Chapter 167 Chapter 167

Chapter 167 Chapter 167
Dominic’s POV
The warehouse sits on the edge of the harbor, an empty skeleton of rust and silence. Salt hangs in the air, heavy enough to taste. I picked the place deliberately, neutral ground, no cameras, no distractions. 
The kind of place men like Stanley think they can control. The wire itches under my collar. A small mic, thin as thread, pressed flat against my chest. 
The agents made me repeat the phrase twice before I left their car: “Don’t provoke him. Keep him talking.” Easy advice from people who never watched their life burn.
I check my watch. Ten minutes until he arrives. Ten minutes until I walk into the fire one last time.
There’s a strange calm in the waiting. After years of hunting answers, after exhuming Elia’s fake grave, after the trials and betrayals this feels final. The kind of silence that comes before the storm breaks.
Headlights flare across the cracked pavement. A black car rolls to a stop, too sleek for this graveyard of machines. Stanley steps out, immaculate as ever. The wind catches his coat, and for a second, he looks almost like the man I once admired.
“Dominic,” he says, voice smooth as oil. “You look better than I expected. The tabloids painted you as a wreck.”
I keep my tone even. “They’re not wrong. But wreckage can still be rebuilt.”
He smirks. “That why I’m here? To help you rebuild?”
“Something like that.” I gesture to the table I set up—a single folder resting on top. “Let’s talk business.”
He circles the table before sitting, gaze flicking to the folder. “You always did like theatrics.”
“I learned from the best.”
He chuckles softly. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”
“It’s not.”
His eyes narrow. “What’s this really about?”
“Survival,” I say. “You’re cornered. Z-Core’s collapsing. Your assets are frozen. The board’s defecting, and the feds have enough to start digging into Eden’s archives but there’s a way out, for both of us.”
I slide the folder toward him. Inside are forged account records and offshore routing slips, enough to look like a backdoor escape plan. He flips through them, silent.
“I know how to move the money,” I say. “How to hide it. Clean. No trace. You get your freedom, and I get something in return, Eden’s real files. The research you buried with Elia.”
Stanley closes the folder. “You expect me to believe you’re suddenly in the business of saving me?”
“I expect you to believe I hate being broke more than I hate you.”
He studies me for a long moment. Then he smiles, the patronizing kind that used to make me want to break his jaw. “Ah. There’s the Dominic I remember. Ruthless. Pragmatic. Finally tired of playing the martyr.”
“Call it clarity.”
He leans back, folding his hands. “You want Eden’s files. Why?”
“Because I deserve to know the truth.”
He tilts his head. “You still think Elia was innocent, don’t you?”
“She was used. You, the board, everyone around her fed on her guilt. She tried to leave, and you made her vanish.”
He sighs, almost disappointed. “You still don’t get it. Elia wasn’t a victim. She ran because she couldn’t face what she’d done. She wasn’t the savior you made her into. She was leverage. That’s all she ever was.”
My pulse spikes. The wire buzzes faintly, feedback from the signal. I force myself to breathe, to stay calm.
“Leverage for what?” I ask.
“For power,” he says simply. “Eden wasn’t about resurrection,it was about control. Conscious replication. And she was proof it worked.”
He smiles like a man confessing to art, not crime. “When she begged to disappear, she gave me her final gift: silence. I just… used it.”
“Used it to destroy me,” I say quietly.
He shrugs. “Collateral damage.”
I glance down, tapping my fingers against the table, a subtle signal. The agents will know the code: He confessed.
“You could still walk away,” I say. “If you hand me the archive, I’ll make sure what’s left of your empire doesn’t get shredded by the press.”
He laughs softly. “You’re bargaining with ashes. Do you even know who you’re dealing with? The government will fold before they touch me.”
He stands, pacing. “Eden has partners in every corner of this country, politicians, investors, scientists. They’ll bury the truth before they bury me.”
I rise too, keeping my hands visible. “Then let’s make sure they have something to bury.”
He turns sharply. “What are you…”
The doors crash open.
Voices cut through the echo: “FBI! Hands where we can see them!”
Agents flood the warehouse, flashlights slicing through the dim light. Stanley freezes, eyes wide. Then he looks at me.
“You son of a…”
“Stanley ” an agent barks, stepping forward with a badge raised. “You are under arrest for conspiracy, fraud, and embezzlement. You have the right to remain silent…”
Stanley lunges toward me, fury twisting his face. “You think this saves you? You think they won’t tear you apart next?”
Two agents pin him against the table, forcing his arms behind his back. Papers scatter across the floor like white ash.
“You wore a wire,” he spits. “Did Liana put you up to this? Or was this your redemption fantasy?”
I stare at him, calm now. “No one put me up to it. You did. Every lie, every life you ruined—this is yours, Stanley. I’m just the echo.”
They drag him toward the exit. He twists, shouting as they push him into the flood of blue lights outside. “You think you’ve won, Dominic! You think this ends me? You have no idea how deep it goes!” The metal door slams shut behind him.
For a while, I just stand there, the echo of his voice still bouncing off the walls. The agents move around me, packing evidence, snapping photos, muttering into radios but it all feels far away, like I’m underwater.
Agent Carter approaches, pulling off his headset. “That was clean. We’ve got the confession, and the file you planted sealed the bait. He’s finished.”
“Good.”
He studies me for a second. “You okay?”
I nod, though I’m not sure it’s true. “Yeah. Just… done.”
Carter offers a small smile. “You did the right thing.”
When he leaves, I sit on the edge of the table. The wind slips through the broken windows, carrying the sound of sirens fading into the distance.
It should feel like victory but it doesn’t. It feels… hollow. Because no matter how many men in suits go down, Elia’s still gone. 
The years she lost, the truth she carried, none of it comes back. And I can’t shake her voice from that recording: “I want out. Let me go.” Maybe now, finally, she can rest. Maybe I can too.
Outside, the night air is cold and clean. The agents are loading Stanley into the back of a car, his wrists bound, his glare venomous. Cameras flash from the street beyond the barricade, reporters shouting questions that dissolve into the wind.
He meets my eyes one last time before the door closes. For the first time, he looks small.