For the first time in weeks, Jasmine Lane sat alone in her childhood bedroom.
The walls were still painted in soft shades of blue, her old sketchbooks stacked on the shelf, untouched since she was sixteen. Lucien had insisted she stay somewhere safe—and she'd chosen the one place Henri would never expect: home.
Her mother fussed around in the kitchen downstairs. Her younger brother, now out of the hospital and recovering, played guitar softly in the next room.
It should've felt like peace.
But Jasmine didn't believe in peace anymore.
Not when she could still hear Henri's voice in her head.
"Your story ends when I say it does."
Her phone buzzed. A secure line. Only one person had that number.
She answered.
"They're moving," Lucien said. "Tomorrow night. Henri's flying to Zurich. We have one shot."
Jasmine stood, already pulling her duffle from under the bed. "Then we end it."
---
The plan was precise.
Jasmine would attend a gala Henri himself was hosting—alone. Lucien would "publicly" remain in New York. Meanwhile, the forensic techs would seize encrypted files from Henri's overseas server during the event.
They just needed time.
And distraction.
Jasmine would provide both.
---
The gala was held at the Arcadia Palace, a glass-and-marble monstrosity perched on the Swiss hillside. Every guest was a power player. Every glance was sharpened.
Jasmine wore white this time.
Not as surrender—but as challenge.
She floated into the ballroom like a wraith, every step calculated.
Henri spotted her instantly.
"You came," he said smoothly.
"You invited me," she replied. "It would've been rude not to."
He offered his arm.
She didn't take it.
Henri laughed. "Still playing the strong woman, I see."
"No," Jasmine said. "I stopped playing weeks ago."
---
As the night wore on, she played her part perfectly—mingling, smiling, distracting. But inside, she counted minutes. Watched clocks. Waited for the signal.
At exactly 9:47 p.m., her phone vibrated twice in her clutch.
Signal acquired. Uploading. Do not leave.
Jasmine exhaled slowly. She could do this. Ten more minutes. Maybe fifteen.
But then—Henri approached again, this time with a sharper glint in his eyes.
"You look nervous," he said. "Something wrong?"
She steadied her voice. "Just tired of pretending."
Henri leaned in. "Let me make something clear. You may think you've won Lucien's heart. But he's still my son. My legacy. And I don't share what's mine."
Jasmine stepped back.
"You lost him the moment you tried to control him."
Henri's smile vanished. "You're not the first woman to get in my way."
"But I'll be the last."
---
Ten more minutes.
A message came through.
Data secured. Exit now.
Jasmine didn't run.
She walked.
Head high.
And she didn't look back.
---
By morning, Henri Leclair's empire had fractured.
The leaked files revealed bribery, insider trading, and cover-ups dating back two decades. His board turned on him. His assets were frozen. Arrest warrants were issued.
And Jasmine?
She walked out of her past and back into Lucien's arms.
At the edge of a quiet cliffside estate, they stood facing each other beneath a gray sky, wind in their hair.
"It's over," Lucien said.
Jasmine smiled. "Not yet."
He raised a brow. "No?"
She stepped closer. "Not until we decide what comes next."
Lucien took her hands. "Then let's choose it. Together."
She nodded.
Because for the first time—they weren't running.
They were ready to build.
Not a performance.
Not a defense.
A life.
---