Let’s get a divorce. She has stomach cancer and has only six months left to live.”

After their in**mate encounter, Julian Croft sat up and said in a detached voice.

Elara Vance, still breathing hard from the encounter, turned to him slowly, a wild look of disbelief in her eyes.

They had been married for a year. What did he mean by suddenly saying he wanted a divorce?

“Her final wish is to be my wife,” Julian added, almost offhandedly.

He said, lighting a ci**rette. The sm**e rose in slow spirals around his face.

Elara gawked at him, stunned. Silence spread across the room like mist.

The bedside lamp glowed faintly, casting long shadows across the wall, making them seem farther apart than they were.

Julian glanced at her and gave a faint frown.

“It’s only to comfort her,” he explained. “We’ll remarry after six months. She won’t be here long, Elara.”

His voice was steady, almost detached, like someone passing along a message that didn’t concern him.

Elara watched Julian wordlessly, her eyes fixed on his profile.

He spoke like his words were instructions, not suggestions.

Their relationship had always been one-sided. She had chased it from the start, drawn in by youthful affection.

She had stayed by his side for years, moving through each rough season without letting go.

Elara still remembered that day, under the heavy rain that soaked them both, Julian had stood between her and her stepfather, gripping a cracked stick, and said with fire in his voice, “Touch Elara again, and you’ll regret it.”

That moment had etched itself into her heart. Even when she was weak and bl**ding, she saw him–unmoving, protective, fierce.

From that point on, she was his.

She loved him without pause, met his requests with everything she had, carrying them out more flawlessly than anyone else ever could.

He would always pat her head, light and warm, and say in a low voice, “You did so well, Elara.”

But Julian’s praises never lasted, his ki**es barely stayed, and whatever affection they shared always felt just out of reach. But Elara told herself it was just how he was.

Even when others called her naive, she stayed–devoted and trusting.

She had given seven years of her life to him.

A year earlier, Julian’s grandmother, Beatrice Croft, had fallen into poor health. The family, hoping to lift her spirits, decided Julian should marry.

Perhaps the joy of a wedding would give the old woman something to hold on to.

So Julian went on to marry Elara.

She thought it was finally their moment. But after the vows, something changed. He began to pull away. Sometimes, he looked at her like she was a stranger.

“Elara, are you listening?” Julian scowled as he caught the far-off look in Elara’s eyes.

“Does it have to be like this?” she asked softly.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “She’s going through so much, Elara.”

Elara’s ch**t tightened. “And what about me?”

Julian didn’t answer right away. His eyes, dark and steady, flickered with a trace of impatience.

Then, after about three seconds, he said, “Elara, she’s dying. Maybe you don’t know, but she’s in love with me. Because we were married, and she didn’t want to hurt you, she never let things go too far between us. Even when I tried to make it up to her, she never let me. She’s a good person. Please, let her have this. Don’t make me think you’re being heartless.”

His words, spoken so calmly, pierced her more than if he had shouted.

So in Julian’s eyes, a woman in love with a married man, who promised to hold back but never really let go, was a saint.

And a wife who simply wanted to keep her husband to herself was heartless.

Elara stared at his face. The same face she had fallen for–intense eyes, prominent nose, beautiful lips.

When had things started to crumble?

Maybe it was the day the woman showed up.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Elara asked, steadying herself.

Julian said nothing, pursing his lips.

Finally, he opened his mouth to respond. “Yes, you–“

“Alright.” Elara cut him off before he could finish.

Julian looked up, clearly surprised. He frowned, studying her closely.

“Elara, you’re getting clever,” he said, a flicker of irritation in his voice. “You know I need your consent to go through with it. Are you thinking of using it to get under my skin?”

Elara didn’t answer. She just stared at the white wall, watching how their shadows stretched.

Julian put out his ci**rette andsaid no more, pulling on his clothes quickly and storming out.

He didn’t stop to consider how she felt. Nor did he pause to acknowledge how humiliating or painful his request was.

He knew she couldn’t leave him.

He was utterly sure about that.

The door slammed shut behind him.

And just like that, Elara was alone.

She sat motionless by the bed, staring at the door as if it might open again.

Her phone buzzed beside her.

A message lit up the screen.

She picked up the phone.

It was from a familiar number. “He came to see me again.”

The text came with a photo. Julian’s face was captured in the reflection of a glass door, a soft smile playing on his lips, eyes warm in a way Elara had never seen.

She froze. Then, slowly, she scrolled upward through the previous messages. “He said he has feelings for me.”

“Rainy nights aren’t lonely for me because he’s here with me. What about you?”

“The one who isn’t loved is truly the other woman. Elara, you were never his first choice; you were just the one he settled for. He sees beauty the way I do, shares my taste in things, and he loves me.”

The messages continued that way, proving Julian’s betrayal.

The man who had always treated her with distance these past seven years had apparently mastered tenderness for someone else.

Elara kept scrolling until she reached the very first message. “You should know who I am. Do you like the flowers in your living room today? I sent them. He said they were beautiful.”

Of course, Elara knew who it was.

Seraphina Rivers, the famous floral designer known for filling her wealthy clients’ grand villas and lavish parties with carefully and beautifully arranged blooms.

Elara had shown Julian the messages before. He’d brushed them off and said there was no proof they were from Seraphina.

He had even said maybe Elara sent them herself just to stir trouble. Most of the messages didn’t have pictures, and the few that did were vague–taken from afar, hard to pin down.

But not today’s. Today’s was clear.

Elara thought about showing him the photo. Then her eyes drifted toward the bedside drawer. She reached down and pulled it open.

There it was. The pr**nancy test result she’d gotten earlier that day.

She was pr**nant with Julian’s child. At the worst possible moment.

Her tears fell, soaking the paper and smudging the ink.

But what did it matter anymore? Julian’s heart had been gone for a long time.

Elara wiped her face dry and picked up the lighter he’d left behind. Flames flickered as she held the test result to the fire.

Julian had no idea that saying yes to the divorce would be the final thing she’d ever do for him.

She had given him back what she owed–not in money, but in seven full years of her life.

She would never love him again.

Chapter 2: Terminate The Pregnancy

The next day, parked just outside the courthouse, Julian sat in his Maybach, quietly tapping the steering wheel with his left hand.

“Julian, you and Elara have been married for a year now. Don’t you think it’s time to start planning for a baby?” An elderly voice drifted from the phone’s speaker.

Julian’s face softened, a trace of frustration flickering through, but his patience didn’t waver.

“Grandma, we’re still young. There’s no need to rush. You should focus on staying healthy.”

“What do you mean by ‘There’s no need to rush’?” The elderly voice of his grandmother, Beatrice Croft, rose in annoyance.

“Your condition might have improved, but we’re not getting any younger. We don’t know how much time we’ve got left.”

“Grandma…”

“Don’t give me that! I’ve heard things, Julian. Whatever’s going on, be good to Elara.”

Silence fell over the line for a few seconds.

“Julian, did you hear me?” the elder asked.

Julian rubbed his forehead in frustration. “I understand, Grandma.”

They exchanged a few more words before he ended the call.

Julian resumed tapping the steering wheel with his fingers, this time slower, more distracted. He stared through the windshield toward the courthouse.

He clenched his jaw. Then, he opened the messaging app on his phone.

His thumb hovered over a familiar profile picture–a simple floral image, tagged “My Love.” He skipped past it and opened the thread with Elara.

The last message he’d sent her simply reminded her of the time and place to meet for the divorce.

She still hadn’t shown up.

With a scowl, Julian sent a new message. “Where are you?”

A knock on the window followed almost instantly. He turned to see Elara standing outside, her face a little pale.

She opened the door and slipped into the passenger seat, giving him a blank look.

He hadn’t changed out of yesterday’s clothes–the same ones she had picked out for him.

Through the years, it had always been her–choosing his ties, picking his cologne, arranging every detail down to the fit of his tailored shirts and suits.

“Why are you late?” Julian asked.

Elara looked away.

“I’m not late,” she said quietly.

She was simply no longer the girl who would always arrive early and wait for him without thinking.

Julian’s fingers stilled against the wheel. His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her.

Elara looked a little pale, maybe from a sleepless night after he mentioned the divorce last night.

Still, she looked fine.

“My grandma called earlier,” Julian muttered, looking away. “Don’t tell them about the divorce. They’re too old to handle something like that.”

Elara didn’t respond right away. Instead, she asked, “What did your grandma say?”

“She wants us to have a baby,” Julian said flatly, a flicker of irritation slipping into his voice.

Silence settled in the car.

After a while, Elara let out a small soft laugh.

Julian curled his hand into a fist and turned his face to the window.

There were moments when he used to imagine what their child might look like.

He remembered holding her from behind, pressing a hand gently over her belly, whispering, “Elara, when will you give me a baby?”

But it hadn’t happened.

Anyway, they could always remarry in six months and start planning for a baby. There would still be enough time.

Seraphina, however, only had six months left.

Outside, passers-by came and went.

Then Elara spoke up. “Just once more, Julian. Are you completely sure you want to go through with the divorce?”

“Having second thoughts?” Julian barked, looking genuinely upset.

Seraphina was still waiting for him at the studio.
After confirming once more, Elara didn’t say another word. She reached into her bag, pulled out a document, and handed it to Julian.

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

“If we’re getting divorced,” she said, “we should make everything clear. I’ll only take what I’m entitled to from the Croft family. And from this moment on, anything either of us earns belongs to us individually.”

Then Elara pulled out a pen and placed it beside him.

“If that’s okay with you, just sign it.”

Julian’s eyes stayed on the document, but his frown deepened as he read.

The agreement was too simple. She really wasn’t asking for much. And her signature was already there.

He didn’t get it.

What was she trying to do? It was basically just a fake divorce.

Seraphina only had six months left. He planned to spend those months by her side. After that, he’d return to Elara–no one else needed to know the divorce ever happened.

To him, Elara had always seemed blindly loyal.

Julian had never thought of her as someone with pride or boundaries.

There was a time he’d grown bored of her, pushing her into things that chipped away at her pride on purpose.

But Elara never declined.

She’d still return with a soft smile, holding out the results like a trophy. “Julian, look–I did it. Isn’t it great?”

She was a good wife. Meek. Obedient. For seven years, he’d seen it play out over and over.

If it weren’t for Seraphina, their marriage probably would have gone on like that.

But…

A flash of memory–Seraphina, weak and coughing bl**d, still trying to smile–stabbed at his ch**t. The pain was raw and unshakable.

Julian looked outside the car window again.

Elara’s reflection stared back at him–blank, expressionless.

Was this her way of threatening him?

After all, she had once faked messages to frame Seraphina.

She hated Seraphina.

Chuckling dryly, Julian picked up the pen and signed his name.

No one could force his hand. Not even her.

There were two copies of the agreement.

Elara calmly took her copy after he signed both.

They both stepped out of the car and headed into the courthouse. Together, they filed for divorce.

Next time they came back here, they would finalize everything and collect the official decree.

Once all the formalities were done, the two of them stepped out of the courthouse together.

The sun was already blazing, and the warmth settled on Elara’s skin.

Julian scanned the people moving about.

It wasn’t hard to tell the couples getting married from those getting divorced. Some people chose to have their weddings at the courthouse.

A couple walked by, hand in hand.

The woman’s smile triggered something in Julian. He remembered that same look on Elara’s face a year ago, when they first got married.

Julian glanced over at Elara, but her face was blank.

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

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned and walked off.

Elara stood there quietly, watching his car disappear around the corner.

Her cab arrived not long after.

And then, the two cars went opposite directions.

One turned toward Seraphina Floral Design.

The other headed for Crobert Hospital.

Julian walked into Seraphina’s studio, where she greeted him with a gentle smile.

He told her, “It’s done. She didn’t make a scene.”

Meanwhile, Elara stepped into the ob-gyn wing and quietly sat opposite the doctor.

The doctor reached over and pulled the curtain

“Elara… are you sure you want to terminate the pr**nancy?” Her best friend and doctor, Maya Khan, looked at her with concern.

“You were so determined to have a baby. You even worked so hard to get yourself ready for co**eption…”

Elara reached into her bag and placed the divorce filing receipt on the side table.

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

Chapter 3 Signs Of Miscarriage

Maya stared at the filing receipt, surprised.

She and Elara had been close friends for more than ten years, and in all that time, Maya had seen just how hard Elara loved Julian.

There was a time Elara could have died for him, and nobody would have questioned it.

They got married a year ago. Maya had smiled at the wedding, even though something about their pairing felt off.

But still, Elara had gotten what she wanted. That had been enough for Maya.

Now this…

What had happened?

“I don’t love him anymore,” Elara said, before Maya could ask.

She looked over and gave a small, calm smile.

In that smile, Maya caught a glimpse of the old Elara–the one from before everything collapsed, before grief carved deep lines into her, before her father’s death and the fall of the Vance family changed her.

It brought Maya a strange sense of calm.

“Julian doesn’t know I’m pr**nant,” Elara said calmly. “And before the divorce becomes final, I don’t want to take any risks. It’s better if he doesn’t know.”

If either party changed their mind before the divorce was finalized, they could take back the application, and the procedure would no longer go through.

And that was when Maya knew that Elara wasn’t playing around about divorcing Julian.

After taking it all in, Maya did what needed to be done: she booked Elara’s medical tests and then advised carefully, “Wait a few days before the surgery.”

Elara frowned in confusion. “Why?”

“You know your bl**d type–Rh-negative. It’s rare. We need time to prepare bl**d, just in case. I’ve already contacted the bl**d bank. They said it might take a week.”

Elara went quiet. The sadness in her eyes was unmistakable.

She had gotten that bl**d type from her father. And now she missed him all over again.

If he were still here…

“Okay.” Elara nodded slowly. A smile tugged at her lips, but her eyes turned red.

“You also have early signs of mi**arriage. You need to be careful these next few days,” Maya added, her voice full of concern.

They’d grown up together, and Maya knew Elara’s sadness too well.

She held Elara’s hand. “Wait for me. My shift’s almost over. I’ll go home with you.”

Elara nodded, and then went to wait in the hallway.

She looked down at her stomach.

Early signs of mi**arriage.

Did the baby know what she’d decided and want to leave first?

Pursing her lips, Elara walked toward the lab for the tests.

Her phone buzzed. It was a bank notification.

She had opened a new account–one that Julian wouldn’t know about. She was keeping her money cleanly separate before the divorce was finalized.

Every cent she earned from now on would live in that account.

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

Before she married Julian, Elara had worked quietly as an anonymous songwriter.

Music had always been her first love. Back when her father was alive, life had been generous, and she lacked nothing.

As the Vance family’s only daughter, she had the freedom and the means to grow her gift.

The turns her life had taken had taught her things she hadn’t known she needed to learn.

Maybe her father never thought that the pastime he once encouraged would one day be the very thing keeping her afloat.

Elara paused, and then typed back, “Money received. Thank you.”

The reply came quickly from Marcus Thorne, 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 return? There’s a new show coming up. It fits you perfectly. I’ve sent details to your email. Reserved a contestant slot just for you.”

Elara opened her email. A new message sat at the top, inviting her to join a music competition show.

The format was familiar, like others she had seen before, but this one wanted something original.

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

Then she set her phone down. A light cramp curled in her lower belly.

She thought of her father again.

The second time today.

…

Meanwhile, the Internet was buzzing with updates.

#SeraphinaRiversStomachCancer

#FloristSeraphinaRiversCountdown

#LastSixMonths

The most trending post was a video featuring a reporter summarizing the news about Seraphina.

“Sources confirm that the well-known floral designer, Seraphina Rivers, has been diagnosed with stomach cancer. She’s been given six months to live. But instead of retreating, she’s choosing to document her remaining time–she wants to share her life with the world as it winds down.”

The video cut to Seraphina. She looked at the camera with a sad smile.

“In these last six months, I’ll be posting updates about my life. I’m not doing it for attention. I just want to offer some comfort to others going through the same thing. I hope you all stay strong.”

Then the reporter came back on screen.

“There have long been whispers about Miss Rivers and Mr. Julian Croft, CEO of Croft Group. But Mr. Croft is married. It remains to be seen if he’ll reconnect with Miss Rivers during her final months.”

In the background, Seraphina seemed to have heard that part. She stepped forward, stopped beside the reporter, and gently cut in.

She faced the camera.

“I’m not ashamed to say I like Julian. He’s an incredible man,” she said. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels that way. But I want to make it clear–I’m not going to break up someone’s marriage. That’s not who I am.”

Having said that, she walked off, leaving the reporter behind.

She wove through the small crowd with a smile, and climbed into a waiting car.

The foreign caregiver from Flaville passed her a glass of water, hand paused in midair, unsure.

“You look like you want to say something,” Seraphina said, her voice cold. “Go ahead. The driver’s one of ours.”

The caregiver leaned in and lowered their voice. “Miss Rivers, your diagnosis… it’s a stomach ulcer. Having our facility change that into cancer is already risky. But now you’re sharing it with the public online?”

Seraphina gave a sharp laugh, startling the caregiver.

“Your facility–is it a licensed medical facility?” she asked.

The caregiver nodded.

“And does it manage my medical record privately?”

The caregiver gave another nod.

“Is that what my medical record says–that I have six months left because of terminal stomach cancer?”

The caregiver hesitated before nodding again.

“Exactly!” Seraphina leaned back with a smile. “It’s official, then. No one can question it.”

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

“There are two ways out,” Seraphina said, cutting in. Her voice was sharper now, her eyes harder. “One: I make a miraculous recovery during treatment at your facility or somewhere else, maybe because of all the love I’ve received. Two: your facility gets blamed for a diagnostic error and months of wrong treatment.”

She turned her face fully to the caregiver, looking more intimidating. “Which option do you prefer?”

The caregiver looked panicked but forced out the words. “I’m sorry, Miss Rivers. I understand. You’ve already thought everything through.”

Seraphina gave a short, cold smile.

“Where should we go next, Miss Rivers?” the caregiver asked in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Seraphina glanced at her phone. “Crobert Hospital.”

The caregiver stiffened. “But–“

“Relax. I’m only going in for pain relief with my medical record,” Seraphina said, and then reached for her phone and sent Julian a message, telling him to meet her at the hospital later.

Almost instantly, he replied, “Sure.”

Meanwhile, Elara stood in the hospital restroom, a steady ache pulling at her lower stomach. In her hand was a tissue, the smear of bl**d clear against the white.

It was an early sign of a mi**arriage.

Chapter 4 She Would Have No Ties With Julian

As Seraphina made her way to Crobert Hospital, the Internet was filled with comments about her diagnosis. Her name appeared across countless threads.

“To be honest, I think Seraphina’s brave. She’s clear about her feelings as well as boundaries. Quite impressive, actually.”

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

“Her older videos and that livestream from Crest Villa gave me a glimpse into rich people’s lives. It’s sad she won’t be around much longer.”

“Who’s Julian’s wife, though? She should just let him be with Seraphina. The girl has only six months left.”

“I know her. It’s Elara Vance, a musician. She stopped working after she got married and became a full-time housewife.”

…

At Crobert Hospital, Elara’s phone kept buzzing. Calls and messages came one after another.

Some people acted concerned. Others wanted information. A few tried to mock her. All of it was about Seraphina and Julian.

Elara had read just enough of the headlines to understand what was going on with Seraphina’s illness.

She didn’t click on anything else.

It didn’t matter anymore.

Once the divorce was finalized, Julian would no longer be a part of her life.

She checked the time. When she looked up, she saw Maya walking toward her.

“How are you feeling?” Maya asked, concerned. “Any pain?” She saw the strain on Elara’s face and, without needing to be asked, reached out to help her rise.

Elara gave a small smile and shook her head.

She had made up her mind. Some things simply had to be faced.

Maya understood, but she just sighed and helped Elara up. They took the elevator.

The elevator doors soon opened at the ground floor.

The hospital was packed. Even more than usual. Elara noticed a few reporters scattered in the crowd.

“So many people today. Probably another celebrity here for a check-up,” Maya said.

“They always bring this kind of attention…” She stopped at once, her face changing. She had seen something and quickly tried to lead Elara in the other direction.

But there was no point. Elara had already spotted them.

Julian stood tall, striking in a way that drew attention without effort.

The noise and movement around him didn’t touch him–his hair perfectly in place, his suit smooth and sharp, like the chaos didn’t dare come close.

Seraphina stood beside him. She looked small and weak, her face pale, which made her seem even more fragile.

She lost her balance slightly. Julian stepped in to catch her, shielding her from the cameras and the crowd.

“Don’t look,” Maya said quickly, stepping in front of Elara, her tone sharp with anger.

“Maya, let’s go,” Elara said, her voice calm. She had made up her mind; Julian didn’t need to know she was there, and she had no interest in crossing paths with him now.

“Why should we go?” Maya snapped, growing more furious. “You’re not divorced yet. He’s still your husband. And he’s here holding another woman like it’s nothing. It’s shameless.”

Husband…

Elara looked away, sighing.

There was a time she had secretly smiled just thinking about Julian being her husband.

But not anymore.

“I don’t feel well, Maya. Let’s just go,” Elara said, changing the topic.

Maya gave her full attention now and stopped looking in Julian and Seraphina’s direction.

They left. Across the lobby, Seraphina glanced over. A flicker of pride passed through her face.

“I’m sorry, Julian. I didn’t mean to drag you into this mess,” she said, a tinge of remorse in her voice. “I know you hate being in the spotlight…”

“It’s fine,” Julian replied. “Let’s go see the doctor first.” His face stayed calm, but something stirred in his thoughts–something brief, hard to name.

They stepped into the consultation room.

Seraphina handed over her medical record to the doctor.

The doctor read through it, slowly, and frowned.

“This looks serious,” he said.

Seraphina gave a faint smile. “I know,” she said quietly. Then she took a slow breath. “Please prescribe something strong for the pain.”

“In your current condition, I suggest you stay in the hospital and begin treatment,” the doctor said. “You should try. There’s still a chance we can extend your life.”

“What’s the point?” Seraphina gave a sad smile.

She brushed away the tears building in her eyes, and then said quietly, “I don’t want treatment.”

Julian’s fingers curled tighter around hers.

She gave a small shake of her head.

“Doctor, I just want to spend the last phase of my life with some dignity,” she said. “So, please prescribe some strong painkillers.”

The doctor sighed deeply but finally nodded in understanding.

Outside, reporters were taking photos and recording videos without pause before posting them online.

People watching were emotional.

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

“I cry when I’m in mild pain. I can’t imagine what late-stage cancer feels like. But she still manages to smile. She’s really strong.”

“I couldn’t hold back tears when she said she wouldn’t go through treatment. Only people who’ve faced serious illness understand this feeling.”

Public sympathy for Seraphina reached its highest point.

…

Seraphina soon got her medicine, and as she and Julian walked out of the hospital, Elara was sitting on a bench nearby. She was waiting for Maya, who had gone to get the car.

Before Elara could respond to what was happening, paparazzi noticed her and rushed over.

The camera flashes came all at once.

Julian saw her too. He frowned and asked, “What are you doing here?”

Elara stood up, glanced at Julian, and then at Seraphina’s hand resting on his arm.

She didn’t speak yet. The crowd didn’t give her the chance.

“Mrs. Croft, did you come because of what’s online? Are you trying to catch them together?”

“What do you think of your husband being out in public with someone else?”

“Mrs. Croft, what are you planning to do about Seraphina?”

People quickly decided that Elara had shown up on purpose–to face Seraphina directly, to start something.

Even Julian thought the same.

He looked annoyed.

“Seraphina is sick. Didn’t you know?” he barked.

Julian’s voice was brimming with menace.

Elara felt like laughing.

So that was what he believed–that she was picking a fight on purpose with someone who was ill.

Julian really didn’t know her.

Seeing Elara didn’t answer, the reporters turned to Seraphina, asking questions about breaking up someone’s marriage.

Julian looked at Elara again. “Elara!” he called. He wanted her to defend Seraphina.

Like always, he expected her to do what he wanted.

But the will to please him was gone.

She was walking away from him–there was no reason left to obey.

Elara placed her right hand over her stomach. The dull ache was still there.

“I came to visit a friend,” she said finally.

She didn’t want to say more. Her pr**nancy wasn’t something she wanted to share–not before the divorce was finalized, not with all eyes on her.

Her reply to his question earlier was simple.

Having answered Julian, Elara turned to leave.

But the reporters didn’t back off. They crowded in around her.

“Mrs. Croft, people online are asking you to step aside and let Mr. Croft be with Seraphina. What do you say to that?”

“Seraphina doesn’t have long. Are you still going to fight her?”

“Mrs. Croft–“

Elara didn’t bother responding; she just wanted to get away.

The crowd, thrilled to see the three of them in the same place at last, had no intention of letting it end.

Julian stood still, saying nothing, and that silence gave someone the boldness to shove Elara with force.

She staggered, her arms moving at once to shield her stomach.

Chapter 5 To Let Go Of The Past

Elara landed hard, her back hitting the ground first.

Cameras flashed wildly, capturing the fall from every angle.

She looked toward Julian by instinct. But his face gave nothing–just a cold, still stare.

And in that moment, she understood what he wanted her to do, and it stung her heart.

He wanted her to speak for him. To tell the press it was all a misunderstanding. That Seraphina was ill, and he had only come out of concern. That it was kindness, not betrayal.

Clutching her belly, Elara lowered her head and let a faint smile slip across her face.

The sky above was clear, and sunlight streamed through gaps in the crowd. But none of it touched her.

She steadied herself and rose slowly.

Then, without looking back, she said calmly, “I feel sorry for Miss Rivers. But that’s all.”

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

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

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

“Elara!” Julian called after her, his face red with rage.

But she didn’t turn around. She stood tall and kept walking.

Maya got out and moved quickly toward her friend, scoffing as they left, “You’d think they were the married couple confronting the home-wrecker. Absolutely ridiculous.”

Seraphina’s lips parted to respond. “You…”

But Maya cut in before she could say a word. “What? Tell me I’m wrong. If you’re planning to use the press to scare me, go ahead. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Seraphina’s face turned even paler, looking as if she might faint.

Reporters scrambled, voices rising all at once.

Maya ushered Elara into the car, not sparing another glance behind them.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “She’s definitely faking it. I’ve seen enough of these cases to tell in a second.”

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

At a red light, Maya grinned and nudged her. “Don’t forget my dad’s the hospital director.”

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

Maya shrugged. “You never know when a connection comes in handy. Honestly, sometimes I wish all the powerful people out there were my dads.”

They both laughed, the tension slowly easing from Elara’s face. As the light turned green, the car moved forward again.

“I’ve got the afternoon free,” Maya said, stretching. “Whatever you need, I’m ready.”

Playing along, Elara turned to her with a sly grin. “Great. I need help with something.”

“What is it?” Maya asked curiously.

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

Maya gr**ned but gave in.

Before long, the two of them arrived at the house Elara had shared with Julian, along with a team of movers and organizers.

The house had come together quickly after their rushed wedding.

Everything–furniture and layout–had felt temporary at first. But over the year, Elara had made a home out of it, filling it with warmth.

At least, she tried.

Maya directed the workers while Elara moved quietly around the room, her hands light on every object. On a shelf, she spotted a bottle of Chanel No. 5.

The first gift Julian ever gave her. He’d brought it back from a business trip.

He came straight to her from the airport.

He had pulled her into his arms. His ki**es were quick, urgent. They had been just like any young couple in love back then.

She opened the bottle and sprayed it once. The scent filled the room.

She remembered how he had ki**ed her lightly after spraying it on her skin.

“Should I pack this too?” Maya asked, seeing the perfume.

Elara glanced over and shook her head. “Leave it.”

She slipped off the wedding ring Julian had picked without thought, placing it gently on the table.

But as the movers shuffled back and forth through the space, she paused. Then, quietly, she opened a drawer and put both the perfume and the ring inside.

Soon, the house had been cleared of every trace of her. Only that bottle and that ring remained.

Packing up had been tiring, but once the decision was made, it moved quickly.

It was the same with her feelings.

The wind moved softly through her hair as the car headed toward her new place. Behind her, the mansion faded in the rearview mirror.

Sometimes, to move forward, one had to leave parts of oneself behind.

Elara had things to do.

The fall of the Vance family, the unanswered questions around her father’s sudden death–she was going to find the truth.

Her life had always been shaped by what others needed.

Now it was time to live for herself.

She decided to begin with the music show. It would bring in money, and more importantly, might reconnect her with people linked to her father’s past.

She pulled out her phone, found the right contact, and typed her message. “I’m joining the music program.”

…

Seraphina was still crying.

Julian sat beside her, muttering words of comfort. But his thoughts were filled with the image of Elara standing with her back to him, saying those words.

She had known exactly what he wanted her to say. And she had chosen not to.

He had sent her message after message. She hadn’t replied any of them.

She had been acting strangely lately.

The change in her was too sharp, too sudden. She was provoking him on purpose.

She had done it when they filed for divorce. And again at the hospital.

Julian remembered the look in her eyes the night before, when she asked if he truly made up his mind about the divorce.

She had been sad but also calm.

An unexpected fear filled his heart.

“Julian, don’t be angry at Elara,” Seraphina said through tears. “I know she’s upset. After seeing the videos online, she must’ve come to confront us. And I understand.”

She burst into tears. “After all… I’m the one who took something from her. I’m taking six months from your marriage–what’s left of it. If she lashes out at me, I deserve it…”

As she spoke, she started coughing–hard.

A second later, she spat bl**d into her hand.

“Seraphina!” Julian jumped up, reaching for his phone to call for an ambulance.

As for Elara’s sudden change, he brushed it off as moodiness. In his mind, she wouldn’t dare walk away.

Seraphina reached out and stopped him, still smiling faintly. “It’s the cancer. It’s late-stage. This happens. Don’t worry.”

Her caregiver helped her lie back down.

Julian turned away, already thinking of confronting Elara. As soon as he left the room, Seraphina calmly wiped her mouth and pulled out a small bl**d bag hidden in her cheek.

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

Then she began to go through the news reports excitedly.

The entire online community seemed against Elara.

“Seraphina didn’t even go for life-saving treatment–she just wanted pain meds. Elara really made a scene for no reason.”

“Seraphina’s dying, and Elara still wants to pick fights?”

“Mr. Croft and Seraphina look perfect together. Like a real power couple.”

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

“Elara, just step aside already!”

“Elara, divorce Julian!”

“Yeah, divorce Julian!”

“Divorce!”

Seraphina chuckled as she read the comments. Then she sent a message to a contact and gave a few instructions.

“Today’s move was perfect. Keep the pressure up. Make sure Elara stays where she is–down. Oh, and find out why she went to the hospital today.”

The silence was the first thing Julian noticed. It wasn’t the peaceful quiet of a sleeping house; it was a deep, hollow void that seemed to swallow sound.

He returned to the mansion well past midnight, the acrid taste of cheap champagne from a pointless networking event still on his tongue.

He’d expected the familiar, soft glow of the living room lamp, a beacon Elara always left burning for him, a silent testament to her waiting. Tonight, the house was a tomb of darkness.

He flipped a switch, and the sudden, sterile glare of the grand chandelier was almost painful. It illuminated a space that was both his and not his.

The custom Italian sofa was in its place, the Persian rug centered perfectly, but the soul of the room was gone.

The cashmere throw she always draped over the arm of the sofa, the one he’d pretend to be annoyed by but secretly found comfort in, was missing. The small stack of classic novels on the mahogany side table, their pages dog-eared, had vanished.

He took a breath, expecting the faint, signature scent of her perfume—a mix of vanilla and something floral he could never name—but the air was stale, lifeless, smelling only of polish and emptiness.

A prickle of irritation, sharp and unwelcome, ran down his spine. This was childish. She was taking this act too far.

He strode through the echoing hall and up the sweeping staircase, his footsteps unnervingly loud in the quiet. He pushed open the door to the master bedroom.

The king-sized bed was impeccably made, a sterile display from a furniture catalog. Her side of the massive walk-in closet was a ghostly expanse of empty hangers and vacant shelves.

He ran a hand over the smooth wood where her sweaters used to be folded in neat, colorful stacks. Nothing.

He opened the top drawer of her vanity out of habit, the place she kept her jewelry. It was empty, save for two items placed deliberately in the center of the velvet lining.

A single, almost-full bottle of Chanel No. 5—the first gift he’d ever given her. And beside it, the simple platinum wedding band he’d slid onto her finger a year ago.

He picked up the ring. It was cold, a dead weight in his palm. It felt insignificant, a prop from a play that had ended its run.

The irritation morphed into a surge of anger. He wasn’t sad; he was insulted.

Did she truly think she could provoke him like this? He was Julian Croft. She was his wife.

This was a temporary, six-month arrangement for Seraphina’s sake, and Elara was turning it into a melodrama.

He tossed the ring back into the drawer, the clatter sharp and final in the silent room. She would come back. She always did.

Across the sprawling, indifferent city, Elara was unpacking the last of her cardboard boxes.

The apartment she had rented under her mother’s maiden name was modest, a world away from the Croft mansion. It had a small galley kitchen, a single bedroom, and a living area with a large, beautiful window that overlooked a street lined with old maple trees.

The late afternoon sun streamed through that window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, golden sprites. The air smelled of fresh paint and her future.

The space was small, but it was profoundly, intoxicatingly hers. It felt more real, more alive, than the gilded cage she had so recently escaped.

Maya had helped her move the few personal belongings she’d taken: her books, her clothes, her father’s old sheet music, and a worn acoustic guitar.

As she placed a framed photo of her smiling parents on a small bookshelf, her phone buzzed with an email notification. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

It was from the producer of “A-Side,” the televised music competition she had submitted a demo to under a pseudonym.

Subject: Your Submission to A-Side

Dear Luna,

The judges panel was exceptionally impressed with your anonymous submission, “Sunken Cargo.” Your unique compositional style and the emotional depth of your lyrics stood out amongst thousands of entries. We are pleased to offer you a slot in the first televised preliminary round. Your performance is scheduled in three days. Please confirm your participation by end of day.

A thrill, pure and electric, a feeling she hadn’t experienced in years, surged through her.

Luna. She smiled at the name she’d chosen. A celestial body that only reflects light, often hidden in the shadow of the sun. It felt appropriate.

This was the first step, a concrete move away from being Elara Vance-Croft, Julian’s shadow. This was her reclaiming her own light.

She walked to the large window, looking down at the bustling street below. A couple walked hand-in-hand, laughing. A child chased a pigeon. Life, in all its simple, beautiful complexity, was happening all around her.

Her hand instinctively drifted to her lower abdomen, where the persistent, dull ache remained a constant, low thrum beneath the surface of her new resolve.

The baby.

Her decision at Sterling Medical Center had felt so clear, so brutally necessary. A clean break. No ties. But now, in the liberating quiet of her own space, a fragile seed of doubt began to sprout.

This child was the last, innocent link to a love she was now determined to forget. But it was also a part of her. A melody she hadn’t written yet.

A life conceived not in love, perhaps, but not in hate either. It was a life.

The week Maya had insisted she wait before the procedure, citing the need to secure a supply of her rare blood type, now felt less like a medical precaution and more like a period of grace.

A lifetime to decide in seven short days. The ache in her belly sharpened, a poignant, physical reminder of the impossible choice that lay ahead.

Chapter 7: The Voice of Luna

The backstage area of the “A-Side” studio was a chaotic symphony of controlled panic.

Hairspray hung thick in the air, mingling with the scent of nervous sweat. Harried producers with headsets barked orders into walkie-talkies.

Contestants, in various states of glittering readiness, paced narrow corridors, muttering lyrics to themselves or engaging in last-minute, frantic vocal warm-ups. It was a pressure cooker of ambition and anxiety.

Elara, registered under the simple, enigmatic name “Luna,” felt strangely, unnervingly calm.

She sat on a worn armchair in a small, shared dressing room, her guitar case resting at her feet. She wore simple black trousers and a soft, cream-colored silk blouse—an outfit designed to make her disappear, to let the music speak for itself.

For seven years, her identity had been a reflection of Julian’s. She was Mrs. Croft, the quiet, elegant wife who organized his life and hosted his parties. Tonight, she was shedding that skin.

She was just a voice, a melody, a story waiting to be heard.

“Luna! You’re on in two minutes!” a stagehand called out, startling her from her reverie.

She stood, her legs steady. She walked down the narrow corridor towards the sliver of brilliant light that marked the stage entrance. The roar of the live studio audience was a distant, muffled beast.

She could hear the host wrapping up his introduction. “…a mysterious new talent who submitted her demo without a name or a face, asking only to be judged on her song. Please welcome… Luna!”

As she walked onto the circular stage, the world dissolved into a blinding glare of spotlights. The faces of the audience were a blur of indistinct shapes.

The only things that felt real were the grand piano at the center of the stage and the three intimidating silhouettes seated behind a long, glowing desk. The judges.

On the left was pop superstar Sierra Jones. In the middle, rock legend Axel Stone. And on the right, the one who made her breath catch, was Marcus Thorne, a legendary producer with a formidable reputation.

He was known for his brutally honest critiques and his uncanny ability to spot true, unvarnished talent. He had also been her father’s closest friend.

She gave a small, polite nod to the judges and sat at the piano. The polished keys felt cool and solid beneath her fingertips.

She closed her eyes for a single, centering moment, took a deep breath, and began to play. The song was “Sunken Cargo,” the one she had submitted.

It was a haunting, melancholic ballad she had written years ago in a moment of grief, but its lyrics had taken on a new, searing relevance. It was about a ship captain who, caught in a storm, realizes the only way to save the vessel is to release the precious cargo it carries—chests of gold, silks, and memories—to the bottom of the unforgiving sea.

Her voice, when it came, was not a powerhouse of technical perfection. It was something more potent.

It was clear, pure, and filled with a raw, aching vulnerability that seemed to seep into the very air of the auditorium. It was the voice of heartbreak, of loss, of a devastating choice made out of necessity. It was a voice that had been silenced for far too long.

“The anchor’s cut, the ropes are frayed,” she sang, her eyes closed, lost in the music. “This treasure’s just a price I’ve paid… Let it sink to the ocean floor, I can’t carry it anymore…”

When the final, sorrowful note faded into the vastness of the studio, a profound, heavy silence held the room captive. No one coughed. No one moved. It was as if the entire audience was holding its collective breath.

Then, someone in the back started to clap, a single, stark sound that broke the spell, and the room erupted into a tidal wave of thunderous, heartfelt applause.

Elara opened her eyes, blinking against the lights, a faint flush on her cheeks.

Sierra Jones was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “I… I have goosebumps,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “The story you told… it felt so incredibly real. It was heartbreakingly beautiful.”

Axel Stone, known for his gruff exterior, simply nodded slowly. “That was pure artistry. No cheap tricks, no flashy vocals. Just… truth. That was the real stuff.”

Marcus Thorne, however, remained silent for a long, unnerving moment, his elbows on the desk, his fingers steepled in front of his lips. He was studying her with an intensity that made her feel completely transparent.

“That style of composition,” he finally said, his voice a low, raspy baritone that commanded attention. “The intricate chord progressions, the way the melody weaves through the lyrical narrative… it’s incredibly distinctive.”

“It’s reminiscent of an old, dear friend of mine. A brilliant composer who was taken from us far too soon. Richard Vance.”

Elara’s heart stopped dead in her chest. A cold shock washed over her. He was talking about her father. He recognized his influence, his musical DNA, in her work.

Marcus leaned forward, his gaze piercing, insistent. “The judges have your file here, and it’s blank. No last name, no history. I have to ask. Who are you, Luna?”

The cameras zoomed in on her face. The entire world, it seemed, was waiting for her answer.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I’m just a songwriter, sir,” she replied, her voice remarkably steady despite the tremor that had taken root deep inside her. “I’d like the music to speak for itself.”

Her mysterious, powerful performance became the undisputed highlight of the show. Her name, or rather her pseudonym, was trending on social media within minutes.

But even as genuine praise flooded in from music lovers, a different, more sinister narrative was being aggressively spun. Anonymous accounts, clearly organized and relentlessly persistent, began to flood every post about her.

“While his sick, dying soulmate fights for her life, Julian Croft’s trophy wife is gallivanting on a reality TV show. The definition of heartless.”

“Notice how she’s hiding her face and won’t give her name? She’s probably ashamed to be seen in public after what she did at the hospital.”

“This is just a desperate, pathetic attempt to get attention away from the real victim, Seraphina. I hope she gets voted off first round.”

“What kind of wife abandons her husband’s family when they need her most, all to sing some sad little song for fame? Disgusting.”

Elara sat in her small apartment later that night, scrolling through the comments on her laptop. The venom of the words was a familiar, bitter sting.

Julian’s world, Seraphina’s world, was trying to pull her back into the shadows, to define her by their narrative.

She closed the browser, the hateful words glowing for a moment on the dark screen. It didn’t matter. For the first time in seven long years, she had her own voice, and she would not let them silence it again.

Chapter 8: The Weapon and the Weakness

In her lavish, penthouse apartment, surrounded by towering arrangements of white orchids that filled the air with a cloyingly sweet fragrance, Seraphina Rivers watched the clip of Luna’s performance on her tablet.

She replayed it three times, a sneer of contempt twisting her beautiful lips. The raw, undeniable talent was a personal affront. The public’s overwhelmingly positive reaction was infuriating.

“She’s more resilient than I gave her credit for,” Seraphina muttered to her caregiver, who was silently polishing a silver tray in the corner. “This quiet, mousy act is just that—an act. She’s playing the victim, and they’re eating it up.”

She tossed the tablet onto the silk settee. The public sympathy she had so carefully cultivated with her “dying cancer patient” narrative was being threatened by this mysterious, soulful singer.

She needed to reassert control, to remind everyone who the real protagonist of this drama was.

Just then, her private phone, the one she used for more delicate matters, buzzed on the marble coffee table. It was her private investigator, a former tabloid journalist with no discernible scruples.

“I have the information you wanted,” the man’s oily voice said on the other end. “It took some digging, and a rather generous ‘donation’ to a records clerk, but I found out about Elara Vance’s visit to Sterling Medical Center.”

Seraphina sat up straighter, her full attention captured. “And?”

“She didn’t visit a friend. She didn’t have a check-up. Her appointment was with Dr. Maya Khan. Head of the obstetrics and gynecology wing.”

Seraphina went completely still. The words hung in the air. OB-GYN.

The implications hit her not like a bolt of lightning, but like the slow, satisfying click of a tumbler falling into place in a complex lock.

Pregnancy. A baby. Julian’s baby.

This was a complication she hadn’t anticipated, but it was also, she realized with a dizzying rush of excitement, the most powerful weapon she could ever have hoped for. A triumphant, exquisitely cruel smile spread across her face.

“Is there more?” she purred, her mind already racing, connecting dots, formulating a strategy.

“Yes,” the investigator continued. “Dr. Khan’s private schedule was… accessible. There’s a follow-up appointment for Mrs. Croft-Vance in two days. It’s coded as a ‘surgical procedure.’ Given the department, there are only a few things that could mean.”

“She’s getting rid of it,” Seraphina whispered, the words tasting like victory. “Oh, this is perfect. How deliciously, wonderfully tragic.”

She now held the ultimate trump card. A secret pregnancy was leverage. But a secret terminated pregnancy? That was a character assassination tool of the highest order.

She wouldn’t use it yet. The timing had to be perfect. She would wait until Luna, until Elara, was at her highest point.

She would let her believe she was winning, that she had escaped. And then, she would bring her crashing down in the most public, most humiliating way imaginable.

Julian, meanwhile, was finding his own perfectly ordered world beginning to fray at the edges.

His business life, the realm where he was king, remained pristine. Deals were closed, profits soared. But his personal life, the domain Elara had managed with silent, invisible efficiency, was descending into a state of low-grade chaos.

This morning, he’d spent ten minutes searching for a matching pair of cufflinks, an item she always laid out for him beside his watch.

At a crucial board meeting, he’d been unable to find a specific market analysis file on his laptop, a file she would have not only prepared but also flagged for his attention.

He’d snapped at his assistant, a young, competent woman who looked at him with wide, fearful eyes, and immediately felt a pang of… something. Not guilt, precisely, but a deep-seated irritation at his own incompetence in these trivial domestic matters.

These were small things, insignificant annoyances, but they were cracks in the flawless facade of his life, and they were growing.

He was beginning to feel her absence not as a missing person, but as a missing limb, an essential part of his own functionality that he had taken for granted until it was gone.

He still told himself it was a tantrum, a phase. But the seed of a terrifying thought had been planted: what if it wasn’t?

Later that evening, Elara’s phone rang. It was an unknown number, a local landline. She almost ignored it, but something compelled her to answer.

“Hello?”

“Elara, dear? Is that you? It’s Beatrice.”

Julian’s grandmother. Elara’s heart did a painful clench. Of all the Crofts, Beatrice had always been the one who saw her, not just the convenient wife for her grandson.

She had treated Elara with a genuine warmth and affection that had been a balm on many lonely days.

“Grandma Bea,” Elara said, her voice soft with an emotion she couldn’t hide. “How are you?”

“I’m old and stubborn, same as always,” the old woman’s voice crackled with a familiar, wry humor. But then it turned serious.

“I know Julian told you not to tell us about… whatever this mess is. But I’m not a fool, child. I see the papers, I hear the whispers. Things are not right with you two.”

“I called the house, and the housekeeper said you haven’t been there in days. Are you alright, dear? That boy… he is proud and he is foolish, and he doesn’t know how lucky he is to have you.”

Tears, hot and unexpected, welled in Elara’s eyes. She had been so focused on the fight, on her own survival, that she hadn’t allowed herself to feel the grief of losing this part of her life.

“I’m okay, Grandma,” she managed to say, her voice thick. “I promise, I’m taking care of myself.”

“Good,” Beatrice said firmly. “You do that. You were always too good for him, you know. You have a light in you, Elara. Don’t let him, or anyone else, put it out.”

“Whatever happens between you and my grandson, you will always be my granddaughter. Don’t you ever forget that.”

After the call ended, Elara sat in the deepening twilight of her apartment, the city lights beginning to twinkle outside her window. She didn’t move for a long time.

Beatrice’s unconditional kindness, her words of support, felt like both a blessing and a burden.

The thought of the termination surgery, now just two days away, felt like a heavy, cold stone in her stomach.

Beatrice’s voice echoed in her mind: You will always be my granddaughter. A grandchild. A great-grandchild.

Suddenly, the decision was no longer a simple, surgical severing of ties with Julian. It was tangled up in love, in family, in a future she hadn’t allowed herself to imagine.

The sterile clarity of her decision was gone, replaced by a messy, heartbreaking, and profoundly human conflict.

Chapter 9: The Confrontation

Julian’s frustration had simmered for days, slowly building to a boil.

Elara’s continued silence was a defiance he had never before encountered from her. The house, once his sanctuary, now felt like a sterile mausoleum echoing with her absence.

His well-ordered life was full of jarring little dissonances—the wrong brand of coffee, a poorly ironed shirt, the crushing silence where her soft humming used to be.

Then came her audacious performance on “A-Side.” He’d watched the clip online, his jaw tightening with every note she sang.

The vulnerability, the raw talent, the way the audience and judges reacted to her—it was galling.

She was creating a new identity, a new life, right before his eyes, a life that had absolutely nothing to do with him. It was a public declaration of independence, and he took it as a personal insult.

This wasn’t part of their deal. The deal was for her to wait quietly in the wings for six months. Not to become… Luna.

The final straw was the call from his grandmother. Beatrice had been curt, her voice laced with a disappointment so profound it felt like a physical blow. “You let her go, didn’t you, Julian? You foolish, foolish boy. You let go of the only real thing you had.”

He slammed the phone down, his carefully maintained composure shattering. This had gone on long enough.

He was going to put an end to this charade, right now. After making a single, angry phone call to a very reluctant Maya Khan, he had Elara’s new address.

He found her walking out of her apartment building, carrying a canvas tote bag filled with groceries.

She looked different. Thinner, perhaps, and paler than he remembered, but there was a new steel in her posture, a resolute set to her jaw that was entirely unfamiliar.

She stopped when she saw him standing there, his black Maybach parked haphazardly by the curb, a gleaming predator in the quiet, tree-lined street.

“Elara,” he said, his voice clipped and cold as he blocked her path. “This game is over. Get in the car. What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

She looked at him, and her eyes were the biggest shock of all. They were clear, calm, and utterly devoid of the soft, adoring light he was so accustomed to seeing there.

It was like looking at a polite, distant stranger.

“I’m living my life, Julian,” she said, her voice even. “I suggest you go and do the same with yours.”

He let out a short, incredulous laugh. The arrogance, the absolute certainty of his position, was his armor. “My life includes you. Our deal was for six months.”

“This… this television nonsense, this little apartment… it’s a cute tantrum, but it’s over now. You’re my wife. You will come home.” He reached for her arm, expecting her to yield as she always did.

She took a step back, pulling her arm away from his grasp. The movement was not sharp or angry; it was simple, decisive, and utterly final.

“No,” she said, her voice still quiet but as unyielding as granite. “I won’t. I signed the divorce papers, Julian. I gave you exactly what you asked for.”

“This is not a game. There is no ‘us’ in six months. There is no ‘us’ at all.”

For the first time since this ordeal began, he saw it. The unwavering finality in her eyes. The truth of her words crashed through his armor of arrogance and struck him with the force of a physical blow.

This wasn’t a strategy to make him jealous. This wasn’t a play for more money in the divorce. She was actually leaving him.

The foundational certainty that had underpinned his entire world for seven years—that Elara was his, that she would always be there, that she couldn’t leave him—cracked and then shattered into a thousand pieces.

A feeling he couldn’t name, a terrifying mix of disbelief and raw panic, clawed its way up his throat. He was Julian Croft. People didn’t leave him. Especially not her.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he whispered, and the sound of his own voice, thin and laced with a tremor of real fear, shocked him.

Elara looked at the man she had loved for so long, the man who was now a stranger filled with a panicked rage.

There was no victory in this moment, only a deep, profound sadness for what they had lost, for what they had never truly had.

“I already have,” she said softly.

She stepped around him, her shoulder barely brushing his, and walked down the pavement towards her apartment building, her steps even and sure.

She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to.

She left him standing alone on the pavement, the setting sun casting his long, solitary shadow behind him, utterly, completely stunned.

Chapter 10: The Unveiling

It was the night of the “A-Side” semi-finals. The air in the studio crackled with an almost unbearable tension.

Elara, as Luna, was no longer just a mysterious contestant; she was the dark horse, the breakout star, the soulful enigma who had captivated a nation.

The media frenzy around her was relentless. Who was Luna? Where did she come from? Her refusal to reveal her identity only fueled the public’s fascination.

Backstage, Elara felt a strange sense of calm descend upon her. The online hate campaign was still raging, but it felt distant now, like the buzzing of a fly in another room.

On stage, under the lights, none of it could touch her. There, she wasn’t Julian’s wife or Seraphina’s rival. She was Luna, and her only truth was the music.

Her conversation with Beatrice and the terrifying finality of her confrontation with Julian had solidified something within her. The next morning, she had called Maya.

“Cancel the procedure,” she had said, her voice shaking but firm. “I’m keeping the baby.”

The decision had settled in her heart not with joy, but with a quiet, fierce sense of purpose. She wasn’t just fighting for herself anymore.

Tonight’s song was new, one she had written in a single, feverish flurry of inspiration over the last week. It was called “Unchained.”

It was not a ballad of heartbreak, but a powerful, soaring anthem of self-reclamation, of breaking chains, of finding one’s own worth after being told you have none. It was her declaration.

When she walked onto the stage, the applause was deafening. She smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that reached her eyes, and the audience roared louder.

She saw Marcus Thorne in the judges’ panel give her a subtle, encouraging nod. He had become her silent champion, defending her artistry against the other judges’ push for more “commercial” songs.

She sat at the piano and began to play. The music was stronger this time, the chords bold and resonant. And when she sang, her voice was different.

The vulnerability was still there, but it was underpinned by an undeniable strength, a fire that had been forged in the crucible of her pain.

“You took the air, you took the light, you told me wrong was always right,” she sang, her voice rising with each line. “But a gilded cage is still a cage, it’s time for me to turn the page!”

She poured every ounce of her pain, her anger, her grief, and her fierce, newfound hope into the performance.

For the final chorus, she stood up from the piano, clutching the microphone, her eyes blazing with conviction. “This melody is mine alone, I’m standing on a brand new stone! And I’m unchained, I’m unchained, in the fire and the rain, I am finally, finally unchained!”

The final note soared through the auditorium, a testament to her survival, her rebirth. The audience was on its feet before the song even ended, the applause a physical force.

The judges were standing too, their faces a mixture of awe and profound emotion. Marcus Thorne was beaming, a look of almost paternal pride on his face.

This was her moment. This was her victory.

As the thunderous applause washed over her, she felt a single tear of gratitude and relief slide down her cheek. She had done it. Against all odds, she was free.

But then, something on the giant LED screen behind the judges, the screen that was supposed to be showing her moniker, ‘LUNA,’ flickered.

The show’s logo was abruptly replaced by the garish, sensationalist banner of a notorious online gossip network, “The Insider.”

A picture of her and Julian on their sun-drenched wedding day flashed on the screen, immediately followed by a more recent, grainy paparazzi photo of her walking into Sterling Medical Center, her face etched with worry.

The headline, written in a bold, venomous font, filled the massive screen, broadcast live to millions of viewers.

EXCLUSIVE: A-SIDE’S MYSTERY STAR ‘LUNA’ UNMASKED! JULIAN CROFT’S WIFE, ELARA VANCE, SOUGHT TO SECRETLY TERMINATE PREGNANCY AMIDST HUSBAND’S TRAGIC AFFAIR. IS THIS A DESPERATE PLEA FOR ATTENTION, OR COLD-HEARTED REVENGE?

A collective, horrified gasp swept through the auditorium like a shockwave.

The deafening applause died instantly, plunging the studio into a stunning, absolute silence.

Every light, every camera, every eye in the room, in the country, was on her.

The broadcast director, in a moment of cruel genius, zoomed in on Elara’s face, capturing her radiant, tear-streaked smile as it froze, contorted, and then crumbled into an expression of pure, unadulterated horror.

Her most private, painful secret—a secret she had only just reconciled within her own heart—was brutally exposed to the world, turning her ultimate moment of triumph into a horrifying public crucifixion.

The silence was a physical thing. It crashed down upon the studio, a deafening vacuum where the thunderous applause had been only seconds before.

For Elara, standing in the white-hot center of a million gazes, the world dissolved into a sickening, slow-motion blur.

The monstrous headline on the screen behind the judges was an accusation seared onto her retinas. Terminate Pregnancy. Tragic Affair. Cold-Hearted Revenge.

Her carefully constructed composure, the armor she had forged in the fire of Julian’s betrayal, shattered into a million pieces.

The microphone felt impossibly heavy in her hand. Her breath hitched, a strangled sob caught in her throat.

The faces in the crowd warped into a grotesque tableau of shock, pity, and accusation.

This wasn’t just an attack; it was an annihilation. Seraphina hadn’t just exposed a secret; she had twisted it into the ugliest weapon imaginable, painting Elara as a monster in her own moment of triumph.

Before the show’s host could stammer his way to her side for a live, on-air comment, a figure rose from the judges’ table. It was Marcus Thorne.

With a look of cold fury that silenced the producers squawking in his earpiece, he strode onto the stage. He ignored the cameras, his focus entirely on Elara.

He gently took the microphone from her trembling hand and put a steadying arm around her shoulders.

“The show is over for tonight,” he announced, his voice a low growl that resonated with absolute authority through the studio.

He turned to the other judges. “And if this network has a single shred of decency, they will cut this broadcast immediately.” He shielded Elara from the cameras with his own body and guided her off the stage, away from the prying eyes and the suffocating silence.

The last thing Elara saw before the darkness of the backstage corridor enveloped her was the headline, still burning on the screen, a monument to her public execution.

Miles away, in the sterile quiet of his mansion, Julian Croft watched the entire scene unfold on his 80-inch television.

He had been flipping through channels, a restless energy coursing through him since his confrontation with Elara, when he’d landed on “A-Side.”

He’d watched her performance, a confusing storm of emotions swirling within him—annoyance at her defiance, a grudging respect for her talent, and a strange, unfamiliar pang of… pride.

She was magnificent. Then the headline had appeared.

The glass of scotch in his hand slipped, shattering on the marble floor. He didn’t notice. The words on the screen seemed to rearrange the very structure of his reality. 

Pregnancy. Elara was pregnant. He was going to be a father. The thought was a seismic shock, a life-altering revelation delivered by a gossip network.

Then the rest of the words registered. Terminate. She had been going to the hospital to end the pregnancy. His child.

He felt a sudden, violent lurch in his gut, a mix of rage, betrayal, and a deep, hollow ache he couldn’t name. And then, the final piece: Tragic Affair.

They were talking about him. About Seraphina.

The public narrative wasn’t just about Elara; it was about him. He was the villain, the cheating husband whose actions had driven his wife to this desperate, horrific decision. His mind reeled.

The carefully controlled world of Julian Croft, built on power, reputation, and public perception, was imploding on live television.

In her penthouse, Seraphina held a glass of champagne, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. It had worked more perfectly than she could have ever imagined.

The investigator had delivered the information, and she had leaked it to “The Insider” with a carefully crafted narrative.

She had not only destroyed Elara’s career before it could even begin, but she had also painted her as a vindictive, unstable woman. She watched Elara’s face crumble on screen and took a slow, satisfying sip.

Julian would see this. He would see how unstable Elara was, how she had kept this secret from him, how she had planned to destroy a part of him.

He would come running back to her, to the calm, loving, dying woman who would never cause such a scene. She had won.

Backstage, Marcus had ushered Elara into his private dressing room, locking the door behind them.

The distant sounds of chaos still filtered through, but in here, there was a fragile peace. He handed her a bottle of water.

“Drink,” he said gently. “Breathe.”

Elara sank onto a sofa, wrapping her arms around her stomach, a protective, instinctual gesture. “He knows,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “The whole world knows.”

“The world knows a lie,” Marcus corrected, his voice firm. “A vicious, calculated lie. Elara…”

He paused, his expression softening.

“I need to tell you. I suspected who you were from the moment I heard your demo. Your father’s gift… it lives in you. I was just waiting for you to be ready to claim it.”

He knelt in front of her, his eyes, so full of wisdom and kindness, meeting hers. “Richard Vance was the strongest man I ever knew. You are his daughter. This will not break you.”

His words were an anchor in the storm. She was not just Luna, the disgraced contestant.

She was not just Elara Croft, the scorned wife. She was Elara Vance. And the fight, she realized with a dawning, steely resolve, was far from over.

Chapter 12: The Unraveling of a Lie

The morning after was a media firestorm. Elara’s face—her stage name “Luna” now irrevocably linked to her real name—was everywhere.

Tabloid covers screamed her story, online forums dissected every frame of her televised breakdown, and talk shows debated the morality of her “actions.”

The narrative Seraphina had so carefully crafted had taken root:

Elara was either a cruel woman using a pregnancy as a weapon, or a tragic victim driven to madness by her husband’s infidelity. Neither version was the truth.

Julian woke up to this new reality. He hadn’t slept. He had spent the night pacing the cold, empty rooms of his mansion, the headline from the show burned into his mind. Pregnancy. Termination. 

The words circled him like vultures. His first instinct, the one honed by years of corporate crisis management, was to take control. He needed facts.

His first call was to Maya Khan. She answered on the second ring, her voice frigid. “I have absolutely nothing to say to you, Julian.”

“Maya, listen to me,” he said, his voice strained. “Is it true? Was she… is she pregnant?”

“That is a gross violation of my patient’s privacy,” Maya snapped, her voice dripping with contempt.

“A concept you and your kind clearly know nothing about. Do not ever call me again.” The line went dead.

Her anger, while frustrating, was also illuminating. It wasn’t the detached response of a professional; it was the fury of a protective friend. It told him there was more to the story. He hung up the phone, his mind racing.

He was a powerful man, used to getting answers. If Elara’s friends wouldn’t talk, he would find another way. He started with Seraphina.

When he arrived at her penthouse, he found her artfully arranged on a chaise lounge, looking pale and fragile, a cashmere blanket draped over her lap. A news channel, detailing the “Luna” scandal, played softly on a television in the background.

“Julian, darling,” she said, her voice a weak, breathy thing. “This is all so awful. I feel terrible for her.”

“Did you know she was pregnant?” he asked, his voice flat, cutting straight through her performance.

Seraphina’s eyes widened in feigned shock.

“Of course not! How could I? Oh, Julian, the poor thing. To think she was going through that all alone… maybe this is my fault. If I weren’t so sick, none of this would have happened.” Tears welled in her eyes, a practiced, perfect display of remorse.

Julian watched her, a sliver of ice forming in his gut. For seven years, he had seen Elara’s genuine tears. He knew what real grief looked like.

This felt… rehearsed. The thought was disloyal, and he pushed it away, but it lingered.

He remembered a detail from weeks ago, something the foreign caregiver from Crestwood Clinic had said, a name that now seemed important.

He left Seraphina’s apartment with a manufactured apology for his abruptness, his mind already turning over a new, darker possibility. He put his private security team to work.

Their task: find the caregiver who had attended to Seraphina after the hospital incident. Find out everything about Crestwood Clinic.

Elara, meanwhile, was in a place the media would never find her: Marcus Thorne’s sprawling, secluded estate in the countryside.

The property was a sanctuary of old trees, rolling hills, and quiet gardens.

For the first time in days, she could breathe.

She spent the day talking with Marcus, not about the scandal, but about her father.

He showed her old photographs, played her scratchy demo tapes of his unfinished compositions, and told her stories of their youth, of their shared dreams of changing the music world.

“Your father was on the verge of something big before he died,” Marcus said, his gaze distant. “He wasn’t just a composer; he was a sharp businessman.

He owned a significant minority stake in a media tech company that the Croft Corporation was looking to acquire.”

Elara looked up, stunned. “My father and your family… they did business together?”

“They were in negotiations,” Marcus clarified. “Your father was hesitant. He felt something was wrong with the Croft Corporation’s books.

He suspected they were artificially inflating their value to leverage the acquisition.

He told me he was gathering evidence. His ‘accident’ happened a week later. The deal went through, and the Croft family made a fortune.”

The world tilted on its axis. Her father’s death wasn’t just a tragedy; it was now shrouded in a sinister, terrifying suspicion that pointed directly at the family she had married into.

Her resolve hardened into something unbreakable. She would not withdraw from the competition. She would not hide. The finale was in one week. She would use that stage not just to sing, but to speak her truth.

“I need to get back to the city,” she told Marcus. “I have a song to write.”

Late that night, Julian’s phone rang. It was the head of his security team. “We found her,” the man said. “The caregiver. Her name is Anya Petrova. She was fired from Crestwood Clinic last week for ‘breach of confidentiality.’ She’s disgruntled, and she says she has a story to tell. For the right price.”

A cold certainty settled over Julian. He was about to pull a thread that could unravel everything he thought he knew. “Set up a meeting,” he commanded. “Tonight.”

Chapter 13: The Confession and the Composition

The meeting took place in a sterile, anonymous corporate apartment Julian kept for discreet business.

Anya Petrova, the caregiver, was a nervous woman in her late forties, her hands clutching a worn handbag in her lap. Julian sat opposite her, a confidentiality agreement and a cashier’s check for a life-changing sum of money on the table between them.

“Tell me everything,” Julian said, his voice dangerously calm. “From the beginning. Tell me about Miss Rivers’s illness.”

Anya swallowed hard, her eyes darting from the check to Julian’s impassive face. “There is no illness, Mr. Croft,” she began, her voice barely a whisper.

“Not a terminal one, anyway. Miss Rivers has a chronic stomach ulcer. It can cause her pain, yes. It can even cause bleeding if it’s severe. But it is not cancer. It will not kill her.”

Julian’s face remained a mask of stone, but inside, the foundations of his world were crumbling. “The diagnosis,” he pressed. “The six months to live.”

“A fabrication,” Anya said, growing bolder as she spoke. “Crestwood is not a real hospital. It’s a high-end private clinic that caters to… special requests.

For a price, they will create any medical record a client desires. Miss Rivers paid them to create a file diagnosing her with terminal stage-four gastric cancer.”

She then detailed the rest of the scheme with chilling clarity: the acting lessons to feign weakness, the carefully timed public appearances, the self-induced coughing fits, and, most damningly, the small, concealed bags of theatrical blood she bit down on to simulate coughing up blood during moments of high drama.

The blood bags. He remembered the scene in Seraphina’s studio, her coughing into her hand, the bright red smear. He had been horrified, consumed with pity and a desperate need to protect her.

Now, the memory replayed in his mind as a grotesque piece of theater, and he was the fool in the front row.

“Why are you telling me this now?” Julian asked, his voice hollow.

“She used me,” Anya said, a flash of resentment in her eyes. “She promised me a bonus, a permanent position. Instead, when the media attention got too intense, she and the clinic used me as a scapegoat.

They fired me to cover their tracks. She ruined my career. I have nothing left to lose.”

After Anya left, the signed NDA and her recorded, notarized statement secure in his possession, Julian sat alone in the silent apartment for over an hour.

The betrayal was absolute, a poison that seeped into every memory of the past year.

He hadn’t been a noble man comforting a dying lover.

He had been a pawn, a tool used in a sick, malicious game to destroy the one person who had ever shown him unwavering loyalty.

He saw it all with a horrifying new clarity: Elara’s quiet withdrawal, her sad, knowing eyes, her final, steady question—”Are you sure this is what you want?”—and her simple, heartbreaking acceptance. It hadn’t been a tantrum or a scheme.

It had been dignity. It had been her letting him go because he had asked her to. The weight of his own cruelty, his blindness, his monumental arrogance, crashed down on him. He had handed her divorce papers.

He had stood by while she was shoved to the ground. He had believed every lie and had punished her for every truth. And she had been carrying his child through it all.

The guilt was a physical thing, a crushing weight in his chest that made it hard to breathe. He finally understood.

He hadn’t just lost his wife; he had broken the best person he had ever known.

A cold, focused rage, directed not only at Seraphina but at himself, settled in his soul.

While Julian’s world was imploding, Elara’s was expanding. She had returned to her small apartment, a space that now felt like a true home.

The hate from the outside world still raged, but inside, she was insulated by a newfound purpose.

She spent her days and nights at her father’s old piano, which Marcus had had moved from storage and delivered to her.

She was composing her final song for the “A-Side” finale. This song wouldn’t be a lament or a ballad of revenge. It was something more.

It was a testament. A story of legacy, of truth, of a woman reclaiming her name and a mother promising a future to her unborn child.

She wove in subtle melodic phrases from her father’s unfinished work, melodies Marcus had given her on old tapes.

It felt as if she were having a conversation with him across time, his strength flowing into her, his music becoming a part of hers.

The song was a phoenix rising from the ashes, and she titled it “My Father’s Daughter.”

Late one night, her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. It was Julian. I need to see you. Please.

She ignored it. An hour later, a voicemail appeared. She listened, her hand resting on her stomach.

It was Julian’s voice, but it was a voice she had never heard before—stripped of its arrogance, ragged with an emotion she couldn’t decipher.

“Elara… I know everything,” he said, his voice breaking on the last word. “The truth. About her. About… everything. I am so, so sorry.”

She deleted the message, but the words hung in the air. It didn’t matter anymore if he was sorry. The damage was done. The only thing that mattered now was the finale.

The night of the “A-Side” finale arrived. The studio was a tinderbox of anticipation and gossip.

Elara stood in the wings, her heart calm, her purpose clear. Julian, dressed in a simple dark suit, slipped past the chaotic backstage security, his face a grim mask of determination.

He wasn’t there to win her back. He was there to give her back the one thing he had stolen: her truth.

Chapter 14: The Finale

The atmosphere in the “A-Side” studio was electric, a palpable current of scandal and speculation running through the audience.

When the host announced Luna’s name for her final performance, a hush fell over the crowd.

Every eye was on the stage entrance, waiting to see the woman at the center of the nation’s biggest story.

Elara walked out from the wings and into the light. She wore a simple, elegant gown of deep emerald green.

She made no attempt to hide her body; the dress draped gracefully over the gentle, unmistakable curve of her pregnant belly. It was a silent, powerful statement. She wasn’t hiding. She wasn’t ashamed. She walked to the center of the stage, not to the piano, but to the single microphone stand placed there for her.

The audience watched, holding its breath.

She looked directly into the main camera, her gaze clear and unwavering.

“There has been a lot of noise and speculation about my life this past week,” she began, her voice calm and steady, resonating with a quiet strength that commanded the attention of everyone in the room and the millions watching at home.

“Tonight, I’m not here to respond to that noise. I am here to sing one last song. This isn’t just for the competition. This is for my father, Richard Vance. And this is for my child.”

A ripple of shock went through the audience. It was the first time she had publicly acknowledged the pregnancy since the scandal broke.

She nodded to the orchestra, and a soft, poignant melody began to play—a familiar refrain from her first performance, “Sunken Cargo,” but this time it was hopeful, transformative.

Then, she sang. The song, “My Father’s Daughter,” was her masterpiece. The lyrics told her story, not as a victim, but as a survivor.

She sang of a love that was a gilded cage, of a trust that was betrayed, of a storm that threatened to sink her. But then the music swelled, the melody lifting into a powerful, soaring chorus.

She sang of her father’s legacy, of the music in her blood, of the new life growing inside her that gave her the strength to rise.

It was a song of fire and rebirth, of a woman not just finding her voice, but claiming her very soul.

“I am more than a shadow, more than a name on a lease, I am the echo of a symphony, I am a masterpiece… and this new heart that beats with mine, a legacy in every line, I will not break, I will not bend, this is where my new life begins, I am my father’s daughter, in the end.”

Her voice, filled with a power and emotion that transcended the television screen, held the entire nation captive.

When the final note faded, there was a beat of profound, stunned silence, and then the studio exploded.

The applause was a physical, roaring wave of validation, of understanding, of overwhelming support. It was an apology from the public that had so quickly condemned her.

But before the judges could speak, before the applause could die down, the giant LED screen behind the stage flickered to life. It wasn’t the show’s logo. It was Julian’s face, broadcast from a remote location, his expression grim and resolute.

“My name is Julian Croft,” he began, his voice amplified throughout the studio. The audience gasped, a new wave of shock silencing them once more. Elara watched, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“For the past year,” Julian continued, looking directly into the camera, “I have been a fool. I have been cruel, arrogant, and blind.

I have been complicit in a lie that has caused unimaginable pain to a good and honorable person. The woman you just saw perform, Elara Vance, is my wife. And I have wronged her in a way that I will spend the rest of my life trying to atone for.”

He didn’t hesitate. He laid the entire sordid story bare. He spoke of Seraphina Rivers, not as a dying lover, but as a calculating manipulator. He spoke of the fake cancer diagnosis, the lies, the public manipulation.

As he spoke, documents flashed on the screen beside him: bank statements showing massive payments from Seraphina to Crestwood Clinic; a signed, notarized affidavit from Anya Petrova.

The final piece of evidence was a short, damning video clip—the caregiver’s recorded confession.

“I believed these lies,” Julian said, his voice thick with self-loathing. “And because of my belief, I abandoned my wife. I asked her for a divorce”

“I humiliated her. And I failed to protect her. The story that was leaked last week was not the truth.”

“The truth is that Elara was faced with an impossible choice, a choice she had to make alone because the man who should have been by her side was betraying her. I stand here tonight to set the record straight, not for my own sake, but for hers.”

He looked into the camera as if he were looking right at her. “Elara,” he said, his voice breaking. “I am sorry. You owe me nothing. Not your forgiveness, not your time, not your love. You deserve a world of happiness, a world I was too blind to give you. All I can do now is give you back your truth.”

The screen went dark.

In her penthouse, Seraphina watched, her champagne glass slipping from her hand and shattering on the floor. Her face was a mask of disbelief and horror. It was over. Her career, her reputation, her entire life, was in ruins.

On the stage, Elara stood, tears streaming down her face. They were not tears of sorrow, but of release.

The host, his face pale with shock, stammered that the lines had been open during the performance, and the vote was in. It was a landslide.

She had won “A-Side.” But as the confetti cannons erupted and the music swelled, she knew the victory was so much bigger than a record deal. She had won her name back.

She had won her life back. And in the center of the storm, she was, finally, at peace.

Chapter 15: An Unwritten Score

Six months later, the world was a different place. The autumn leaves were turning, painting the city in hues of gold and crimson.

Elara Vance was no longer a mystery, a scandal, or a victim. She was an artist. Her debut album, “Unchained,” had gone platinum, lauded by critics for its raw honesty and brilliant songwriting.

The name Luna was now synonymous with resilience and strength.

She had used a portion of her winnings and her advance from Marcus’s record label to establish the Richard Vance Foundation for Young Composers, a non-profit dedicated to nurturing emerging musical talent who lacked financial resources.

She had found a purpose that was bigger than her own story.

The divorce had been finalized quietly and swiftly, on the exact terms she had laid out in the simple document she’d presented to Julian in his car what felt like a lifetime ago.

He hadn’t contested a single point. He had given her everything she was entitled to, and nothing more, respecting her wish to sever their lives cleanly.

The Croft Corporation was weathering a storm of its own. The scandal had led to a sharp drop in stock prices and a public relations nightmare.

Julian was working tirelessly to rebuild, but he was also doing something else.

The signed divorce decree had arrived at her apartment via courier, accompanied by a single, handwritten note from him.

Elara, the note read, This is the last thing I will ever ask of you: to accept this as my final act as your husband.

I have opened a full, independent investigation into the Croft Corporation’s acquisition of the media tech company your father was involved with. I am giving the investigators complete access to all of our internal records from that time.

Whatever they find, wherever it leads, I will see that justice is done for your father. It’s the only thing I can do. I wish you nothing but peace. – J.

It was his penance. She folded the note and placed it in a box with other mementos of a life she had left behind.

As for Seraphina Rivers, her downfall had been swift and total. Exposed as a fraud, she was a social and professional pariah, buried under a mountain of lawsuits from clients, brands, and investors. Her name, once synonymous with beauty and luxury, was now a punchline.

Elara’s own life was full. Her apartment, the one she had fled to, was no longer a temporary shelter but a warm, light-filled home.

A nursery, painted a soft, sunny yellow, was waiting. She was sitting at her piano, a gentle melody taking shape under her fingers, one hand resting on her full, round belly, when the doorbell rang.

She opened the door, and her breath caught. It was Julian.

He looked… different. The sharp, arrogant edges seemed to have been worn away, replaced by a quiet humility. He was thinner, with shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights, but his gaze was steady and clear. He wasn’t the man she had married. He was the man he had become in the wreckage.

He wasn’t there to ask for forgiveness or to try and win her back. She knew that instantly. He was holding a small, simply wrapped gift.

“Hi,” he said, his voice quiet. “I hope this isn’t an intrusion. I was nearby. This is… for the baby.” He held out the gift.

She took it. Her fingers brushed his, and a faint, electric spark of memory passed between them, a ghost of what had been. “Thank you, Julian.”

An awkward silence stretched between them. “I meant what I said in the note,” he said finally. “About your father. I’ll find the truth.”

She nodded. “I know.”

He looked from her face down to her belly, a look of profound, sorrowful wonder on his face. “Can I…?” He trailed off, the question hanging in the air.

He wasn’t asking for a second chance. He was asking if he could just, for a moment, be what he was: the father of her child.

Elara looked at him, at the man who had caused her the deepest pain of her life, but who had also, in the end, given her the truth. She looked at the open door of the life she had built for herself, a life of peace, music, and strength.

She thought of the new life she was about to bring into the world.

She didn’t give him a verbal answer. She didn’t need to.

She simply stepped aside from the doorway, leaving the path clear.

It wasn’t a forgiveness. It wasn’t a reconciliation. It was a beginning. An invitation to a new, complex, and entirely unwritten score.

And as he stepped cautiously across the threshold, Elara Vance, for the first time, felt truly, completely, unchained.