CHAPTER 44
AMY
The stage lights flare. My pulse rattles in my throat. The teleprompter glows ahead. Cameras swivel. This is the moment. The segment begins. The hum of the studio amplifies. I taste ozone and fear.
“We’re here tonight,” I say, voice steady though every nerve quivers, “with Darun Vakutan—eyewitness to Captain Kanapa’s final days, survivor of silence. And tonight, we ask him to speak about what has been buried.” My words echo tight in the space. The audience beyond those lenses radiates expectancy. My heart hammers against ribs. I turn toward Darun, gauging him. He stands at the lit marker, squared shoulders in his jacket. The glow catches his face. Eyes steady, but inside — I cannot read him.
I press on. “Darun — tell us the truth about Captain Kanapa.”
The silence stretches. The cameras hold their breath. My throat dries. I see him inhale. I see that flicker in his jaw, that pause. The world seems to tilt.
Then he speaks. “Captain Kanapa was a great man. A hero. A patriot.”
The words shatter me. I freeze mid-smile. Mid-thought. That’s not the truth. That’s not the story we planned. That’s notwhat I believed. The studio crackles. The mics pick up a distant intake of breath. The prompter scrolls on, unheeded.
I blink. Disbelief lashes my brain. Was that a lie? A shift? A trap? The betrayal dawns behind my eyes like a wound opening. I grip the desk edge, whitened knuckles. The scent of sweat, of hot lights, of betrayal, floods me. I want to cough, to pause, to demand him to stop. But the cameras are rolling. The world sees. There is no cutting away.
Darun holds his posture. His voice is calm, flat, resolved. Every syllable rings quiet and hollow. “He did many good things. He believed in the frontier. He pushed back darkness. But he had flaws. He was human.” That last line—delicate. Soft. But it doesn’t rescue what he did.
I stand on anchor ground. My voice feels alien as I restart. “Tonight we hear him not as excuse, but as witness. We let him speak. Thank you.” I throw a flicker of reassurance at the cameras. The crew behind the glass shifts. The lights feel too bright. My heart hurts.
I force the segment to limp toward conclusion. I guide him awkwardly, apologetically, over shallow terrain. “Thank you, Darun. We’ll speak more after the break.” My words stumble. The control room behind me shifts. The talent is off script now. The audience’s murmur rises beyond the floor.
The broadcast ends. The red “LIVE” indicator blinks off. Cameras retract. The hush in the studio feels empty-vast. I step off stage. My limbs feel clotted. My legs weak. I see Darun’s face in the corridor—etched, distant. The betrayal pulses between us.
Backstage is raw silence. I stumble into the makeup room, mirrors cold. My reflection flickers. My eyes shine wet. I stare at my face: the anchor, the liar, the betrayed. I swallow the scream inside.
A hand touches my shoulder. I spin. Darun stands there, coat half draped, expression unreadable. The corridor light halos him, sharp edges.
He says, “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head, voice broken: “Did you think I wouldn’t see?”
He looks stricken. “I had orders. I was given leverage I couldn’t refuse.” His throat moves. “I tried to?—”
I press my palm to the mirror behind him. “You saidhero. You made that choicelive.” Betrayal tastes like iron.
He steps in. “Amy, believe me — I never meant to betrayyou.”
My laugh cracks. “You betrayed everything we built. The truth. Me. The people.”
He bows his head. The fluorescent light casts harsh angles. I want to bury him with words. I want to destroy him.
I back away. “Don’t follow me right now.”
He hesitates. Then turns. The corridor hums behind his back. I lean against the mirror, watching him go. The lie echoes in my skull.
Back in my private room, I press the replay of the broadcast. My voice, Darun’s, the shift, his words —hero, patriot— every inch bleeding. The audience will dissect this. The donors, the board, the viewers. Everything is now fragile.
My pulse hammers. I feel sharp grief, betrayal, anger, fear. His closeness still lingers in the corridor. He outran me. He outran truth.
At home later, Libra sleeps on cushions. The apartment smells of cold air, night, perfume I wore earlier. I wander into the bedroom. The bed is empty. I press my hand where his warmth still rests. My body aches for the presence that has just, in that moment, betrayed me.
Do I love a liar? Do I hurt for the man who betrayed me?
The secret I hide beneath all this — Libra’s existence — feels sharper now, a chasm between us.
I sit on the bed. The glitter banner droops. The lull in the night trembles. I whisper to the darkness:I believed in you. And you told a lie.
