The air in the rehearsal studio was thick with a silence aimed directly at her. Every whispered conversation stopped the moment Lyra entered the room. Every pair of eyes either slid away or hardened with judgment. They saw her and saw the headlines: the scorned wife, the bitter rival, the woman whose crazed fans attacked a dying saint.
She ignored it. She had to.
Lyra walked to her designated corner, clutching her lyric sheets. The paper was a shield. Her voice was her only weapon. She took a deep breath, preparing to run through her scales, but the sound died in her throat as another contestant loudly recounted a sympathetic news segment about Isolde’s bravery.
The public’s hatred was a physical weight, pressing down on her chest. The stress of it was a constant, dull ache, a reminder of the fragile life she fought to protect.
A producer, a harried man who had once been friendly, approached her with a clipboard held like a barrier. “Sanford. Schedule change.”
He didn’t use her first name. No one did anymore.
“Your rehearsal slot has been moved,” he said, his tone flat. “You’re on last tonight. After the crew clears out.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a punishment. Pushed to the dregs of the schedule, isolated even further. Lyra simply nodded, the fight to argue long since drained from her. “Okay.”
He grunted and walked away, already focused on a more popular, less controversial performer. Lyra watched him go, feeling the familiar chill of being utterly alone.
She sank onto a nearby equipment case, the noise of the room fading into a meaningless buzz. This was her life now. A ghost haunting the edges of a competition she was somehow still a part of. The small surge of support from the #ListenToLyra hashtag felt a million miles away.
Then, a shadow fell over her.
She looked up to see Julian Croft, a veteran musician whose quiet professionalism had earned him universal respect on set. He was her direct competition, a favorite to win, and he had never spoken a word to her before.
He held out a bottle of water.
Lyra stared at it, then at his face. His expression was unreadable, not pitying, not accusatory. It was just… calm. She hesitated, her mind racing through a dozen possible angles, a dozen ways this could be a trap.
He nudged the bottle toward her again. “Don’t let them get to you,” he said, his voice low and even, meant only for her. “The story doesn’t add up.”
The words were simple. They were everything.
She took the water, her fingers brushing his. The plastic was cool and solid in her hand. “Thank you,” she whispered, the words feeling foreign.
Julian gave a short, professional nod. He didn’t linger. He didn’t offer a speech or demand an explanation. He simply turned and walked back to his own rehearsal space, leaving her with the bottle of water and the first crack of light she’d seen in days.
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