---- Chapter 22 Killian POV: A tidal wave of regret, so powerful it was a physical force, slammed into me. It knocked the air from my lungs and left me gasping on the floor of her office, drowning in the wreckage of my own making. | was wrong. God, | was so wrong. | had thought of her as a sure thing, a constant in my chaotic universe. My Emily. The girl who would always be there, always forgive, always love me. | could play with my toys, get bored, and she would be waiting patiently for me when | was done. A soft place to land. | remembered how easy she used to be to soothe. A box of her favorite chocolates, a single rose, a whispered apology, and she would melt back into my arms. Now, | could offer her the world on a silver platter, and she would spit on it. She didn't want my world. She had built her own. | lay there on the cold, hard floor, staring up at the ceiling lights until they blurred into a single, blinding star. A hot tear escaped the corner of my eye and traced a path through the grime and blood on my face. The light in my own eyes, the fire ---- that had driven me to conquer the world, flickered and died. There was nothing left to fight for. She was gone. My lips moved, forming her name, but no sound came out. What was the point? There were no words left that could reach her. Emily POV: Sitting in the plush leather passenger seat of Josiah's car, | felt nothing. No triumph, no satisfaction, no joy in my revenge. Just a hollow, aching void where my heart used to be. How did we get here? How did a love that had felt so epic, so world-altering, curdle into this ugly, bitter poison? A soft shuffling sound brought me back to the present. Josiah was holding out a box of tissues, his kind eyes full of a gentle, understanding sadness. "It's okay to cry, you know," he said softly. "You just buried a ghost. It's supposed to hurt." His words, his simple, unconditional kindness, broke the dam. A single tear turned into a torrent. | cried for Leo, for the girl | used to be, for the love | had lost, and for the years | had wasted. | cried until there were no tears left, just shuddering, empty sobs. Josiah didn't say anything. He just let me cry, his presence a quiet, steady anchor in my storm. ---- When | was finally done, my face blotchy and my head aching, he gently tilted my chin up. "Feeling better?" he asked, a small, teasing smile playing on his lips. "Because you've got a little mascara situation happening." | laughed, a real, genuine laugh that felt rusty from disuse. "Shut up," | said, wiping my eyes. "I'm not crying anymore. 'm done." And | was. A few days later, the news broke. Killian Emerson had been arrested on a slew of federal charges-corporate espionage, fraud, racketeering. The evidence | had leaked had done its job. The cameras showed him being led away in handcuffs. He looked strangely calm, almost relieved. He didn't fight. He didn't protest. He simply accepted his fate. The day he was sentenced, | received a call from a blocked number. It was his one phone call. | looked at the screen for a long moment, then declined the call and blocked the number for good. He was a ghost, and he no longer deserved a place in my life, not even in my memories. With Killian's chapter closed, | turned my attention to the final loose end: Dallas. | gave an exclusive, on-the-record interview to a reputable journalist. | didn't cry or plead for sympathy. | calmly, methodically, laid out the facts. | provided the security footage from the hospital, the harassing messages, the testimony of ---- other girls Dallas had bullied in high school who, inspired by my story, had finally found the courage to speak out. | told them about the compass needle and the scar on my wrist. | told them about the dead rat, the lies, the relentless psychological torment. | told them about Leo, and how Dallas had bragged about distracting Killian on the day my brother died. The evidence was undeniable, a clear, damning portrait of a cruel, narcissistic sociopath who had hidden behind a mask of victimhood.