A new melody drifted through the small apartment, soft and hesitant. Lyra sat with her guitar, her fingers finding a chord progression that felt less like pain and more like the quiet strength of a lone tree against the wind.
It wasn’t a song of heartbreak, not like “Glass House.” This was different. It was the sound of survival. A quiet anthem for the woman she was becoming, not the one she had been. The music was a small, private space where she could simply be. A mother. An artist. Herself.
She hummed along, a gentle smile touching her lips. One note at a time.
***
Hours bled into the night. Zara’s eyes burned from the screen’s glare as she navigated the labyrinth of online legal archives. She searched for Finch’s name, filtering by year, by county, by keyword. For every dead end, her resolve hardened.
Then she found it.
Finch v. Doe. Seven years ago. A malpractice suit.
The details were sparse, but the outcome screamed from the page. “Case Dismissed with Prejudice Following Private Settlement.” All associated records were sealed by judicial order.
It was the reddest of red flags. You didn’t seal a frivolous lawsuit. You sealed a case to bury a truth so damaging that the payout for silence was worth any price. It was proof of nothing, and yet, it was evidence of everything. Dr. Finch had a history of making problems disappear.
***
“I think you should get a second opinion,” Caspian said the next morning. He kept his tone level, framing it as an act of love. “Someone at University Hospital, perhaps. I just want to be sure we’re doing everything possible.”
Isolde’s teacup clattered against its saucer. Her face, moments before a mask of gentle suffering, contorted into a snarl of fury.
“A second opinion?” she spat, her voice venomous. “You don’t trust Dr. Finch? You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not about trust, Isolde. It’s about being thorough.”
“It’s always about trust!” she shot back, rising to her feet. “After everything I am going through, you stand there and question the one person who has given me hope? How could you be so cruel?”
Her reaction was a confession. It was wild, disproportionate, the panic of a con artist whose mark was finally checking the fine print. He had his answer. The entire foundation of his past year was a lie.
***
Later, Isolde locked herself in her bedroom. The subtle manipulations were failing. The vague symptoms and emotional appeals weren’t working. He was pulling away, she could feel it. His doubt was a physical presence in the room, cold and suffocating.
She took a steadying breath, her reflection in the vanity mirror looking back at her, pale and determined. She picked up her phone and dialed a number.
“It’s me,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “He’s pulling away. We need to accelerate the timeline.”
A pause.
“Tonight,” she commanded. “Make the call when it’s done.”
About the Author
