Caspian Hawthorne was scrolling through financial reports on his tablet, a glass of scotch on the table beside him. Isolde was sleeping peacefully in the master suite, her “brave” battle with cancer exhausting her. He scowled as a trending topics banner popped up, interrupting his work. `Starlight Serenade`. Frivolous nonsense.
He was about to dismiss it when a thumbnail image caught his eye. A woman with familiar, haunted eyes holding a guitar.
He clicked.
The video clip loaded, and Lyra’s voice filled the quiet study. He watched her performance, the shock quickly curdling into a deep, profound irritation. How dare she? How dare she put their private life, their tragedy, on a public stage for applause and sympathy?
“What are you watching, darling?”
Isolde stood in the doorway, wrapped in a silk robe, the very picture of fragile beauty. She glided over to him, her eyes falling on the screen. Her face crumpled with a perfectly crafted expression of hurt.
“Is that… Lyra?” she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, Caspian. Is she singing about you? About us?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. “How could she be so cruel? To use our pain for fame, while I’m here fighting for my life… It’s monstrous.”
Isolde masterfully reframed Lyra’s art into a vicious, attention-seeking attack. Caspian’s irritation hardened into self-righteous anger. Of course. Lyra had always been cool and distant. This was just another example of her selfishness.
“We can’t let her control the narrative,” Isolde said, her voice gaining a steely edge beneath the veneer of sorrow. “People need to know the truth. They need to know what a saint you’ve been, what we’ve been enduring.”
She already had a plan. An exclusive interview with a sympathetic journalist she knew. It would be a chance for Caspian to speak about her bravery, to promote `The Finch Foundation` she had started. A chance to set the record straight.
Days later, they sat in their living room, the lighting soft, the journalist nodding with practiced empathy. Isolde, pale and poised, spoke of hope and courage. Caspian spoke of his devotion, of the strength it took to stand by the one you love in their darkest hour.
The journalist turned to him. “This must be incredibly difficult, especially coming so soon after the dissolution of your marriage.”
Caspian took his cue, his gaze firm and resolute. He glanced at Isolde, a protector defending his charge.
“Isolde’s grace is my inspiration,” he said, his voice resonating with conviction. “I only wish others could show such grace. Some people choose the spotlight over loyalty, even when a family is in crisis.”
The implication was a dagger, sharp and expertly thrown. It landed exactly where Isolde intended.
About the Author
