His face was unreadable. Not soft. Not angry in the usual way. Just tired… and empty.
“Enough,” he said sharply, silencing both of them instantly.
His eyes landed on me.
“You’re going to fix this,” he said coldly. “Go back to work. Do the broadcast tonight. Deny everything. Lie if you have to—that’s what you’re good at, right? Or better yet, say Ethan is our son. Do whatever it takes. If you don’t, your career is finished.”
I stared at him.
Something inside me cracked all over again.
He waited for a reply.
I had none.
After a long silence, I simply gave a small, broken nod.
That evening, I sat under the harsh studio lights. The red recording dot stared back at me like an unblinking eye. My script sat untouched beside me. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
“In five… four…” the producer’s voice came through my earpiece.
I inhaled slowly.
“Good evening,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “I’m Clara Caldwell.”
I paused. My throat tightened.
“Before I begin tonight’s report… I need to say something. Not as an anchor—but as a woman who has lived too long inside lies.”
The studio froze. Even the control room went silent.