The feed on Caspian’s main monitor showed the rear of a police car, its lights flashing silently as it pulled away from the studio’s loading dock. Isolde was inside. It was done.
The grim task was complete.
He gave a sharp, single nod to the communications director sitting beside him in the van. The man typed a command and hit enter.
The signal went out.
At precisely 10:05 PM, phones buzzed in pockets and purses across the country. A push notification, sent simultaneously from every major news outlet, lit up millions of screens.
`HAWTHORNE INDUSTRIES ISSUES STATEMENT REGARDING FINCH FOUNDATION FRAUD.`
The press release, penned by Eleanora Hawthorne herself, was a masterpiece of corporate damage control. It was not an excuse; it was a confession and a cauterization. It detailed Caspian’s initial, shameful deception in his support of Isolde Finch. It confirmed he had been the one to bring the evidence to the authorities once he discovered the truth.
It announced his immediate and indefinite leave of absence from all duties at Hawthorne Industries.
And it made a solemn pledge. Hawthorne Industries would personally oversee the dissolution of `The Finch Foundation` and would repay every single dollar defrauded from its donors. With interest. And punitive damages.
It was a controlled demolition, sacrificing the heir to save the dynasty.
Inside the `Starlight Serenade` studio, the producer spoke into his headset. “Cut the live feed. Now. Hand off to the network desk.”
The chaotic, horrified scene inside the theater vanished from the airwaves. It was replaced by the calm, somber face of a veteran news anchor in a quiet studio.
“We are just receiving breaking news,” the anchor began, his voice grave. “In a story that has shocked the entertainment world tonight…”
The narrative was now contained. The story would be told, but it would be told on their terms.
Caspian pushed open the door of the van and stepped out into the cool night air. The distant sirens had faded. The weight of his actions, of the lives he had ruined—Lyra’s, Maria’s, even Isolde’s—settled onto his shoulders like a physical shroud.
He had done what was necessary. He had delivered justice.
But he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that he had no right to approach Lyra. No right to ask for her forgiveness. No right to even stand in the light of the goodness he had almost extinguished.
His war was over.
His penance had just begun.
About the Author
