The taxi left her on the curb with a single suitcase and a worn guitar case. Lyra looked up at the brick walk-up, a world away from the cold marble facade of the Hawthorne mansion. This was Zara Ali’s building. This was her new life.
Each step up the three flights of stairs was a conscious effort, a severing. The air in the hallway smelled of garlic and lemon-scented cleaner, real and grounding. When the door opened, Zara pulled her into a fierce, protective hug.
“You’re here,” Zara said, her voice a mixture of relief and fury. “You’re safe.”
The apartment was small, but light poured through the large windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. It was filled with books and plants and the comfortable clutter of a life well-lived. It was warm. It was a home, not a showroom.
“Let’s get you settled,” Zara commanded, already slipping into doctor mode. She led Lyra to a small, spare bedroom. “Sit.”
Lyra obeyed, sinking onto the edge of the mattress as Zara wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her arm. The familiar hiss and squeeze were a comfort.
“Pressure’s a little high, but that’s to be expected,” Zara murmured, jotting a note on a pad. She handed Lyra a glass of water and two pills. “Prenatals. And you need to rest. No arguments. The first trimester is the most fragile, especially with your Rh-negative blood type.”
Lyra nodded, swallowing the vitamins. She knew Zara was right. The spotting she’d experienced after the confrontation at St. Jude’s Medical Center had terrified her.
Zara’s gaze softened. “This is a safe harbor, Ly. No one can touch you here.”
Alone in the room, Lyra opened her suitcase. The few clothes she’d brought seemed like relics from another person’s life. At the bottom, wrapped in a silk scarf, was a small silver frame. A photo of her and Caspian, taken a month after their wedding. They were smiling, his arm draped easily around her shoulders. A wave of grief, sharp and suffocating, crashed over her.
She remembered his promise that day, to always be her shield.
The grief receded, leaving behind the cold, hard anger that was becoming her new companion. He hadn’t just broken a promise; he had become the threat.
Lyra took the frame and placed it face down in the bottom of a dresser drawer, burying it beneath a sweater. Out of sight.
She sat at the small desk and opened her laptop. The `Starlight Serenade` contract filled the screen. For a moment, stark fear seized her. The stress, the lights, the public eye—how could she possibly handle it, carrying this fragile secret inside her?
The door creaked open. Zara stood there, holding two mugs of tea. She saw the hesitation on Lyra’s face, the cursor hovering over the ‘decline’ button.
“Don’t you dare,” Zara said softly, setting a mug beside her. “Before you were Mrs. Hawthorne, you were a girl with a guitar. That music is the truest thing you have. It was your voice before he ever tried to take it away.”
Zara’s words hit their mark. The music was hers. It was the one part of her soul Caspian had never managed to touch, to own.
Her hand moved to the trackpad. Bolstered, she clicked. A digital signature bloomed across the bottom of the page.
Contract signed. There was no turning back.
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