The call came while Caspian was in a sterile conference room, reviewing a preliminary dossier on Isolde with Marcus Thorne. The phone buzzed, the screen flashing with the hospital’s main number. His heart seized with a familiar, conditioned panic.
Then he remembered. It was all a performance.
He answered, his voice carefully pitched with alarm. He listened, feigned shock, and promised to be there in ten minutes. He hung up and looked at Marcus, the head of Hawthorne Security.
“Phase two of her plan is in motion,” Caspian said, his voice flat and devoid of the emotion he had just performed. “She’s been ‘attacked.’”
The drive to St. Jude’s was a blur of calculated moves. He ran a red light. He screeched to a halt at the curb, leaving the car door open. He shouldered his way through the media circus, his face a perfect mask of grim fury and concern. He played the part he knew they expected. The part he had played for a year.
The worried fiancé. The protector.
He found Isolde in her room, a doctor fussing over her while she gave a tearful, breathless account to two police officers. Caspian rushed to her side, taking her hand. “Isolde. My God. Are you alright?”
“Caspian,” she sobbed, collapsing against him. “It was horrible. This man… he came out of nowhere. He had this wild look in his eyes. He screamed her name—Lyra’s name—and he just… he pushed me.”
Caspian held her, murmuring soothing words, his mind a cold, silent vault of observation. He was no longer the audience for this play. He was the critic.
Inconsistency one, he noted. She claimed the man pushed her from behind, but the first photo already circulating online showed her turning towards him, her eyes wide, a moment before she fell.
“He shoved me so hard,” she went on, dabbing at her eyes. “I think I sprained my wrist when I landed.” She held up her left wrist for inspection, wincing dramatically.
Inconsistency two. A moment before, she had been gesturing emphatically with that same hand while describing the attacker’s face. There was no sign of pain. No tenderness.
He listened as she embellished the story for the police, adding details about the man’s menacing glare, the terror she felt for her life. The man he was a week ago would have been consumed by a storm of disbelief and rage. He would be hunting down this “fan,” ready to ruin him, to protect Isolde from a world that didn’t understand their love.
The man he was today felt nothing but a profound, chilling certainty. The lie was so insultingly obvious. It wasn’t designed to be scrutinized; it was designed to be broadcast. A spectacle of victimhood for mass consumption.
He had been the primary consumer for so long.
“I’ll handle this,” he told her, his voice low and promising vengeance. He kissed her forehead, the gesture feeling alien and repulsive. “I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
He stepped outside the room as the police were finishing their report. He saw the headlines on a nearby television. He saw the immediate, vicious turn against Lyra.
This wasn’t just about controlling him anymore. This was a direct attack, designed to endanger Lyra, to make her a pariah.
He realized then what he had to do. Her story was built for the cameras that were present. The only way to dismantle it was to see what wasn’t meant to be seen.
He needed the hospital’s security footage. And he would get it tonight.
About the Author
