The blue light of the tablet painted Isolde Finch’s face in a sickly, artificial glow. Her hospital room was a cage of quiet luxury, but the silence was no longer peaceful. It was the sound of absence. Caspian’s absence.
He hadn’t been here in hours. A curt text message was all she’d received. Meeting. Urgent.
She scrolled through the news feeds, her thumb swiping with sharp, angry movements. Lyra’s pregnancy reveal had dominated the cycle for days. The initial shock had given way to a messy, divided public. Some called Lyra a manipulative homewrecker. But others, far too many others, saw a tragic heroine. A woman betrayed, fighting for her unborn child.
Sympathy. They were giving Lyra sympathy.
Isolde’s grip on the tablet tightened. It wasn’t enough. The narrative was slipping, twisting into something she couldn’t control. She had painted Lyra as barren and cold, a lie Caspian had swallowed whole. Now, that foundational lie was exposed, and with it, the first real crack in his devotion had appeared.
He looked at her differently now. The blind adoration was gone, replaced by a cool, watchful distance. He was asking questions she couldn’t answer, remembering things she’d hoped he’d forgotten.
Another lie wouldn’t fix this. Not a simple one. It had to be bigger. More visceral.
She needed to be the victim again. Not a victim of circumstance or a broken heart. A physical victim. The public, and more importantly Caspian, had to be so horrified on her behalf that all suspicion would be incinerated in a blaze of protective fury.
The risk was enormous. But the alternative—losing him completely—was unthinkable. Desperation was a potent fuel. It burned away caution, leaving only the grim necessity of action.
She closed the news app and swiped to her contacts, selecting a number with no name attached. The burner phone felt cold and illicit in her hand. She pressed it to her ear, her heart hammering against her ribs.
It was answered on the second ring. A low, gravelly voice. “Yes?”
“It’s time,” Isolde said, her own voice a low whisper. “The plan we discussed. The final contingency.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Are you sure? This is a different level.”
“I am sure,” she snapped, the words sharp with finality. “Tomorrow morning. When I leave for the Finch Foundation photo op. The entrance will be swarmed with press. That’s the stage.”
She gave the instructions with chilling precision. A shove. A fall. Not enough to cause real harm, but enough to look brutal on camera. He was to disguise himself, something nondescript, but his words had to be clear.
“You will scream her name,” Isolde commanded. “Make them hear it. ‘This is for Lyra.’ Something like that. Make it undeniable.”
“Security will be on me in a second.”
“That’s the point,” she said. “They tackle you, you struggle, the cameras capture it all. You’ll be a deranged fan, and I’ll be the dying woman attacked in her name.”
A long silence stretched. She could hear his breathing, the faint sound of traffic in his background.
“The payment will be doubled,” she added, the final lever.
“I’ll be there,” he said. The line went dead.
Isolde lowered the phone, her knuckles white. A wave of terror washed over her, so potent it made her dizzy. She had just set in motion a criminal conspiracy. A public, violent, and irreversible act.
But then, a grim smile touched her lips. The terror receded, replaced by the cold, exhilarating thrill of a gambler pushing all her chips to the center of the table. Let them feel sympathy for Lyra now. By tomorrow, they would be calling for her blood.
And Caspian would come running back to save her. He always did.
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