“You need to see this.”
Zara’s voice was grim. She turned her laptop toward Lyra, an interview already playing on the screen. Lyra watched, her teacup frozen halfway to her lips, as Caspian’s face filled the frame. His words, so full of righteous indignation, hit her harder than any private cruelty he’d ever shown.
Some people choose the spotlight over loyalty.
The public betrayal was a deeper, more vicious cut. He wasn’t just erasing her; he was rewriting their history, painting her as a monster to sanctify his new life.
Zara scrolled down. The comments section was a torrent of poison.
“What a cold-hearted witch. Her husband’s new love is DYING and she goes on a singing show?”
“I knew there was something off about her. All that fake pain for attention.”
“Caspian Hawthorne is a saint for putting up with her.”
A sharp, violent cramp seized Lyra’s abdomen. She gasped, dropping the mug. It shattered on the floor.
“Lyra!” Zara was instantly in doctor mode, guiding her to the sofa, her hands pressing gently on Lyra’s stomach. “Breathe. Just breathe through it. This is exactly what I was worried about. This level of stress is dangerous.”
The pain was a terrifying reminder of the fragile life she was carrying, the life she was still so unsure about.
Zara’s eyes were blazing with a fury Lyra was too weak to feel. “He has no idea,” she hissed. “He has no idea what you’re going through, what you’re carrying, what you’re fighting for. That man is a fool and a coward.”
Her friend’s anger was an anchor, stopping her from being swept away by the undertow of despair.
Slowly, the cramping subsided, leaving a dull ache in its place. The grief that had threatened to drown her began to recede. In its place, something else rose. Something cold and hard and clear.
Resolve.
Silence was a luxury she could no longer afford. He had drawn the battle lines on a national stage. She would have to meet him there.
Her hands were still shaking slightly as she reached for her guitar. She sat on the edge of the sofa, the shards of the broken mug still on the floor, and placed her fingers on the frets.
Caspian’s public scorn, his calculated cruelty, became a melody. The pain was no longer just a wound.
It was fuel.
She wasn’t just singing for herself anymore. She was singing to survive. And she was singing to fight back.
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