenced. For every life destroyed. For every daughter, every mother, every survivor…” I let my breath burn through the final words, my voice sharp enough to slice air, “we rise.”

And those words, the rooftop ignites.

There’s thunderous, deafening applause as people stand. Some cry, and some just stare, stunned by the transformation playing out in front of them. They came for a speech, but what they got was a funeral for the old world and a coronation for the new one.

In the distance, through the blinding lights, I catch Fiona leaning toward Zara. Her face is lit by the glow of her tablet, but she’s smiling as if this entire thing is unfolding exactly as she always knew it would.

“The world finally sees who she really is,” Fiona murmurs.

Zara crosses her arms, smirking, her voice dry. “Took them long enough.”

The camera flashes continue, but for the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel exposed.

I feel untouchable.

I feel at home.