The headlines burned on the screen, a digital pyre built just for her. Hawthorne Ex Emerges as Bitter Songstress. Cold Wife Abandons Dying Woman’s Lover.
Zara scrolled through the comments, her mouth a thin, angry line. “They’re animals, Lyra. Vicious.”
Lyra stared at the words, each one a tiny, poisoned dart. A dull ache spread through her chest, familiar and cold. The public narrative Caspian had so carefully crafted was working perfectly. She was the villain.
Instead of tears, a strange, brittle fury began to form in her veins. The grief was still there, a hollow space inside her, but it was freezing over, turning to ice.
“He doesn’t get to write my story,” she said, her voice quiet but sharp. “Not this time.”
She stood, leaving Zara with the glowing screen of lies, and walked to the small keyboard in the corner of the apartment. Her fingers found the keys, the cool plastic a familiar comfort.
She didn’t think. She let the pain flow.
The music came first, a melody that felt like walking through a beautiful, empty museum. Then the words. She wrote of a house made of glass, where every moment was a performance. A place of stunning architecture and stretching shadows, but no warmth.
She wrote about a promise made not to her, but to an audience of one. A duty fulfilled for the sake of `Eleanora Hawthorne`. The lyrics never spoke his name, but Caspian was in every chord, in every carefully chosen word that painted a portrait of a gilded cage.
Hours later, Zara found her there, the first light of dawn graying the window.
“Play it for me,” Zara said softly.
Lyra took a breath and began. The song filled the small room, raw and heartbreaking. It was an accusation wrapped in a lament, a story of profound loneliness disguised as a fairy tale.
When the final note faded, there was only silence. Zara’s eyes were shining.
“That,” Zara whispered, “is how you fight back.”
She reached for the blood pressure cuff on the end table. A familiar routine. “This is good, Lyra. This is powerful. But you have to remember the stakes.” She wrapped the cuff around Lyra’s arm. “Winning this war means staying healthy enough to fight it.”
The cuff tightened, a steady, rhythmic pressure. A reminder of the tiny, secret life she was protecting.
Lyra nodded, her gaze fixed on the keyboard. Her resolve was no longer just about survival. It was about truth.
She had her weapon now.
About the Author
