The video of Dr. Finch’s confession ended. The special report was over.
The massive screen behind the stage went black.
For a full ten seconds, the only sound in the cavernous studio was Isolde’s ragged, heaving breaths. The silence was absolute, a crushing weight. Every eye was on her. Every camera lens was a merciless, unblinking judge.
Then, a new movement.
From the shadows of the wings, two uniformed police officers emerged. They were followed by a man in a plain, dark suit—a detective. They did not rush. They walked down the main aisle with a calm, deliberate purpose, their footsteps echoing in the horrifying quiet.
They walked directly to the front row. Directly to Isolde.
The audience parted before them like water. Isolde watched them approach, her rage collapsing back into a whimpering, animal fear. There was nowhere left to run.
The detective leaned down, his voice low, inaudible to the microphones but his intent perfectly clear. He spoke a few words, then gently took her by the arm. He helped her to her feet as one of the uniformed officers produced a pair of handcuffs.
The metallic click was sickeningly loud in the silent studio.
“Isolde Finch,” the detective’s voice was now audible as he spoke for the record, for the cameras, for the world. “You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit fraud and multiple counts of wire fraud.”
“No,” she whimpered, the fight draining out of her. “No, you can’t.”
She began to struggle again as they turned to lead her away, a pathetic, last-ditch effort. She spat accusations, naming Caspian, naming Lyra, her voice cracking with desperation. “She did this! That jealous whore did this to me!”
The cameras followed her every move. They captured the undignified struggle, the tear-streaked face, the raw, pathetic venom. They documented the complete and total destruction of Isolde Finch.
From the backstage entrance, shielded by Zara’s protective presence, Lyra watched for a single moment. She saw the flashing lights, the struggling figure being escorted up the aisle she had just walked down in triumph.
She felt no joy. No satisfaction. Not even a sliver of vindication.
There was only a profound, weary sadness. A deep, aching pity for a soul so empty it had to be filled with lies.
Her battle was won weeks ago, in the quiet of her apartment, with a pen and a blank sheet of paper. Her victory was the song she had just sung. Her name.
This… this was just the consequence.
Lyra turned away from the spectacle, her hand resting protectively on her stomach. She didn’t need to see the end of Isolde’s story.
She was finally ready to begin her own.
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