The headlines burned on the screen, a digital pyre built just for her. Hawthorne Ex Emerges as Bitter Songstress. Cold Wife Abandons Dying Woman’s Lover.

Zara scrolled through the comments, her mouth a thin, angry line. “They’re animals, Lyra. Vicious.”

Lyra stared at the words, each one a tiny, poisoned dart. A dull ache spread through her chest, familiar and cold. The public narrative Caspian had so carefully crafted was working perfectly. She was the villain.

Instead of tears, a strange, brittle fury began to form in her veins. The grief was still there, a hollow space inside her, but it was freezing over, turning to ice.

“He doesn’t get to write my story,” she said, her voice quiet but sharp. “Not this time.”

She stood, leaving Zara with the glowing screen of lies, and walked to the small keyboard in the corner of the apartment. Her fingers found the keys, the cool plastic a familiar comfort.

She didn’t think. She let the pain flow.

The music came first, a melody that felt like walking through a beautiful, empty museum. Then the words. She wrote of a house made of glass, where every moment was a performance. A place of stunning architecture and stretching shadows, but no warmth.

She wrote about a promise made not to her, but to an audience of one. A duty fulfilled for the sake of `Eleanora Hawthorne`. The lyrics never spoke his name, but Caspian was in every chord, in every carefully chosen word that painted a portrait of a gilded cage.

Hours later, Zara found her there, the first light of dawn graying the window.

“Play it for me,” Zara said softly.

Lyra took a breath and began. The song filled the small room, raw and heartbreaking. It was an accusation wrapped in a lament, a story of profound loneliness disguised as a fairy tale.

When the final note faded, there was only silence. Zara’s eyes were shining.

“That,” Zara whispered, “is how you fight back.”

She reached for the blood pressure cuff on the end table. A familiar routine. “This is good, Lyra. This is powerful. But you have to remember the stakes.” She wrapped the cuff around Lyra’s arm. “Winning this war means staying healthy enough to fight it.”

The cuff tightened, a steady, rhythmic pressure. A reminder of the tiny, secret life she was protecting.

Lyra nodded, her gaze fixed on the keyboard. Her resolve was no longer just about survival. It was about truth.

She had her weapon now.

“You need to see this.”

Zara’s voice was grim. She turned her laptop toward Lyra, an interview already playing on the screen. Lyra watched, her teacup frozen halfway to her lips, as Caspian’s face filled the frame. His words, so full of righteous indignation, hit her harder than any private cruelty he’d ever shown.

*Some people choose the spotlight over loyalty.*

The public betrayal was a deeper, more vicious cut. He wasn’t just erasing her; he was rewriting their history, painting her as a monster to sanctify his new life.

Zara scrolled down. The comments section was a torrent of poison.

*“What a cold-hearted witch. Her husband’s new love is DYING and she goes on a singing show?”*

*“I knew there was something off about her. All that fake pain for attention.”*

*“Caspian Hawthorne is a saint for putting up with her.”*

A sharp, violent cramp seized Lyra’s abdomen. She gasped, dropping the mug. It shattered on the floor.

“Lyra!” Zara was instantly in doctor mode, guiding her to the sofa, her hands pressing gently on Lyra’s stomach. “Breathe. Just breathe through it. This is exactly what I was worried about. This level of stress is dangerous.”

The pain was a terrifying reminder of the fragile life she was carrying, the life she was still so unsure about.

Zara’s eyes were blazing with a fury Lyra was too weak to feel. “He has no idea,” she hissed. “He has no idea what you’re going through, what you’re carrying, what you’re fighting for. That man is a fool and a coward.”

Her friend’s anger was an anchor, stopping her from being swept away by the undertow of despair.

Slowly, the cramping subsided, leaving a dull ache in its place. The grief that had threatened to drown her began to recede. In its place, something else rose. Something cold and hard and clear.

Resolve.

Silence was a luxury she could no longer afford. He had drawn the battle lines on a national stage. She would have to meet him there.

Her hands were still shaking slightly as she reached for her guitar. She sat on the edge of the sofa, the shards of the broken mug still on the floor, and placed her fingers on the frets.

Caspian’s public scorn, his calculated cruelty, became a melody. The pain was no longer just a wound.

It was fuel.

She wasn’t just singing for herself anymore. She was singing to survive. And she was singing to fight back.

Caspian Hawthorne was scrolling through financial reports on his tablet, a glass of scotch on the table beside him. Isolde was sleeping peacefully in the master suite, her “brave” battle with cancer exhausting her. He scowled as a trending topics banner popped up, interrupting his work. `Starlight Serenade`. Frivolous nonsense.

He was about to dismiss it when a thumbnail image caught his eye. A woman with familiar, haunted eyes holding a guitar.

He clicked.

The video clip loaded, and Lyra’s voice filled the quiet study. He watched her performance, the shock quickly curdling into a deep, profound irritation. How dare she? How dare she put their private life, their tragedy, on a public stage for applause and sympathy?

“What are you watching, darling?”

Isolde stood in the doorway, wrapped in a silk robe, the very picture of fragile beauty. She glided over to him, her eyes falling on the screen. Her face crumpled with a perfectly crafted expression of hurt.

“Is that… Lyra?” she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, Caspian. Is she singing about you? About us?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. “How could she be so cruel? To use our pain for fame, while I’m here fighting for my life… It’s monstrous.”

Isolde masterfully reframed Lyra’s art into a vicious, attention-seeking attack. Caspian’s irritation hardened into self-righteous anger. Of course. Lyra had always been cool and distant. This was just another example of her selfishness.

“We can’t let her control the narrative,” Isolde said, her voice gaining a steely edge beneath the veneer of sorrow. “People need to know the truth. They need to know what a saint you’ve been, what we’ve been enduring.”

She already had a plan. An exclusive interview with a sympathetic journalist she knew. It would be a chance for Caspian to speak about her bravery, to promote `The Finch Foundation` she had started. A chance to set the record straight.

Days later, they sat in their living room, the lighting soft, the journalist nodding with practiced empathy. Isolde, pale and poised, spoke of hope and courage. Caspian spoke of his devotion, of the strength it took to stand by the one you love in their darkest hour.

The journalist turned to him. “This must be incredibly difficult, especially coming so soon after the dissolution of your marriage.”

Caspian took his cue, his gaze firm and resolute. He glanced at Isolde, a protector defending his charge.

“Isolde’s grace is my inspiration,” he said, his voice resonating with conviction. “I only wish others could show such grace. Some people choose the spotlight over loyalty, even when a family is in crisis.”

The implication was a dagger, sharp and expertly thrown. It landed exactly where Isolde intended.

The night of the first live broadcast, Lyra watched the show from Zara’s sofa, a ball of nerves coiled in her stomach. Zara held her hand, squeezing it every time a commercial break ended. They saved her performance for last, the coveted final slot of the premiere.

“And now,” the host’s booming voice announced, “a newcomer we know you’re going to be talking about. With an original song, give it up for… Lyra!”

On the screen, her own terrified face looked back at her. She remembered the heat of the lights, the dizzying darkness where the audience sat, the thunder of her own heart in her ears.

She began to play. The song was the same one from her audition, a haunting melody about loving a ghost. The lyrics were a masterpiece of plausible deniability, painting a picture of betrayal without naming a single name. It was the story of her marriage, veiled in metaphor.

The performance wasn’t perfect. A note wavered. Her hand trembled on the guitar neck. But it was raw. It was real. It was a story of a heart breaking in real time, broadcast to millions.

When she finished, the studio audience was utterly silent for a beat. Then, a single person began to clap, and the sound swelled into a standing ovation. The judges, usually quick with a clever critique, looked stunned. One simply shook his head, whispering, “Wow.” Another wiped at her eyes. They gave her unanimous, glowing praise, speaking of honesty and vulnerability.

The moment the show’s credits rolled, Zara grabbed her laptop. “Oh, Lyra. You need to see this.”

Social media was on fire.

The hashtag #WhoIsLyra was trending worldwide. So was #StarlightGhost. People weren’t just praising her voice; they were dissecting her lyrics, speculating on the story behind the sadness in her eyes.

*“I don’t know who hurt her, but I want to fight them.”*

*“That wasn’t a performance, that was a confession.”*

*“She’s an absolute mystery. No last name, no backstory. Just that voice and that pain.”*

She had tried to be invisible, to shed an identity that had nearly suffocated her. In doing so, she had become the most visible person on the show. She was no longer a private citizen, nursing her wounds in the shadows.

She was a public mystery. And it was only a matter of time before someone solved it.

The `Starlight Serenade` studio was a hive of chaotic energy. Ambitious singers with perfect hair warmed up their voices in corners, while production assistants with headsets and clipboards rushed past, their faces tight with stress. Lyra clutched her guitar case, feeling utterly invisible. A ghost in a land of glittering hopefuls.

She had spent three years in the gilded cage of Caspian Hawthorne’s world, a silent hostess at galas, a beautiful accessory on his arm. This raw, hungry ambition felt like a foreign language.

A young woman with bright pink hair pointed her toward a registration table. “Name?” the man behind the desk asked without looking up.

“Lyra…” She hesitated. The name Hawthorne felt like a lead weight in her mouth, a brand that would invite a circus of questions she couldn’t answer. It was his name, not hers. Not anymore.

“Just Lyra,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.

The man finally looked up, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Just Lyra? Okay, mystery woman. You’re up in five.”

It was a small act, shedding his name. But it felt like the first real breath she had taken in years.

When her name was called, she walked into a small, dark studio, facing three producers seated behind a long table. The silence was absolute.

“Whenever you’re ready, Lyra,” one of them said, his tone gentle.

She sat on the offered stool, positioning her guitar. She didn’t play one of the polished songs she’d written for other artists. Instead, she chose something new, something she had written in the sterile silence of the Hawthorne mansion, a ballad about building a home in a heart that was never meant to be hers.

Her voice, rusty from disuse, cracked on the first note. Her fingers fumbled a chord. But then the pain took over. She closed her eyes and sang of love and betrayal, of devotion poured into a vessel that could never hold it. She channeled three years of quiet heartbreak into three minutes of music.

When the last note faded, she kept her eyes shut, her chest aching. The silence stretched.

She had failed.

She opened her eyes to see the three producers staring at her. The woman in the middle had tears tracing a path through her makeup. The man who had spoken was leaning forward, his expression one of rapt attention.

“That song,” he said, his voice husky. “Who wrote it?”

“I did,” Lyra whispered.

He nodded slowly, sharing a look with his colleagues. “Your voice needs work. Your technique is rough. But that… what we just heard… was truth.”

He leaned back, a decisive look on his face. “You’re in. Welcome to the show.”

As she turned to leave, he called after her. “And Lyra? Don’t change a thing. The country needs to hear that.”

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.

Lyra landed hard on her back. Cameras flashed, capturing the moment from every angle.

Her eyes instinctively found Caspian, but his face was a cold, impassive mask. In that instant, she knew exactly what he wanted from her, and the realization was a sharp pain in her heart. He wanted her to speak for him, to tell the press it was all a misunderstanding, that he was only here out of kindness for a sick friend.

Clutching her belly, Lyra lowered her head and let a faint smile touch her lips. The sky above was clear, but none of its light reached her.

She pushed herself up slowly. Then, without a backward glance, she said calmly, “I feel sorry for Miss Finch. But that’s all.”

Someone nearby asked, “So, are you friends with her?”

Lyra gave a short laugh. “Friends? No. I wouldn’t call a woman clinging to my husband a friend.”

She turned and waved to Zara, who had just pulled up.

“Lyra!” Caspian called after her, his face flushed with rage.

She didn’t turn around. She held her head high and kept walking.

Zara jumped out of the car and rushed to her friend’s side, scoffing as they left, “You’d think they were the married couple confronting the home-wrecker. Absolutely ridiculous.”

Isolde started to speak. “You…”

But Zara cut her off. “What? Tell me I’m wrong. If you plan on using the press to intimidate me, go ahead. I have nothing to hide.”

Isolde’s face went even paler, as if she might faint. The reporters descended into a frenzy.

Zara ushered Lyra into the car without a second glance. “Don’t worry,” she said. “She’s faking it. I’ve seen enough cases to know.”

Lyra gave her a small smile. “I’m not worried about her. I’m worried about you. What if this affects your job?”

At a red light, Zara grinned. “Don’t forget my dad’s the hospital director.”

Lyra raised an eyebrow. “The same dad you swore you’d never speak to again?”

Zara shrugged. “You never know when a connection might come in handy. Honestly, sometimes I wish all the powerful men in the world were my dads.”

They both laughed, and the tension in Lyra’s shoulders began to ease.

“I’ve got the afternoon free,” Zara said. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”

Playing along, Lyra turned with a sly grin. “Great. I need your help.”

“With what?”

“Help me move.” She grabbed Zara’s wrist. “You can’t back out now.”

Zara groaned but agreed. Before long, they arrived at the house Lyra had shared with Caspian, accompanied by a team of movers. The house had been put together in a rush after their wedding, everything feeling temporary. But over the past year, Lyra had tried to fill it with warmth, to make it a home.

While Zara directed the movers, Lyra walked through the rooms, her hands lightly touching objects. On a shelf, she saw a bottle of Chanel No. 5—the first gift Caspian had ever given her, brought back from a business trip. He had come straight from the airport and pulled her into his arms, his kisses urgent, like any young couple in love.

She opened the bottle and sprayed it once, the familiar scent filling the air. She remembered how he had kissed her neck after she’d put it on.

“Should I pack this?” Zara asked, noticing the perfume.

Lyra shook her head. “Leave it.”

She slipped off the simple wedding band Caspian had chosen and placed it on the table. But as the movers continued their work, she paused, then quietly opened a drawer and placed both the perfume and the ring inside.

Soon, the house was empty of any trace of her. Only that bottle and that ring remained.

The work was tiring, but the decision had been swift. Her feelings were the same. As the car pulled away, the mansion faded in the rearview mirror. Sometimes, to move forward, you had to leave a part of yourself behind.

Lyra had things to do. The collapse of the Sanford family, the questions surrounding her father’s death—she was going to find the truth. Her life had always been shaped by the needs of others. Now, it was time to live for herself.

She would start with the music show. It would bring in money and, more importantly, might reconnect her with people from her father’s past. She pulled out her phone and sent a message. “I’m joining the music program.”

…

Isolde was still crying. Caspian sat beside her, offering hollow words of comfort, but his mind was replaying the image of Lyra walking away from him. She had known exactly what he wanted her to say and had deliberately chosen not to. He had sent her a barrage of messages, none of which she had answered.

Her behavior was strange, the change too abrupt. She was provoking him. She had done it when they filed for divorce and again at the hospital. He remembered the look in her eyes the night before, when she’d asked if he was sure. She had been sad, but also unnervingly calm.

An unexpected fear pricked at him.

“Caspian, don’t be angry at Lyra,” Isolde said through her tears. “I know she’s upset. She must have come to confront us after seeing the news online. I understand.” She broke down sobbing. “After all… I’m the one taking something from her. Six months of your marriage. If she lashes out, I deserve it…”

As she spoke, she began to cough violently, spitting blood into her hand.

“Isolde!” Caspian jumped up, reaching for his phone to call an ambulance. He dismissed Lyra’s behavior as a temporary mood swing. She wouldn’t dare leave him.

Isolde stopped him with a weak hand, smiling faintly. “It’s the cancer. Late-stage. This happens. Don’t worry.”

Her caregiver helped her lie down. As soon as Caspian left the room to confront Lyra, Isolde calmly wiped her mouth and removed a small blood packet from her cheek.

She laughed. “What do you think he’ll say to Lyra now?” she asked the caregiver. “I’m honestly looking forward to it.”

She began scrolling excitedly through the news reports. The entire internet seemed to have turned against Lyra.

“Isolde didn’t even want life-saving treatment, just pain meds. Lyra made a scene for nothing.”

“Isolde is dying, and Lyra is still picking fights?”

“Mr. Thorne and Isolde look perfect together.”

“Lyra’s fall was so embarrassing. I cringed.”

“Lyra, just step aside!”

“Lyra, divorce Caspian!”

“Yeah, divorce him!”

“Divorce!”

Isolde chuckled as she read the comments. She sent a message to a contact with a few instructions. “Today’s move was perfect. Keep the pressure up. Make sure Lyra stays down. Oh, and find out why she was at the hospital today.”

As Isolde made her way to St. Jude’s, the internet was flooded with comments about her diagnosis.

“Honestly, I think Isolde is brave. She’s clear about her feelings and her boundaries. It’s impressive.”

“Exactly. Plenty of people like Caspian. As long as she’s not wrecking his marriage, her feelings are her own business.”

“Her older videos gave me a glimpse into the lives of the wealthy. It’s sad she won’t be around much longer.”

“Who is Caspian’s wife, anyway? She should just let him be with Isolde. The woman only has six months left.”

“I know her. It’s Lyra Sanford, a musician. She stopped working after she got married.”

…

At St. Jude’s, Lyra’s phone buzzed incessantly with calls and messages. Some feigned concern, others fished for information, and a few were outright mocking. All of it was about Isolde and Caspian. Lyra had seen enough headlines to understand the situation. She didn’t click on any of them.

It no longer mattered. Once the divorce was final, Caspian would be out of her life.

She checked the time just as Zara walked toward her.

“How are you feeling?” Zara asked, her face etched with worry. “Any pain?” Seeing the strain on Lyra’s face, she reached out to help her up.

Lyra managed a small smile and shook her head. She had made her decision. Some things just had to be faced.

Zara sighed and helped her to the elevator. The doors opened onto the crowded ground floor lobby. Lyra noticed several reporters scattered among the throng.

“So many people today. Probably another celebrity check-up,” Zara remarked. “They always bring this kind of attention…” She stopped abruptly, her expression changing as she tried to steer Lyra in the opposite direction.

But it was too late. Lyra had already seen them.

Caspian stood tall, effortlessly commanding attention. The chaos of the lobby seemed to part for him; his hair was perfectly styled, his suit immaculate. Beside him stood Isolde, looking small and frail, her pale face making her appear even more fragile. She stumbled slightly, and Caspian immediately caught her, shielding her from the crowd and the cameras.

“Don’t look,” Zara said quickly, stepping in front of Lyra, her voice sharp with anger.

“Zara, let’s go,” Lyra said calmly. She had no desire for a confrontation.

“Why should we be the ones to go?” Zara snapped. “You’re not divorced yet. He’s still your husband, and he’s here holding another woman in public. It’s shameless.”

Husband… Lyra looked away with a sigh. There was a time the word alone would have made her smile. Not anymore.

“I don’t feel well, Zara. Let’s just go,” Lyra said, changing the subject.

Zara’s focus shifted back to her friend. They turned to leave. Across the lobby, Isolde glanced over, a flicker of triumph on her face.

“I’m sorry, Caspian. I didn’t mean to drag you into this,” she said, her voice laced with remorse. “I know how much you hate the spotlight…”

“It’s fine,” Caspian replied, his expression unreadable. “Let’s see the doctor.”

They stepped into a consultation room, where Isolde handed her medical file to the doctor. He read through it slowly, his brow furrowed.

“This looks serious,” he said.

Isolde gave a faint smile. “I know.” She took a slow breath. “Please prescribe something strong for the pain.”

“In your condition, I recommend you stay in the hospital and begin treatment,” the doctor urged. “There’s still a chance we can extend your life.”

“What’s the point?” Isolde said with a sad smile, brushing away a tear. “I don’t want treatment.”

Caspian’s fingers tightened around hers.

She shook her head slightly. “Doctor, I just want to spend my last days with some dignity,” she said. “So please, just the painkillers.”

The doctor sighed but eventually nodded in understanding.

Outside, reporters were snapping photos and posting videos online. The public response was emotional.

“Good heavens, this is a real person whose life is ending.”

“I cry over a paper cut. I can’t imagine what late-stage cancer feels like. She’s so strong.”

“I teared up when she said she wouldn’t go through treatment. Only people who’ve faced serious illness can understand that.”

Public sympathy for Isolde soared.

…

After getting her prescription, Isolde and Caspian walked out of the hospital. Lyra was sitting on a nearby bench, waiting for Zara to bring the car around. Before she could react, paparazzi swarmed her, camera flashes erupting all at once.

Caspian saw her too. He frowned. “What are you doing here?”

Lyra stood, her gaze moving from Caspian to Isolde’s hand resting on his arm. The reporters didn’t give her a chance to speak.

“Mrs. Thorne, did you come because of the news online? Are you trying to catch them together?”

“What do you think of your husband being with another woman in public?”

“Mrs. Thorne, what are your plans regarding Isolde?”

Everyone assumed Lyra had come to start a fight. Even Caspian. He looked annoyed.

“Isolde is sick. Didn’t you know?” he snapped, his voice menacing.

Lyra almost laughed. So that’s what he thought—that she was here to pick a fight with a sick woman. He really didn’t know her at all.

Seeing Lyra remain silent, the reporters turned back to Isolde.

Caspian looked at Lyra again. “Lyra!” he called out, wanting her to defend Isolde, expecting her to do his bidding as she always had.

But the will to please him was gone. She was leaving him; there was no reason left to obey.

Lyra placed a hand over her stomach, where the dull ache persisted. “I came to visit a friend,” she said finally. She didn’t want to say more, not about her pregnancy, not with all these eyes on her.

Having answered Caspian, she turned to leave, but the reporters blocked her path.

“Mrs. Thorne, people online are saying you should step aside and let Mr. Thorne be with Isolde. What do you have to say to that?”

“Isolde doesn’t have much time left. Are you still going to fight her?”

“Mrs. Thorne—”

Lyra tried to push through the crowd. Thrilled by the drama, no one was willing to let her go. Caspian stood by, saying nothing, and his silence emboldened someone to shove Lyra hard.

She staggered backward, her arms instinctively wrapping around her stomach.

Zara stared at the filing receipt, shocked. She and Lyra had been friends for over a decade, and she had witnessed the depth of Lyra’s love for Caspian. There was a time Lyra would have died for him without a second thought.

They had married a year ago. Zara had smiled at the wedding, though she always felt something was off about them as a couple. Still, Lyra had gotten what she wanted, and that had been enough for Zara.

But now this… What had happened?

“I don’t love him anymore,” Lyra said, anticipating the question. She looked up and offered a small, serene smile.

In that smile, Zara saw a flicker of the old Lyra—the one from before her world had crumbled, before her father’s death and the fall of the Sanford family. It brought Zara a strange sense of relief.

“Caspian doesn’t know I’m pregnant,” Lyra continued calmly. “And I don’t want to take any chances before the divorce is final. It’s better if he never finds out.”

If either party had a change of heart before the final decree, the application could be withdrawn. Zara now understood that Lyra was serious about this divorce.

Taking it all in, Zara did what was necessary. She scheduled Lyra’s medical tests, then advised, “Wait a few days before the surgery.”

Lyra frowned. “Why?”

“You know your blood type—Rh-negative. It’s rare. We need time to source a supply, just in case. I’ve already contacted the blood bank. They said it could take a week.”

Lyra fell silent, the sadness in her eyes unmistakable. She had inherited that blood type from her father, and a fresh wave of grief washed over her. If he were still here…

“Okay,” Lyra nodded slowly. A smile touched her lips, but her eyes were red-rimmed.

“You’re also showing early signs of miscarriage. You need to be careful for the next few days,” Zara added, her voice laced with concern. They had grown up together; Zara knew her friend’s pain all too well. She took Lyra’s hand. “Wait for me. My shift is almost over. I’ll go home with you.”

Lyra nodded and went to wait in the hallway. She looked down at her stomach. Early signs of miscarriage. Did the baby sense her decision and want to leave on its own terms?

Pursing her lips, Lyra walked toward the lab for her tests. Her phone buzzed. It was a bank notification for a new account she had opened, one Caspian knew nothing about. She was keeping her finances separate now. Every cent she earned from this day forward would go into it.

A second message followed. “Payment for composition and lyrics has been processed. Finance has sent the transfer. Please confirm.”

Before marrying Caspian, Lyra had been a quiet but successful anonymous songwriter. Music was her first love. Back when her father was alive and life was generous, she had wanted for nothing. As the Sanford family’s only daughter, she’d had the freedom to nurture her talent. Life had taught her lessons she never knew she needed. Perhaps her father had never imagined that the pastime he encouraged would one day become her lifeline.

Lyra paused, then typed back, “Received. Thank you.”

The reply came quickly from Silas Croft, a legendary music producer and a friend of her late father. “It’s what you deserve. You’ve written a lot of hits over the years. Why don’t you come back? There’s a new show coming up that would be perfect for you. I’ve sent the details to your email and reserved a contestant slot.”

Lyra opened her email. An invitation to a music competition show sat at the top. The format was familiar, but this one emphasized original work.

She typed a quick reply. “I’ll think about it.”

She set her phone down as a light cramp tightened in her lower abdomen. She thought of her father again. The second time that day.

…

Meanwhile, the internet was ablaze with news.

#IsoldeFinchStomachCancer

#FloristIsoldeFinchsFinalDays

#LastSixMonths

The top trending post was a video of a reporter summarizing Isolde’s situation. “Sources have confirmed that renowned floral designer Isolde Finch has been diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer and given six months to live. Instead of retreating, she has chosen to document her final days, sharing her life with the world as it comes to a close.”

The video cut to Isolde, who looked at the camera with a sad smile. “In these last six months, I’ll be posting updates on my life. I’m not doing this for attention, but to offer comfort to others going through the same ordeal. I hope you all stay strong.”

The reporter reappeared. “There have long been rumors about Miss Finch and Mr. Caspian Thorne, CEO of Thorne Enterprises. However, Mr. Thorne is a married man. It remains to be seen if he will reconnect with Miss Finch during her final months.”

In the background, Isolde seemed to overhear. She stepped forward and gently interrupted the reporter. Facing the camera, she said, “I’m not ashamed to admit I like Caspian. He’s an incredible man. I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels that way. But I want to be clear—I will not break up a marriage. That’s not who I am.”

With that, she walked away, weaving through the small crowd with a smile before climbing into a waiting car.

The foreign caregiver from Aveline passed her a glass of water, hesitating.

“You look like you want to say something,” Isolde said, her voice cold. “Go on. The driver is one of ours.”

The caregiver leaned in. “Miss Finch, your diagnosis… it’s a stomach ulcer. Having our facility falsify that into cancer is already a huge risk. But now you’re publicizing it online?”

Isolde let out a sharp laugh that startled the caregiver. “Your facility—is it a licensed medical institution?” she asked.

The caregiver nodded.

“And does it manage my medical records privately?”

Another nod.

“And do those records state that I have six months to live due to terminal stomach cancer?”

The caregiver hesitated before nodding again.

“Exactly!” Isolde leaned back with a triumphant smile. “It’s official. No one can question it.”

“But you don’t actually have cancer. What happens later…”

“There are two ways out,” Isolde cut in, her eyes hard. “One: I make a miraculous recovery, perhaps due to all the love I’ve received. Two: your facility is blamed for a diagnostic error and months of incorrect treatment.” She turned to face the caregiver fully. “Which option do you prefer?”

The caregiver looked panicked. “I’m sorry, Miss Finch. I understand. You’ve thought of everything.”

Isolde gave a short, cold smile.

“Where to next, Miss Finch?” the caregiver asked, trying to lighten the mood.

Isolde glanced at her phone. “St. Jude’s Medical Center.”

The caregiver stiffened. “But—”

“Relax. I’m just going for some pain relief using my medical record,” Isolde said, then sent a message to Caspian, asking him to meet her at the hospital.

He replied almost instantly, “Sure.”

Meanwhile, Lyra stood in the hospital restroom, a steady ache in her lower stomach. In her hand was a tissue, stark white against a smear of blood.

It was an early sign of a miscarriage.

The next day, parked outside the courthouse in his Maybach, Caspian Thorne tapped a restless rhythm on the steering wheel.

“Caspian, you and Lyra have been married for a year. Don’t you think it’s time you started planning for a baby?” an elderly voice crackled from the phone’s speaker.

Caspian’s expression softened, a hint of frustration in his eyes, but his voice remained patient. “Grandma, we’re still young. There’s no rush. You just need to focus on your health.”

“What do you mean, ‘no rush’?” his grandmother, Eleonora Thorne, retorted, her tone sharp with annoyance. “Your condition may have stabilized, but we’re not getting any younger. We don’t know how much time we have left.”

“Grandma…”

“Don’t ‘Grandma’ me! I’ve heard things, Caspian. Whatever is going on, you be good to Lyra.”

A few seconds of silence hung between them.

“Caspian, did you hear me?” the old woman pressed.

He rubbed his forehead. “I understand, Grandma.”

After a few more words, he ended the call and resumed tapping the steering wheel, his movements slower now, more distracted as he stared toward the courthouse entrance. He clenched his jaw, then opened the messaging app on his phone.

His thumb hovered over a profile picture—a simple floral image he had tagged “My Love.” He skipped past it and opened his chat with Lyra. The last message he’d sent was a curt reminder of the time and place for their meeting.

She still hadn’t arrived.

With a scowl, Caspian typed a new message. “Where are you?”

Almost immediately, a knock sounded on the window. He turned to see Lyra standing there, her face pale. She opened the door and slid into the passenger seat without a word.

He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes—an outfit she had chosen for him. For years, she had been the one to select his ties, his cologne, every detail down to the cut of his suits.

“Why are you late?” Caspian asked.

Lyra looked away. “I’m not late,” she said quietly.

She was simply no longer the girl who arrived early to wait for him.

Caspian’s fingers stilled on the wheel. His eyes narrowed as he studied her. She looked tired, likely from a sleepless night after his announcement. Still, she seemed composed.

“My grandmother called,” he said, turning away. “Don’t tell them about the divorce. They’re too old to handle it.”

Lyra didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she asked, “What did she say?”

“She wants us to have a baby,” he replied flatly, irritation coloring his voice.

Silence filled the car. After a moment, Lyra let out a soft, small laugh.

Caspian curled his hand into a fist and stared out the window. There had been a time when he wondered what their child would look like. He remembered holding her from behind, a hand on her belly, whispering, “Lyra, when will you give me a baby?”

But it had never happened.

Besides, they could remarry in six months and start a family then. There was still time. Isolde, however, only had six months left.

Outside, people walked by.

Lyra spoke again. “Just once more, Caspian. Are you absolutely sure you want this divorce?”

“Having second thoughts?” he snapped, his frustration boiling over. Isolde was waiting for him at her studio.

After that final confirmation, Lyra said nothing more. She reached into her bag, pulled out a document, and handed it to him.

He took it with a frown, flipping through the pages. It was a property division agreement.

“If we’re getting a divorce,” she said, “we should make things clear. I’ll only take what I’m entitled to from the Thorne family. From this point on, anything either of us earns is our own.”

She then pulled out a pen and set it beside him. “If you agree, just sign it.”

Caspian’s eyes remained on the document, his frown deepening. The agreement was surprisingly simple; she wasn’t asking for much. Her signature was already at the bottom.

He didn’t understand. What was her game? This was supposed to be a temporary divorce. He planned to spend these six months with Isolde, and then he would return to Lyra. No one else ever had to know.

To him, Lyra had always been blindly loyal. He had never considered her a woman with pride or boundaries. There was a time he’d grown bored and pushed her into things designed to chip away at her self-respect, but she never refused. She would always return with a gentle smile, holding out the results of her efforts like a prize. “Caspian, look—I did it. Isn’t it great?”

She was a good wife. Meek and obedient. For seven years, he’d seen it proven time and again. If not for Isolde, their marriage would likely have continued just like that.

But…

A memory flashed through his mind—Isolde, frail and coughing up blood, still trying to smile. The image was a raw, unshakable pain in his chest.

Caspian looked out the window again. Lyra’s reflection stared back, blank and expressionless. Was this her way of threatening him? After all, she had once faked messages to frame Isolde. She despised Isolde.

With a dry chuckle, Caspian picked up the pen and signed his name. No one could force his hand. Not even her.

There were two copies. Lyra calmly took hers after he had signed both.

They got out of the car and walked into the courthouse to file for divorce. The next time they returned, it would be to finalize the process and receive the official decree.

Once the formalities were complete, they stepped back out into the blazing sun. The warmth settled on Lyra’s skin.

Caspian scanned the people around them. It was easy to distinguish the couples getting married from those getting divorced. A couple walked past, hand in hand. The woman’s smile reminded him of the look on Lyra’s face a year ago, on their wedding day.

He glanced at Lyra, but her expression was unreadable.

“I’ll keep transferring money to your account for the next six months,” he said. “And don’t say anything to my grandparents.”

He didn’t wait for her reply before turning and walking away.

Lyra stood quietly, watching his car disappear around the corner. Her cab arrived moments later. The two vehicles headed in opposite directions.

One turned toward Isolde Finch Floral Design.

The other drove toward St. Jude’s Medical Center.

Caspian walked into Isolde’s studio, where she greeted him with a soft smile. He told her, “It’s done. She didn’t make a scene.”

Meanwhile, Lyra entered the obstetrics wing and sat down across from the doctor.

The doctor reached over and pulled the curtain closed.

“Lyra… are you sure you want to terminate the pregnancy?” Her best friend and doctor, Zara Ali, looked at her with deep concern. “You wanted a baby so badly. You worked so hard to prepare your body for conception…”

Lyra reached into her bag and placed the divorce filing receipt on the small table.

“Yes,” she replied calmly. “Let’s terminate it. I don’t want it anymore.”