There I saw another vision; I saw the habitations and resting places of the saints. There my eyes beheld their habitations with the angels, and their resting places with the holy ones. They were entreating, supplicating, and praying for the sons of men; while righteousness like water flowed before them, and mercy like dew was scattered over the earth. And thus shall it be with them for ever and for ever.

  ~ Book of Enoch, 39:4

  ––––––

  BOROUGH OF MANHATTAN, NEW YORK CITY

  - Late March -

  ––––––

  Jason stepped into Eustargio Navarro's West Village loft at 6:00 PM sharp. The elevator opened directly into the space—no buffer between outside world and this metaphysical sanctuary. His tailored Zegna jacket and crisp white Brioni shirt felt oddly formal against the neighborhood’s bohemian atmosphere.

  The loft defied expectations. No crystal balls or tarot cards on velvet cloths. No dim lighting or beaded curtains. Instead, minimalist elegance—polished concrete floors with geometric rugs, white-painted brick walls, and industrial windows framing Manhattan's skyline.

  Art brought unexpected color bursts. Jason's eyes lingered on framed photographs—red-rock canyons and desert sunsets captured with intimate precision. The vibrant oranges and purples seemed to pulse with internal light.

  A clean scent filled the air—not incense as expected, but something lighter. White sage? Jason breathed deeply, feeling the tension between his shoulders loosen. His racing thoughts about Anne's condition, medicine's failures, and his desperate supernatural gamble slowed.

  "Mr. Reynolds? Welcome." A young man approached with kind eyes. "I'm Miguel, Mr. Navarro's assistant. He'll join you shortly. Tea while you wait?"

  Jason nodded, taking the offered clipboard. "Thank you."

  "Lemongrass and mint," Miguel explained, pouring amber liquid. "It centers the mind before readings."

  Jason accepted the delicate cup, briefly fighting his skepticism before pushing it aside. He'd promised to keep an open mind. For Anne.

  The intake form was unexpectedly professional—medical history, family background, current concerns. Jason noticed his usually steady handwriting was shaky. The tremor irritated him—physical evidence of his conflict between desperate hope and ingrained doubt.

  He had built his finance career on computer systems, quantifiable metrics, and provable algorithms. Now, he sat in a psychic's loft, seeking answers beyond scientific measurement.

  Jason sipped the tea. The clipboard balanced on his knee as his thoughts retreated to Anne's morning call.

  "The meds help," she'd said in that hollow monotone that constricted his chest. "But I still hear him. Jakov."

  "What does he say?"

  "He says he'll peel my consciousness like fruit. Layer by layer, until nothing remains. He described exactly how it would feel—like being flayed alive, but worse because your mind stays aware through all of it."

  The vivid specificity sent ice through Jason's veins. This wasn't the rambling delusion of a schizophrenic mind. The consistency and detail of Anne's visions defied psychiatric categorization.

  He glanced at the platinum Patek Philippe on his wrist—a memento from when Andrew Brody, Alcazar’s CEO, had bestowed matching timepieces upon him and the members of his European team after they engineered Alcazar's high-frequency trading platform for the Frankfurt Exchange. The irony stung. Here he sat, applying his empirical mind to consider whether malevolent entities were psychically attacking his sister.

  If Andrew discovered this little excursion, Jason's credibility would be tarnished. The financial world demanded hard data. Psychic phenomena? Consciousness beyond physical brains? He might as well profess belief in unicorns.

  He shifted uncomfortably in the Danish modern chair, suspended between worlds. The serene waiting room only amplified his displacement from familiar territory.

  Yet, alternatives had vanished. If even a sliver of possibility existed that something beyond conventional science afflicted his sister, Jason had no choice but to investigate.

  A door opened at the far end of the loft. Jason looked up to see a man of average height with a solid build step into the waiting area. His quiet confidence filled the space without dominating it.

  "Mr. Reynolds." The man extended his hand, his voice carrying a distinctive warmth with a slight Spanish accent. "I'm Eustargio Navarro. Please, call me Targo."

  Jason rose and clasped the offered hand. The handshake conveyed both strength and sensitivity.

  "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," Jason said, surprised by the ease he felt in Targo's presence.

  Targo's warm brown eyes met Jason's with a penetrating gaze. Jason had expected something theatrical, perhaps intense in an affected way. Instead, he encountered something authentic—eyes that seemed to look not just at him but into him.

  "Please, follow me." Targo gestured toward the door he'd emerged from. He was dressed in comfortable yet professional attire—a linen shirt and tailored pants in earth tones that complemented his olive complexion.

  Jason followed him through the doorway, aware of crossing some invisible threshold. The office beyond continued the minimalist aesthetic of the waiting area but felt more intimate. Soft lighting cast a gentle glow over comfortable seating arranged in a conversational grouping. Subtle spiritual symbols—a small Buddha statue, a framed mandala, a carved wooden ankh—occupied strategic points around the room without overwhelming the space.

  "Please, make yourself comfortable," Targo said, indicating a deep armchair positioned at a slight angle to his own.

  "What brings you here today?" Targo asked, his voice steady and grounding.

  Jason breathed in the lingering sage, struggling to explain his situation. How could he tell this stranger his rational sister might hear voices from another dimension? That medicine had failed her? That he, a data-driven Wall Street executive, now sought supernatural answers?

  "It's my sister, Anne," he managed. "She's diagnosed with schizophrenia, but I'm not convinced that's right."

  Targo nodded attentively. "What makes you question the diagnosis?"

  "The consistency," Jason leaned forward. "Schizophrenic hallucinations are typically fragmented, disorganized. Anne's experiences are structured, detailed. She describes individual people and an entire civilization with internal logic."

  Targo leaned forward. "You've clearly done extensive research."

  "I had to understand what was happening to Anne," Jason said. "Started with psychiatric literature—schizophrenia, psychosis, dissociative disorders. Consulted specialists at Houston Methodist and Columbia Presbyterian. Even flew to Johns Hopkins to meet their hallucination researcher."

  Targo watched him intently, never breaking eye contact.

  "When medicine failed, I explored Christian mysticism and spiritual warfare theology." Jason winced, conscious of how far he'd strayed from his analytical comfort zone. "Read Saint Augustine, Fr. Gabriele Amorth’s modern exorcism accounts."

  "And then?" Targo's fingers tapped together lightly.

  "I crossed into territory I'd always dismissed—New Age spirituality, metaphysics, quantum consciousness." Jason smiled self-deprecatingly. "Read Jung on the collective unconscious, then Elaine Pagels' Gnostic research."

  The admission challenged his lifelong empirical worldview.

  "I was drawn to Bohm's implicate order theory and Pribram's holonomic brain model. The concept that consciousness might exist as a field rather than being confined to our brains..." He paused. “Three months ago, I would've called this pseudoscience."

  "Yet here you are," Targo opened his hands in acknowledgment.

  "Here I am," Jason agreed. "The more I researched, the more I saw how little we understand about consciousness. If Anne is experiencing something beyond our materialist worldview, dismissing it won't help her."

  "Your analytical mind serves you well," Targo's expression warmed. "Few approach these matters with such thoroughness. Tell me more about what she experiences," he prompted, his focus intensifying.

  Jason described Anne's encounters with threatening entities, the ineffective medications, her deteriorating mental state. Targo's questions came with surprising precision.

  "Does she experience these communications at specific times?"

  "Has she mentioned temperature changes during these episodes?"

  "Did the voices begin suddenly or gradually increase?"

  Each question revealed Targo's familiarity with psychological disorders and something beyond conventional diagnosis.

  "Tell me about these beings Anne describes," Targo said, leaning forward.

  Jason hesitated at this boundary, where his rational mind faltered. Despite his deep dive into metaphysics, he felt unanchored. Computer science and financial trading systems were his domain; Targo's unseen world remained alien.

  "She describes a human civilization on a planet called Shamhdi. Technologically advanced but with huge economic disparity and brutal slavery. The elites have biotechnology-enhanced bodies and telepathic abilities." Jason heard how fantastical it sounded. “Besides describing the planet’s people, she observes their architecture, social structures, even political conflicts."

  "And they believe Anne is what, exactly?" Targo asked, his voice dropping.

  "A goddess," Jason replied, the word suspended between them. "They call her She-Who-Once-Was."

  Targo's relaxed demeanor shifted. Intense concentration replaced it, his eyes narrowing as if seeing beyond Jason. His hands tensed on his knees.

  "I'd like to connect with Anne's energy," Targo said, his tone shifting to professional focus. "Do you have a personal item or recent photograph?"

  Jason retrieved his phone. "Will this work?" He displayed a family photo from Tom's birthday six months ago. Anne stood between them, her smile genuine, betraying none of her coming struggle.

  Targo extended his palms. "May I?"

  Jason placed the phone in Targo's hands. The medium intensely studied the image before closing his eyes and inhaling deeply.

  The office fell silent except for Targo's measured breathing. Jason shifted, acutely aware of every sound—Manhattan traffic, a distant clock, faint footsteps on the floor above.

  Tension played across Targo's face. His hands moved as if interacting with unseen energies—fingers splaying wide, then contracting.

  When Targo opened his eyes, Jason nearly flinched at the transformation. The warm demeanor had given way to something sharper, more focused. His gaze carried a penetrating quality.

  "Your sister isn’t experiencing schizophrenia," Targo stated. "Nor is she demonically possessed."

  Jason exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Relief mingled with renewed uncertainty as he leaned forward. "Then what's happening to her?"

  "Anne is a Lightworker—someone awakened to a mission of bringing healing and higher consciousness to humanity. She's also a powerful empath with psychic abilities," Targo stated with certainty. "You’re also a Lightworker and share these sensitivities, though you've buried them.”

  Jason flinched at the idea. He pointed to his data-driven career.

  "I work with algorithms and market predictions, not—"

  Targo lifted a hand. “I suspect you've made choices based on intuition and psychic knowing more than you realize."

  Jason's mind raced through recent business decisions. The Singapore trading team he'd successfully opposed recruiting despite their impressive returns, something had felt wrong about their strategy, a sensation he could not support with data. Six months later, their strategy had collapsed, costing investors billions.

  Then, the Deutsche Bank equity index hedge contract and his inexplicable insistence on an obscure indemnity clause that later saved Alcazar millions when markets shifted.

  Everyone had called it analytical brilliance. But was it something else?

  "These weren't coincidences," Targo said, watching recognition spread across Jason's face. "They were your intuitive abilities manifesting."

  Jason's mind reeled. Lightworker? Psychic abilities?

  "I know this is difficult," Targo said, his voice gentle yet firm. "Especially for someone who's built their life around empirical evidence."

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Jason rubbed his temples, struggling to reconcile his Wall Street identity with this new reality. "Even if I accept what you're saying about Anne—and me—how does this help her? The medications are destroying her mind without stopping these... communications."

  Targo leaned forward, eyes intensifying. "We can gain clarity by speaking directly with your spirit guides."

  Jason's eyebrows arched, his face tightening with incredulity. "My what?" The words escaped his lips before he could mask his skepticism.

  "Non-physical beings who guide your life journey." Targo's hands moved expressively. "Through channeling, they can offer specific guidance about Anne's situation."

  Jason's doubt evidently registered on his face because Targo pressed on with greater specificity.

  "I'll enter a trance state while my consciousness steps aside, allowing your guides to communicate through me." His tone shifted to something professionally matter-of-fact that oddly reassured Jason. "You can ask direct questions and receive answers from consciousness that understands Anne's situation from a higher perspective."

  Jason searched Targo's face for deception or delusion but found only that same grounded presence that had impressed him initially.

  His analytical mind objected: This defied his grasp of reality. It couldn't be scientifically verified. Targo might exploit his desperation.

  Yet, a suppressed part whispered of truths beyond empirical views. Didn't quantum physics reveal the limits of materialist science?

  "This sounds..." Jason struggled for words.

  "Unconventional? Frightening? Perhaps absurd?" Targo offered with a small smile.

  "All of the above," Jason admitted.

  His thoughts returned to Anne, sedated into a shadow of herself. The psychiatrists had no answers. Traditional religion offered little more than prayers. What did he have to lose?

  After a brief internal debate, Jason nodded. "I'm willing to try anything that might help Anne."

  Jason watched Targo adjust the lighting, softening the room to amber, casting long shadows.

  "I'll remain conscious but won't speak from my personality," Targo explained, settling into his chair. His movements appeared deliberate, almost ritualistic, as he arranged himself into what Jason recognized as a meditation posture—spine straight, hands resting palms-up on his knees.

  Minutes passed. Jason shifted, unsure if this was a performance, misguided ritual, or something genuine beyond his grasp.

  Targo's face subtly transformed, not theatrically but unmistakably. His features relaxed and sharpened, refining into a clearer version of themselves.

  Jason nearly flinched when Targo's eyes opened. The familiar brown eyes now seemed to pierce through him, carrying an ancient, vast presence.

  Targo spoke, his voice deeper and more measured, in an accent Jason couldn't identify.

  “What are your questions?" the voice said, filling the room with palpable presence.

  Jason's mouth dried as his mind grasped for rational explanations—hypnosis, performance, manipulation—but none matched the presence filling the room.

  "Who are you?" he whispered.

  "I am Anahata, one of your guides across many lifetimes. We come to assist during this crucial juncture."

  Jason clutched the chair's armrests, anchoring himself.

  "Your sister Anne and you incarnated together," the entity continued through Targo's transformed voice. "You are participating in a mission to free enslaved consciousnesses on Shamhdi."

  His heart pounded. "Shamhdi? The place Anne describes, it's real?"

  "Yes. Shamhdi orbits in the Aurinko star system as a moon of Sheramda. Cerauniam mining operations use manufactured bodies implanted with stolen consciousnesses."

  Each detail matched Anne's descriptions. Information Jason had questioned as potentially delusional.

  "Anne's empathic abilities make her essential to this liberation movement," the guide explained. "Her consciousness connects directly with the enslaved, amplifying their collective voice."

  The entity described Shamhdian technology: cloning of human bodies, geological stabilization systems, anti-gravity vehicles. Anne's detailed accounts matched perfectly, defying any psychological explanation.

  "This mission spans multiple dimensions," the guide added. "What doctors call mental illness is actually Anne's consciousness expanding beyond physical reality."

  Jason's skepticism shifted slightly. What if the world he knew, confined by physical laws and rationality, was just one layer of a far more intricate reality?

  "What's happening to Anne? Who's attacking her?" His voice remained steadier than his nerves.

  The entity's expression darkened through Targo's features, and Jason sensed Anahata's grave concern.

  "You and Anne's husband, Tomas, incarnated to support Anne on Earth," the guide explained. "Your roles were providing stability and protection, not direct involvement with Shamhdi."

  The words resonated with Jason. His unwavering protectiveness toward Anne had always surpassed typical sibling bonds.

  "Anne's participation was designed as non-invasive and safe," Anahata continued, voice deepening. "But Shamhdi's enslavers developed technology that located Anne's consciousness across dimensional barriers."

  Jason leaned forward, pulse racing. "Technology? What kind?"

  “[Psychotronic amplifiers] targeting specific consciousness signatures. Jakov and Simo launch attacks using advanced psychic techniques. These manifest as the profane voices and deep depression she experiences. Her spirit guides cannot fully shield her from this targeted technology."

  The realization dawned on Jason. Jakov and Simo—names Anne had mentioned during their conversations—what if they weren't hallucinations but actual, malevolent beings?

  "So the voices she hears—"

  "Jakov and Simo, projecting across dimensional barriers to torment her," Anahata confirmed. "They seek to silence her before the liberation movement grows stronger."

  Jason's hands trembled. No psychiatrist could diagnose this. No medication could shield Anne from attacks originating in another dimension. Could this be the true nature of her suffering?

  Jason stared at his hands, his mind spiraling. Targo's presence stabilized, the medium's ethereal aura fading, leaving behind a tangle of unanswered questions.

  Silence hung between them as Targo blinked back to awareness.

  "Are you all right?" Targo asked, voice restored.

  Jason couldn't respond immediately. Shamhdi. Cerauniam. Interdimensional attacks. Yesterday, each concept would have seemed absurd—together, they formed a reality too alien to process.

  "How am I supposed to comprehend this?" he whispered. "I build trading systems. I analyze market patterns. I'm not—" His hand gestured futilely, words failing.

  The personal risk crystallized with sudden clarity. Pursuing this path might shatter everything he'd built. Colleagues questioning his sanity. Andrew distancing himself. His reputation in finance [and classical music] circles dissolved. Years of careful work, destroyed.

  Yet abandoning Anne seemed unconscionable—leaving her sedated or restrained while beings from another dimension tortured her consciousness.

  "I don't know if I can do this," Jason murmured. "But I can't walk away either."

  Targo nodded, eyes compassionate. "Few are prepared when the veil lifts. The choice to see beyond it changes everything."

  "We need to speak with Anne," Jason said, grasping for concrete steps amid the chaos. "We need to explore this information with her."

  "A video call would be best. I can assess her energetic state more clearly."

  As they scheduled the call for tomorrow evening, Jason hung suspended between worlds—his comfortable reality and this terrifying, uncharted territory. The choice seemed impossible: continue his established career or engage in a spiritual battle with overwhelming odds against victory.

  #

  Jason sat immersed in his Asia team's report on their updates to Alcazar's Shanghai trading system. The late morning Manhattan sun slanted through the windows of his 45th-floor corner office at 425 Park Avenue, casting long rectangles of light across the mahogany desk. Preliminary results showed promise: two percent faster execution could mean millions in additional revenue.

  A digital tone broke Jason's concentration. Erika's video call request illuminated his monitor. Late morning in Manhattan, early evening in Milan. His hand hovered over the mouse. Why was his wife calling at this hour?

  Mezzo-soprano Erika Sukova had conquered the opera world with her distinctive interpretations of Verdi, Rossini, and Baroque compositions. She commanded stages at elite opera houses across continents, her schedule crammed with performances.

  During European tours, they typically connected during her midday break, his early morning. Seven days had elapsed since their previous conversation—a stark contrast to earlier tours when they spoke daily. Eight weeks had vanished since they had reunited in Paris, where Erika breathed life into Carmen’s title role at the Opéra de Paris.

  Jason smoothed his tailored shirt and adjusted his posture. His pulse quickened as he clicked "accept," schooling his features to mask how deeply her image still affected him after six years of marriage.

  Erika materialized on screen from her dressing room in the Teatro alla Scala. Honey-blonde hair fell in loose waves, one side partially pinned as if mid-styling. Golden light highlighted classic features, accentuating high cheekbones and flawless skin. Her makeup showed professional precision—perfect foundation, smoky shadow intensifying light blue eyes, lips still awaiting their color. A deep burgundy silk robe draped her slender figure, the rich fabric complementing her fair complexion.

  A sapphire pendant (one Jason didn't recognize) hung at her throat, catching the light with each movement and drawing his eye to the elegant line of her neck. Behind her, the well-appointed dressing room revealed glimpses of costumes and an ornate mirror surrounded by theatrical lighting.

  The backstage sounds of the opera house filtered through: distant vocal warm-ups, bursts of orchestral tuning, crew members calling to each other in rapid Italian. These sounds once formed the familiar soundtrack of their shared life.

  "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important." Her Czech-tinged voice lilted through the connection.

  Conflicting emotions battled inside Jason—yearning, frustration, and stubborn love. His mind drifted to their passionate beginnings while his eyes registered the transformation before him—a polished perfection crafted for audiences rather than the intimate vulnerability once reserved for him.

  "No, nothing that can't wait," he said. "You're on stage tonight?"

  “It's the closing performance." She turned slightly as someone off-camera spoke to her in Italian. "Rosina. I've performed it dozens of times, but La Scala is always..." She paused, searching for the word.

  "Special," Jason supplied, recalling her previous description of the historic venue.

  A costume assistant appeared briefly in frame, hanging a garment bag on a nearby rack before disappearing.

  "Yes, special." Erika studied him through the screen. "You look well."

  Thank you, as do you," he replied, his voice steadier than the tumult of emotions beneath his composed exterior.

  "I've been meaning to call," Erika tucked a blonde strand behind her ear. "Things have been hectic with the production."

  "I can imagine." Jason's voice was warm. "The Barber of Seville reviews are exceptional. Critics rave about your Rosina."

  "You've been reading reviews?" Surprise flickered across her face.

  "Of course. Opera News called it 'transcendent.' La Repubblica praised your coloratura as 'flawless and emotionally resonant.'" He settled back. "Your performance, ‘a tour de force.’”

  A smile illuminated her face, professional pride brightening her eyes. "Thank you. That means a lot." She accepted a brush from someone offscreen, sweeping color across her cheekbones. "The director pushed us hard, but the results..." She shrugged with elegant modesty.

  "Worth it, clearly."

  "We're having the closing cast party this weekend at Villa Necchi Campiglio. You should come." Her tone shifted to enthusiasm as she described the venue. "It's this magnificent 1930s villa—a museum now, but they're opening it exclusively for us. The cultural minister will attend, and several patrons from La Scala's foundation."

  Jason watched her practiced movements as she applied more makeup, the ritual preparation for the stage, a world increasingly distant from his.

  "After Milan, a group of us are heading to Cortina d'Ampezzo for a week. A little celebration in the Alps." She glanced directly at the camera. "My parents will join for a few days. They've been asking about you."

  "Have they?"

  "It would be good for us," she added, her voice taking on that persuasive quality he recognized from negotiations past. "The mountains in winter... remember Zermatt? How peaceful it was?"

  Jason watched excitement dance in Erika's eyes as she described the villa and ski trip. Her familiar gestures with the makeup brush stirred echoes of their shared past.

  "Erika," he said, catching her between plans. "There's something you should know."

  She tilted her head, brush suspended mid-air. "What is it?"

  "It's Anne." His composed facade cracked, worry lines deepening around his eyes. "Her psychiatrist recommends institutionalization."

  Enthusiasm drained from Erika's face. "Institutionalization? Weren't the medications working?"

  "Initially. But she's deteriorating." Jason clasped his hands. “The voices and visions continue. She's withdrawing completely, and her teaching is suffering. Tom's at his wits’ end."

  "I'm sorry," Erika said, her voice chilling. She set down her brush and looked away. "How long would they keep her?"

  "Indefinitely." Jason leaned forward, desk supporting his elbows. "As I've mentioned, the schizophrenia diagnosis doesn't add up."

  Erika's lips compressed. "You never could accept it, could you? Your sister being mentally ill?"

  "I'm exploring alternatives," Jason continued, brushing past her criticism. "I consulted Father Cote at Saint Thomas Church and Eustargio Navarro, a psychic medium, for different perspectives."

  "A psychic medium?" Erika's eyebrows shot up. "You called it 'exploitative nonsense' when my mother wanted to visit one after my grandmother died."

  "I know how it sounds," Jason admitted. "But conventional medicine isn't helping her."

  The temperature between them plummeted with each detail about Anne. Milan, the villa, and Cortina d'Ampezzo vanished from Erika's expression, replaced by cool detachment.

  "I see," she said.

  Jason sighed under the weight of family duty. "After a video call with Targo and Anne tomorrow afternoon, I'm flying to Houston."

  Erika's expression shifted, makeup highlighting her narrowing eyes. "Houston? For how long?"

  "Through next week." Jason leaned forward. "I need to challenge Anne's psychiatrist about institutionalization. The recommendation seems hasty, and I want to explore alternatives. When I return to New York, I have Andrew's quarterly business review to prepare."

  He studied Erika's reflection as she absorbed this, La Scala's backstage activity continuing around her. A stagehand appeared briefly, silently signaling thirty minutes.

  "While I'm there, I'll accompany my mother for a routine medical procedure." Jason's voice tightened at the mention of Nina. "She needs someone with her, and Lewis is..." He left his father's unreliability unspoken.

  A silent invitation hung between them—a chance for Erika to acknowledge his family burden. Instead, she checked her watch, her professional mask slipping back into place.

  "I see. So Milan and Cortina are definitely out."

  Their priorities crystallized: family obligations versus professional ambitions.

  "I'm sorry, Erika," Jason met her gaze through the screen. " I know we need time together. Can you fly to New York after your ski trip?"

  Silence stretched between them. Jason watched Erika's expression harden as she uncapped her eyeliner with practiced precision.

  "Your family has always been mentally unbalanced," she said, her accent thickening. She leaned toward the mirror, applying the liner in a perfect sweep. "I tried to support you, but the drama never ended."

  Her venom caught him unprepared. He stiffened, fingers digging into the armrests.

  "Your father is a narcissist who bullies his children." She inspected her work before mirroring the line on her other eye. "Remember how he spoke to you that Thanksgiving? No surprise you can't stand up to Andrew."

  Jason's jaw tightened. The memory of that holiday dinner, his father's cutting remarks about career and marriage choices, resurfaced with painful clarity.

  "And your mother," Erika continued, selecting a mascara wand. "Nina's comments made gatherings unbearable. Remember when she criticized my dress at your cousin's wedding? Then played innocent when confronted?" She applied mascara with precise strokes. "Passive-aggressive to the core."

  Each accusation struck like a physical blow. The worst part was recognizing the truth in her words.

  "Consulting psychics?" A dismissive laugh escaped as she recapped the mascara. "Absurd. Next you'll claim alien abductions or join some cult." She shook her head. "Anne needs professional help, not mystical nonsense. You're enabling her delusions."

  Her disdain surged over his remaining defenses. This wasn’t the partnership he had once believed they shared. Had she always harbored such contempt for his family? For him?

  "Someone's calling me," she said, glancing off-camera. "I need to finish."

  Jason's chest tightened watching Erika check her appearance. Her movements—precise, professional—mirrored the methodical approach she brought to opera roles, now applied to their faltering marriage.

  "Before I go," she said, voice shifting to a detached, business-like cadence, "I should update you on my upcoming schedule."

  Jason nodded, bracing himself. This was Erika in performance mode, each word calculated for maximum impact.

  "After Cortina, London for six weeks." She applied lipstick, blotting with practiced efficiency. "Cast as Sesto in La clemenza di Tito at the Royal Opera House. Christopher Davies directing."

  Davies' name unsettled Jason. The British conductor had surfaced often in Erika's conversations lately.

  "Then New York in May." She capped her lipstick with a decisive click. "The Met wants me as Amneris in Aida."

  Her eyes pierced through the screen, calculating. "For our marriage, you should come to Milan this weekend." Not a request, a decree. "We need to discuss our future in person, not across screens and time zones."

  The ultimatum sharpened with brutal clarity: fly to Milan, abandoning Anne when she needed him most, or support his sister at the potential cost of his marriage.

  "Erika, I can't just—"

  "I understand your sister is important," she cut in. "But so is our marriage. Or I thought it was."

  The stage manager called from off-camera. Erika glanced away.

  "I have to go." She straightened, transforming into the professional performer. "Milan or Houston, Jason. Decide what matters most."

  The call ended, leaving Jason facing his reflection in the black screen.

  Jason sat motionless at his desk, financial data scrolling behind him unnoticed. Erika's absence filled his office with a tangible sense of loss. His thoughts spiraled through nightmares—Anne without protection, her mind dimmed by stronger drugs, his marriage crumbling.

  He examined his Houston trip details, then searched for Milan flights. The choice represented more than just distance: it was between worlds, commitments, selves.

  Though skeptical of Targo's communication with his spirit guide, Jason knew in his core that Anne's experiences defied psychiatric labels.

  Memories surfaced of his sister’s childhood: her sensitivity, her perception of hidden connections, her defense of them both against their parents' barbs.

  "I can't come to Milan," he announced to his empty office, voice quiet yet resolute.

  Something shifted inside him—clarity emerging through the fog of competing obligations. His marriage mattered, but not above his sister's well-being or his integrity.

  Jason texted Erika, "I'm sorry, but I need to be in Houston. Anne needs an advocate right now. I hope you understand."

  His thumb hovered briefly before pressing “send.”