Back on the set of `Starlight Serenade`, Lyra felt a subtle shift in the atmosphere. The open hostility had receded, replaced by a wary neutrality. Julian Croft’s simple act of professional courtesy had been a signal to the others. It didn’t make her popular, but it made her a peer again.
As she worked through a difficult bridge in her new song, Julian approached, not with a water bottle, but with a suggestion.
“The chord progression there,” he said, pointing to her sheet music. “If you shift to a minor seventh, it’ll give the lyric more weight. Just a thought.”
He wasn’t being condescending. He was treating her like a fellow artist. The gesture was a powerful anchor, steadying her in the storm of public opinion. For the first time in weeks, she felt the ground beneath her feet. “Thank you, Julian. I’ll try that.”
Miles away, in her pristine white hospital room, Isolde Finch felt completely secure. The public adored her. Caspian was a devoted puppet, calling every few hours to check on her, his voice thick with a guilt she had manufactured.
A camera crew was setting up for a live interview, another chance to cement her status as the nation’s tragic heroine.
“I just feel so blessed,” Isolde said later, a single, perfect tear tracing a path down her cheek for the national audience. “Caspian has been my rock. And it reminds me… it reminds me of all the kindness I’ve seen. Even years ago, during another health scare, I had this loyal old caregiver. A wonderful woman. She was with me day and night.”
She smiled sadly at the camera, painting a portrait of a life marked by quiet suffering and gentle fragility. “It’s people like that, like Caspian, who give me the strength to fight.”
In his safe house, Caspian froze, the television remote clattering to the floor. He stared at Isolde’s beatific face, a cold dread mixing with a surge of adrenaline.
Across the city, Zara, watching the same broadcast in her office between patients, sat bolt upright in her chair.
Isolde, in her breathtaking arrogance, had just made a fatal mistake. She had given them their target. She had dangled the thread that could unravel everything.
Caspian was already on the phone to Marcus Thorne. “Find her,” he commanded, his voice a low, urgent growl. “Find the name of every caregiver Isolde Finch has ever employed. Start with five years ago. I want the one she just mentioned on television. Now.”
The Joint Operation had its first lead. And their enemy had delivered it herself.
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