The silence was a physical thing. It crashed down upon the studio, a deafening vacuum where the thunderous applause had been only seconds before.
For Elara, standing in the white-hot center of a million gazes, the world dissolved into a sickening, slow-motion blur.
The monstrous headline on the screen behind the judges was an accusation seared onto her retinas. Terminate Pregnancy. Tragic Affair. Cold-Hearted Revenge.
Her carefully constructed composure, the armor she had forged in the fire of Julian’s betrayal, shattered into a million pieces.
The microphone felt impossibly heavy in her hand. Her breath hitched, a strangled sob caught in her throat.
The faces in the crowd warped into a grotesque tableau of shock, pity, and accusation.
This wasn’t just an attack; it was an annihilation. Seraphina hadn’t just exposed a secret; she had twisted it into the ugliest weapon imaginable, painting Elara as a monster in her own moment of triumph.
Before the show’s host could stammer his way to her side for a live, on-air comment, a figure rose from the judges’ table. It was Marcus Thorne.
With a look of cold fury that silenced the producers squawking in his earpiece, he strode onto the stage. He ignored the cameras, his focus entirely on Elara.
He gently took the microphone from her trembling hand and put a steadying arm around her shoulders.
“The show is over for tonight,” he announced, his voice a low growl that resonated with absolute authority through the studio.
He turned to the other judges. “And if this network has a single shred of decency, they will cut this broadcast immediately.” He shielded Elara from the cameras with his own body and guided her off the stage, away from the prying eyes and the suffocating silence.
The last thing Elara saw before the darkness of the backstage corridor enveloped her was the headline, still burning on the screen, a monument to her public execution.
Miles away, in the sterile quiet of his mansion, Julian Croft watched the entire scene unfold on his 80-inch television.
He had been flipping through channels, a restless energy coursing through him since his confrontation with Elara, when he’d landed on “A-Side.”
He’d watched her performance, a confusing storm of emotions swirling within him—annoyance at her defiance, a grudging respect for her talent, and a strange, unfamiliar pang of… pride.
She was magnificent. Then the headline had appeared.
The glass of scotch in his hand slipped, shattering on the marble floor. He didn’t notice. The words on the screen seemed to rearrange the very structure of his reality.
Pregnancy. Elara was pregnant. He was going to be a father. The thought was a seismic shock, a life-altering revelation delivered by a gossip network.
Then the rest of the words registered. Terminate. She had been going to the hospital to end the pregnancy. His child.
He felt a sudden, violent lurch in his gut, a mix of rage, betrayal, and a deep, hollow ache he couldn’t name. And then, the final piece: Tragic Affair.
They were talking about him. About Seraphina.
The public narrative wasn’t just about Elara; it was about him. He was the villain, the cheating husband whose actions had driven his wife to this desperate, horrific decision. His mind reeled.
The carefully controlled world of Julian Croft, built on power, reputation, and public perception, was imploding on live television.
In her penthouse, Seraphina held a glass of champagne, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. It had worked more perfectly than she could have ever imagined.
The investigator had delivered the information, and she had leaked it to “The Insider” with a carefully crafted narrative.
She had not only destroyed Elara’s career before it could even begin, but she had also painted her as a vindictive, unstable woman. She watched Elara’s face crumble on screen and took a slow, satisfying sip.
Julian would see this. He would see how unstable Elara was, how she had kept this secret from him, how she had planned to destroy a part of him.
He would come running back to her, to the calm, loving, dying woman who would never cause such a scene. She had won.
Backstage, Marcus had ushered Elara into his private dressing room, locking the door behind them.
The distant sounds of chaos still filtered through, but in here, there was a fragile peace. He handed her a bottle of water.
“Drink,” he said gently. “Breathe.”
Elara sank onto a sofa, wrapping her arms around her stomach, a protective, instinctual gesture. “He knows,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “The whole world knows.”
“The world knows a lie,” Marcus corrected, his voice firm. “A vicious, calculated lie. Elara…”
He paused, his expression softening.
“I need to tell you. I suspected who you were from the moment I heard your demo. Your father’s gift… it lives in you. I was just waiting for you to be ready to claim it.”
He knelt in front of her, his eyes, so full of wisdom and kindness, meeting hers. “Richard Vance was the strongest man I ever knew. You are his daughter. This will not break you.”
His words were an anchor in the storm. She was not just Luna, the disgraced contestant.
She was not just Elara Croft, the scorned wife. She was Elara Vance. And the fight, she realized with a dawning, steely resolve, was far from over.
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