Chapter 2

"Bianca's shoulder hurts. Your rehearsal is canceled." Last year, Marcus made me dance three hours on a torn ligament.

The text message came at 9:00 a.m.

I was already at the facility, my shoes broken in, my core locked, ready to mark the floor.

I pushed open the door to the VIP lounge to retrieve my water bottle.

Bianca was sitting on the chaise lounge, wrapped in a heavy designer shawl.

Marcus was standing directly behind her, his large hands meticulously working the muscles around her scapula with an intense, focused concentration.

"Lena, I feel absolutely horrible," Bianca whispered the moment she saw me, her eyes immediately welling with soft, decorative tears.

"I told Marcus I could just take some painkillers and push through our practice, but he refused to let me touch the floor.

"I really didn't mean to ruin your full-day block."

"If you're genuinely concerned about my block, you can step out of the facility," I said flatly.

Marcus's thumbs stopped digging into her skin. He looked up, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark with immediate hostility.

"That is enough, Lena," he said, his voice dropping into a warning.

"Bianca is exhausted because she has spent the last forty-eight hours fixing problems in your mother's routine.

"Your insecurity is becoming a liability to this company."

I blinked, the words passing through me without leaving a scratch.

At noon, Marcus took Bianca onto a live sports broadcast to address the upcoming tournament.

I sat in the deserted cafeteria, watching the live link on my tablet.

"Marcus still understands my alignment better than anyone else in the industry," Bianca smiled radiantly at the host, pausing deliberately before letting out a soft, practiced giggle.

"In terms of dance mechanics, of course."

The host leaned forward. "Marcus, the internet is speculating about a permanent roster change. Has Lena stepped back?"

Marcus faced the camera, perfectly polished.

"Evelyn Hart's piece carries immense emotional weight. We mutually decided to give Lena the space she needs, while Bianca handles the technical work."

We mutually decided. My phone hadn't rung once.

Later that afternoon, I confronted him in the corridor about the public misinformation.

Marcus did not even stop walking.

"Let the media speculate, Lena. The attention is selling tickets. Stop turning useful publicity into a personal grievance."

At 11:00 p.m., I returned to the facility to clear out my locker.

The lights in the main atrium were off, but a single, sharp spotlight was cutting through Studio A.

I approached the glass partition.

They were not taking promotional photos. They were rehearsing the complete finale of The Last Turn.

Bianca was wearing my performance dress—the emerald, hand-beaded silk gown custom-tailored to my exact measurements.

Marcus caught her after a sweeping extension, then stood behind her and tied the satin straps across her bare back with the same practiced care he once reserved for me.

Bianca's phone sat on the bench right outside the door, the screen lighting up repeatedly with text previews.

A message from her close friend popped up: "Does she still think you're just temporary? "

Bianca's reply was already visible in the notification history:

"She has no idea. Marcus said to keep her practicing the old solo until the official registration closes. By then, it will be too late for her to object."

I didn't storm inside. I didn't break the glass.

I quietly walked back down the empty hallway, pulled out my laptop, and opened Noah Reed's digital contract file.

I called him. He picked up on the first ring.

"Noah," I said, my voice calm. "Send me the final partner form."

"It is already in your inbox," Noah said.

"Send me your medical clearance and the original score. If we do this, we start tonight."

I typed out my legal verification code, attached my professional credentials, and hit the electronic submit button.

The screen confirmed the partnership. No one outside Noah's team could see it yet.

"Then you're dancing with me," Noah said.

"Yes," I replied. "But Marcus doesn't know yet."

Through the glass, Marcus was still teaching Bianca the ending he believed I could never finish without him.

The next afternoon, I stepped onto the floor for the sponsors' run-through.

The music reached the only eight counts my mother had written for me to dance alone.

And skipped them.