The television was a low murmur in the background of Zara’s apartment, another talking head dissecting the Hawthorne drama. Lyra traced the rim of her mug of herbal tea, trying to breathe through the knot of anxiety in her chest. Every headline, every speculative comment, felt like a small, sharp stone hurled directly at her.
“You need to stop watching this,” Zara said, her voice firm as she took the remote and muted the screen. “It’s poison.”
“I know, but I feel like I have to,” Lyra murmured. “If I don’t know what they’re saying, how can I fight it?”
“You fight it on stage at `Starlight Serenade`. You fight it by taking care of yourself and this baby.” Zara placed a hand on Lyra’s arm, a small point of warmth and stability in the churning chaos. “Let the world be noisy. In here, we’re going to be quiet.”
Lyra managed a weak smile, but before she could reply, the television screen flared to life with a “BREAKING NEWS” banner. The sound came back on, loud and frantic.
“We are coming to you live from outside St. Jude’s Medical Center,” a reporter said, her voice strained over the sounds of shouting and sirens, “where Isolde Finch, fiancée of billionaire Caspian Hawthorne, has just been attacked.”
Lyra’s blood ran cold. She and Zara stared, frozen, at the chaotic footage. Paparazzi cameras flashed like strobes, illuminating a scene of pure pandemonium. Security guards were pinning a man to the ground. Isolde was on the pavement, being helped to her feet by a frantic-looking nurse, her face a mask of terror.
“Witnesses say the assailant, who appears to be a supporter of Lyra Hawthorne, shoved Ms. Finch to the ground while screaming the singer’s name,” the reporter continued, her voice breathless with the scoop.
“No,” Lyra whispered. “No, that’s not possible.”
Zara leaned closer to the screen, her expression hardening into one of deep, immediate suspicion. “Look at that fall, Lyra. It’s theatrical. And how convenient that every camera in the city was right there to capture it.”
But Lyra could barely hear her. All she could see was the news ticker scrolling relentlessly across the bottom of the screen: LYRA HAWTHORNE FAN ATTACKS AILING ISOLDE FINCH.
The words slammed into her with physical force. It was a lie. It had to be a lie. But it was a perfect, venomous lie, designed to destroy everything she had clawed back for herself. The public sympathy, the support from `Starlight Serenade`, the fragile sense of safety she had built—all of it was turning to ash.
A sharp, cramping pain sliced through her abdomen.
She gasped, her hand flying to her stomach. The fear for her baby, a constant, dull ache, sharpened into sheer panic. The stress. The doctors had warned her about the stress.
“Zara,” she choked out, her vision tunneling.
“I’m here,” Zara said instantly, her focus shifting from the screen to Lyra’s pale face. She guided Lyra to the sofa, her movements calm and professional despite the fury in her eyes. “Breathe with me, Lyra. Deep breaths. It’s a setup. A disgusting, transparent setup, and we will fight it.”
On the television, Isolde was being carefully guided back into the hospital, playing the part of the fragile victim to perfection. The narrative had flipped in an instant. The public wouldn’t see a setup. They would see a sick woman, assaulted.
And they would see Lyra as the monster who inspired it.
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