The stage lights were a brilliant, searing white. The host of `Starlight Serenade` held the final envelope, a thin rectangle of paper that contained a universe of possibilities. He smiled, a practiced, perfect television smile that reached every camera.
“And the winner of this season of `Starlight Serenade` is…”
A drumroll, synthesized and thunderous, filled the studio.
In the front row, Isolde Finch tapped a perfectly manicured nail against her knee. She was a vision of tragic grace, her expression a careful blend of anticipation for her friend and the serene weariness of a beautiful martyr. The cameras loved her. They always did.
“…Lyra Hawthorne!”
The name detonated in the air. The applause was not polite; it was a roar, a tidal wave of genuine adoration that shook the floor. People were on their feet.
Isolde’s smile tightened by a fraction of a millimeter. A flicker of annoyance, quickly suppressed. She joined the ovation, clapping with delicate, measured grace, her gaze fixed on the stage where Lyra now stood, bathed in light.
Lyra’s acceptance was brief. Her voice, clear and steady, held no tremor. She thanked the show, the fans, her friend Zara. There was a quiet strength in her, a finality. She had already won her war before this trophy was ever announced.
As the applause began to subside, the host held up a hand. “Don’t go anywhere! Before we sign off, we have one more special presentation.”
He read from the teleprompter, his voice smooth and resonant. The words scrolled up, fed directly from a laptop in a van parked two blocks away.
“A tribute to the bravery of a woman who has become an inspiration to us all… a true fighter in every sense of the word. Please, a round of applause for the incredible Isolde Finch.”
A single, brilliant spotlight swung from the stage and landed squarely on Isolde.
This was it. Her moment. She inclined her head, a small, humble gesture of acknowledgment that she had practiced in the mirror. She could feel the heat of the light, the adoration of millions. She offered the cameras a soft, courageous smile. This tribute, Caspian had promised, would solidify her place in the public’s heart forever.
The massive screen behind the stage, where Lyra had just performed, lit up. It was meant to show a montage of her charity work, her brave interviews, her unwavering smile in the face of death.
But the screen flickered.
Once. Twice.
Then it resolved. The image was not soft. It was not a tribute. It was the hard-edged, blue-and-white graphic of a major network’s flagship investigative program.
Bold, block letters filled the screen, fifty feet high.
SPECIAL REPORT: THE DECEPTION.
Isolde’s smile froze. It did not fade; it simply locked in place, a grotesque mask of joy.
A low murmur rippled through the audience. Confusion. The celebratory atmosphere curdled, replaced by a tense, uncertain silence.
Isolde’s eyes darted to the wings, searching for Caspian. He was supposed to be there, waiting to come out and embrace her after the video.
He was not there.
The screen flickered again, and the face of a famously relentless investigative journalist appeared. He looked directly into the camera, his expression grim.
“Good evening,” his voice boomed through the studio speakers. “Tonight, we have a story about a lie. A lie that captivated a nation, defrauded the generous, and destroyed lives.”
The trap was sprung. The steel jaws were shut. And Isolde Finch was right in the center of it.
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