Chapter 51
AMY
Ifind myself drawn to that interview like a moth to flame.
Late nights, when the apartment is bathed in shadow, I sit before the holoscreen and replay it.
Over and over. The flicker of lights. His face.
My stunned silence. The studio’s hum turned monstrous in the echoes.
I’m both spectator and victim in that moment.
Watching him call Kanapa a hero—my mouth twisted in disbelief.
There’s a crack in time there, a pivot where everything shattered. It stings to observe.
Sometimes the screen lights up the room; sometimes I’m staring into darkness and the video is only in my mind.
The smudge of his words, “a hero, a patriot.” The betrayal plucks at me.
I can see how I staggered backward, how my lips parted, what words died in my throat. The moment I stopped believing.
The walls of the apartment press close during those replays: the smell of stale air, of book pages, of long nights; the distant hum of passing hovercars outside.
I hear the creak of floorboards, the echoes of my own gasp from that night reverberate in the space.
Each time it plays, I feel that breach widen in me.
The next afternoon, Rex calls. His voice on the holo-comm is crisp, practiced.
“Amy, there’s interest from a sponsor group.
A revival offer. You go back to the anchor desk—less drama, more controlled.
They’ll drop the Kanapa narrative, trim the controversy.
You come back without Darun, without him, without mess. ” He pauses, letting it settle.
The terms taste like betrayal. “So a sanitized version of truth is acceptable,” I say, voice cold. “One that hides half the story.”
He sighs. “It’s what’s safe. What they’ll accept. We can rebuild you—rebrand you—clean slate.”
I look at the walls, the old proofs of my work, the banner “DARRUNN SHOW!” curled and fallen in a box. The weight of silence presses. “I don’t want a sanitized version,” I say. “If I come back, it will be with the whole truth, or not at all.”
Rex’s sigh is heavy. “That burns bridges, Amy.”
I slump in my chair. “I’ve already burned them.” I refuse. I hang up. The holo-screen fades.
That night, in the hush, I watch Darun’s message again—the one he left secretly on my desk.
In the dim light, his face is softened by remorse.
“I chose wrong. I chose duty over you, over truth, over our daughter…” The words break me.
They echo across the room. The scent of old paper, faint jasmine, distant traffic hum.
I press my palm to the screen as if I could touch him through it.
Tears track silently down my face. I swallow them, press my lips tight. “I love you both.” That’s the last line. The promise.
I sit curled on the floor, knees drawn to chest, hugging myself.
The message plays loop quietly in the air, undercut by soft static.
Libra’s drawing lies crumpled nearby. The weight of the secret, the betrayal, the longing—all of it presses.
In the days that follow, news channels roll his misstep into headlines: “Darun’s Sudden Reversal: Hero or Hypocrite?
” “Anchor’s Fall: The Mathews Collapse”.
Freak commentators weigh in on my “disgrace,” my “failure,” my “messy personal life.” The public eye gleans at my grief as fodder. The whispers fill the dry air.
I walk through outdoor markets, the scent of roasted street food heavy in humidity. People pass. I feel eyes on me—some pity, some scorn, some curiosity. A waitress in a holo café glances, lowers her gaze when I look. I feel each one as a blade.
Libra tugs at my coat one day. “Mommy, why do people point at you?” she whispers, voice small.
We’re walking. The hum of hovercars overhead.
The gritty scent of ozone and exhaust. I cup her face.
“They don’t see the whole story,” I say.
Her eyes flick to my face, uncertain. “But we’ll walk through it—together. ”
I lie awake in darkness. The message still plays in my mind. “I will never do that again.” I taste remorse, bitter as ash. I trace the phone outline on the bedside table, fingers lingering.
I imagine him standing outside my door, maybe tomorrow, holding words, maybe hope. I ache for it, both dread and longing knotted in me. I listen to silence. Outside, wind rattles window edges. Somewhere a siren wails. The city hums.
In the quiet, I whisper: “He meant it. I must believe he meant it.” But even as I say it, fear curls in my chest: can truth rebuild what fear destroyed?
Libra tosses in her sleep in the next room.
Her small breathing hums. I push off the blankets, rise, move to her door.
I stand in the hallway, watching her curl under covers, hair loose, small feet tangled.
The weight of what I withheld, what I told, what remains — all reflect in her slumbering innocence.
I step back, close the door softly. The apartment is dark again, shadows gathering. But I’ve heard his message. The lie is unmasked. The world hisses with fallout. And I, broken and raw, resolve I will not yet vanish. I will claim the truth. Someday he will hear I believed him. Someday.
But tonight, I let tears fall quietly in the dark. Public enemy is what they’ve made me. I wear the label. But I keep the embers of love, even in ash.