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.