Isolde Finch felt the warmth of the stage lights on her face and smiled. In the electric hum of the commercial break, she felt utterly invincible. The front-row seat was a throne, and the adoring glances from the audience were her due.
She scrolled through her phone, the screen illuminating her perfectly composed features. The social media page for `The Finch Foundation` was a torrent of praise. So brave. An inspiration. A true survivor. Each comment was a jewel in the crown she had so carefully fashioned for herself.
Lyra’s pathetic song had been the dying cry of a forgotten woman. A sad, little whimper before the end. It only made her own story shine brighter.
A young woman with a headset and a clipboard approached, her expression one of deep respect. “Ms. Finch?”
Isolde looked up, her smile softening into something beatific and kind. “Yes?”
“Caspian wanted me to confirm with you personally,” the production assistant said, her voice hushed with importance. “We have a special tribute planned for your bravery, right after the winner is announced. He wanted it to be a surprise.”
The words landed like a benediction. Of course he had. This was the culmination of everything. The ultimate proof of his devotion, played out for millions to witness. She could already see it: the host’s voice thick with emotion, the slow pan across her tear-streaked, courageous face, the thunderous standing ovation. It was the perfect, final validation. The public coronation she had engineered from the very beginning.
“Thank you,” Isolde said, her voice a delicate whisper. “That’s… very thoughtful.”
The assistant nodded and scurried away. Isolde’s gaze drifted toward the stage. In the wings, she caught a fleeting glimpse of Lyra walking toward the backstage area, her shoulders straight, her expression placid.
Isolde smirked. She saw the quiet resignation of the defeated. The pathetic peace of a woman who had finally accepted she had lost everything.
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