The adrenaline of the sidewalk confrontation had faded, replaced by a cold, trembling exhaustion. Inside the studio, Victoria tried to focus on her sheet music, but the letters swam before her eyes.
“Let’s take it from the bridge,” the musical director called out.
Victoria nodded, gripping the microphone stand for support. She felt dizzy. The stress of the leak, the confrontation with William, the terrifying reality of the press mob–it was all pressing down on the secret she carried in her womb.
She opened her mouth to sing, but no sound came out. The room tilted violently to the left.
*Breathe,* she told herself. *Just breathe.*
But her body, pushed to the brink by weeks of emotional torture and hidden pregnancy symptoms, finally rebelled. Her knees buckled.
Unlike Seraphina, who crumbled with the grace of a fainting Victorian heroine, Victoria fell hard. She hit the stage floor with a dull thud, the microphone clattering away from her. Darkness swallowed her instantly. This was no performance; this was a total system failure.