The frantic energy of the performance still thrummed under Lyra’s skin. In the quiet of her dressing room, the silence was a stark contrast to the roar of the crowd that still echoed in her ears.
Zara gently took her wrist, her cool fingers finding the pulse point. “Breathe, Lyra,” she said, her voice calm and steady. “Deep, slow breaths. You did it. Your part is over.”
The simple command anchored her. Zara’s presence was a shield, the clinical gesture a reminder of the fragile life she carried. The high-risk pregnancy was the reality; everything else was just noise.
Lyra’s phone lay on the dressing table, screen lit with Caspian’s last message. I’m sorry for everything. It ends tonight.
She looked at Zara, her brow furrowed. “What did he mean? What’s about to happen?”
Zara’s expression was carefully neutral. She knew everything, but Lyra didn’t need the stress of the operational details. She needed sanctuary. “It means his grandmother is finally cleaning house,” she said, her words chosen with a surgeon’s precision. “Eleanora Hawthorne is handling it. All you need to do is stay here with me, stay calm, and let it pass.”
Eleanora. The name was a fortress. It was enough.
Lyra nodded, a profound sense of detachment settling over her. She had walked through fire on that stage. She had sung her truth, not for the audience or the judges, but for herself. She had taken back her name.
Whatever storm was about to break, it was no longer hers to fight. The battle for her soul was won. This was merely the fallout.
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