The night of the live broadcast, the air in the studio crackled with a tension thicker than stage smoke. The audience buzzed, a restless sea of faces hungry for drama. They weren’t here for a song. They were here for a confession.
When Lyra’s name was called, she walked out from the wings alone. There was no guitar slung over her shoulder, no piano waiting for her. Just a single microphone standing center stage.
She looked pale under the harsh lights, but her eyes were like steel. As she walked, a wave of sound washed over her—a chaotic mix of hushed murmurs, sympathetic applause, and scattered, ugly boos.
The host, a man with a practiced, compassionate smile, met her at the microphone.
“Lyra,” he said, his voice resonating through the silent theater. “There’s been a lot of speculation this week. The producers have allowed you this time. Is there anything you’d like to say?”
Lyra nodded once. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t look at the judges or the audience. She turned her face directly to the main camera, the one broadcasting her image into millions of homes across the nation.
She knew Caspian would be watching. She knew Isolde would be watching.
Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet but carried an undeniable weight. It cut through the ambient noise, commanding absolute silence.
“There are stories going around about a choice I supposedly made,” she began, her hands gripping the microphone stand. “About a hospital visit. And I need to tell you the truth.”
A ripple of anticipation went through the crowd. This was it.
Lyra took a steadying breath. “The story that I had an abortion to hurt my ex-husband is a lie.”
A sudden burst of noise erupted from the audience—gasps, shouts, applause. The host held up a hand for silence. The cameras remained fixed on Lyra’s face.
She paused, letting the denial hang in the air, letting it land. Then, she prepared for the final blow. The truth that would change everything.
Her voice trembled, but it did not break. She placed a hand protectively over her stomach, a gesture both subconscious and deliberate.
“It’s a lie because I couldn’t have.”
She took one last, deep, shaky breath, and delivered the words that would detonate the world.
“I didn’t have an abortion… because I am still pregnant with Caspian Hawthorne’s child.”
Absolute, profound, stunned silence.
The entire theater, the crew backstage, the judges at their table—everyone froze. The air solidified. For a single, stretched-out second, the only sound was the hum of the studio lights.
Then, the silence shattered. A collective gasp, an explosion of chaotic noise as ten thousand minds processed the impossible. Shouts. Screams. The host’s jaw was slack, his professional composure utterly broken.
Back in the control room, a producer screamed, “Cut! Cut to commercial, now!”
The broadcast feed abruptly switched to a car commercial, but the last image sent across the country was Lyra’s face. A portrait of raw terror, and a small, shining glimmer of relief.
The bomb had been dropped.
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