For seven years, Elara had followed him, her devotion born from a single act of gratitude. Marrying him felt like the culmination of a long-held dream. But when his mistress, Seraphina, announced she had cancer with only six months to live, he presented her with divorce papers. “It’s just for appearances,” he had said. “We’ll get remarried in six months.” In that moment, something inside her fractured. She decided then and there to turn the sham divorce into a real one and finally reclaim her life.
==
“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 cigarette. The smoke 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 kisses 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 cigarette and said 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.
Chapter 6: A New Melody in an Empty Room
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.
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