The lights dim. The sting of betrayal presses heavy. Tomorrow is rising. He’s walked further than I thought possible. And now the secret still burns between us.
CHAPTER 45
AMY
The bright lights fade instantly. The feed is cut. In one heartbeat, silence swallows the studio. I yank the mic from my lapel, wires tangling in my fingers, a harsh snap echoing off walls. Every circuit hums. The air tastes like burnt charge and betrayal.
“Why?” I hiss. Voice tremors jagged across the stage. My eyes seek him out — Darun stands under the harsh stage light, rigid, jaw twitching. His shirt clings with sweat. The glare glints off his eyes.
He shifts. The studio still. Soundless. His reply spills in quiet steel: “I had to.”
I reel. The word lands like a blow. “Had to? Is that your truth now?” My voice cracks. “You praised Kanapa. You deified a monster.” I take a step. The floor hums beneath my boots. “You betrayed the narrative we built. You betrayed me.”
He stands, shoulders stiff. Doesn’t take a step back. Doesn’t collapse. Doesn’t explain. His silence nearly cuts me more than words ever could.
I turn and run. Past cameras, past silent crew, past the flicker of monitors in darkness. The corridor stretches. My heart pounds a war cadence. I don’t slow until the air outside is real —cold, narrow, alive. Rain smears against the hallway windows. I escape into it, lungs full of cold wet, my mind blistering.
By evening, the Holonet is a hurricane. I watch from a small control room I’ve barred myself into. Red lines streak across tickers:DARUN REINVENTS: KANAPA HEROIC?,LOCKSTEP WITH ALLIANCE: THE MATTHEWS BETRAYAL,ANCHOR SUSPENDED. NETWORK REORG.Clips loop endlessly. Commentators — slick faces, sharpened tongues — twist my silence, my shock, my tears. They dissect every frame of my expression, crowning me incompetent, an accomplice, a stooge. Headlines call me“the Anchor who relinquished the mic.”
My holo-comm pings. It's Rex. Damn him. I pick it up, voice static. “Amy—please get down here. Now.”
I can’t shake rage or hurt. I drop to my knees. Inside the studio’s private wing, Rex paces behind his desk. His face is mapped in shadow and regret. The scent of stale coffee and tension smothers. He’s swallowed eyes; he’s watched this happen in slow motion. He handles a file. His voice is brittle. “The board has decided—you’re being put on indefinite leave. Effective immediately.”
My heart lurches. My chest seizes. “You can’t fire me for truth,” I spit.
He sighs — a crushed thing. “I’m not firing you for truth. I’m firing you for bad optics. Sponsors are pulling. Viewers turning. The network can’t absorb more damage.” His words come sharp, controlled. “You’re too risky.”
I stand, trembling. “Then I fire you—for protecting lies.”
He stares. No defense. The door behind me is open. The corridor lights flicker. The cameras still hum somewhere in the belly of the building. I storm out, clutching a box. My palms slice the cardboard. I shove in pens, photos, her mic stand, the glitter sign —“DARRUNN SHOW!”, the memories of drafts where I rehearsed the confession I never made.
The lobby is hushed. Staff freeze, eyes wide. The guards don’t move. The elevator doors rush shut behind me. I step into the night.
Rain greets me. The world’s edges blur. I carry the box as though it’s both coffin and seed. The network entrance behind me seals with heavy glass. My name, my presence, my voice — all locked behind it.
Walking home, the city pulses neon, rain, cold pavement. Each puddle mirrors twisted reflections: me, diminished, soaked, hollow. My holo-comm lights: alerts, messages, threats, rumors. That he has been coerced, that I engineered this, that I destroyed him. Every impulse wants to respond, to write, to correct. But I tuck the phone away.
Libra sits by the door when I arrive. Her face falls when she sees me. She runs forward anyway. I scoop her into my arms. She clings tight. I smell her hair — milk, bleach, childhood. I press her into me. The box drops. Pictures tumble.
She whispers, “Mommy, what happened?”
I choke on the answer. “Nothing that matters now.” It’s a lie. Everything matters.
We retreat into the darkness of our apartment. The rooms feel hollow, haunted. The sign droops. The paint peels. The city hum bleeds through windows.
I lie on the couch, Libra curled beside me, clutching a stuffed toy. She drifts into sleep. I sit sentinel. Box at my side. I open it. The photos. Her first sketch. The pen I used to mark “After the interview, I will tell him.” The draft pages I never sent.
I trace the edges. The sharp corners dig into my fingers. My throat is raw. Every fiber of me aches. My hands shake. The silence is suffocating.
I whisper to the walls, to the darkness, to the memories:I did this to save him. To hold him to the truth.The lie echoes back.
When sleep eventually claims me, it is fitful — dreams of stage lights, shattered glass, his eyes turning cold.
Morning comes with a dull ache. I wake gasping, the box still open, photo scraps on the floor. I gather them, tuck them in. Libra wakes me, blinking, fragile. I hug her. She asks for breakfast. I nod. I step forward with plate trembling.
Out the window the city pulses again—neon, hums, lives continuing. Down the street, a holo-billboard flashes:“Vakutan Interview Reversal.”The world shifts. The network’s voice has a crack in it now.
I swallow. I slip on my shoes. I scoop Libra. We walk out into rain-blurred streets. The box empties — I leave behind her sign in the hallway, the legacy I once built. I tell her quietly: “We’re going somewhere.” She nods. She holds the toy tight.
