Chapter 3

My arms remained suspended in empty air.

For twelve years, Marcus had always stepped back during those eight counts.

"This part is yours," he used to tell me. "No one touches it. Not even me."

The sponsors in the gallery leaned forward.

The side door flew open.

Bianca ran onto the floor and straight into Marcus's arms at the exact moment my solo had been cut.

Marcus caught her cleanly, launching her into a dramatic, high-altitude overhead lift.

"Stop the music," I said. My voice was not loud, but everyone heard it.

The audio engineer panicked, hitting the mute button instantly.

"What are you doing, Lena?" Marcus set Bianca on her feet and came toward me.

"We're showing the sponsors the new version."

I crossed to the sound desk, took the revision sheet from the technician, and looked down.

The entire eight-bar solo had been crossed out in red.

Beneath the replacement lift, the revision log read: Requested by B.L. Approved by M.C.

I threw the sheet straight onto the hardwood floor.

"You canceled my training blocks. You let her wear my custom-made performance gown.

"You've been running secret midnight sessions behind my back.

"You used the sports network to paint me as an emotional liability.

"And now, you are literally cutting my mother's handwriting out of her own masterpiece."

The sponsors in the viewing gallery leaned forward, murmuring frantically.

Bianca's eyes instantly filled with tears right on cue.

She stepped forward, reaching out to grasp my forearm in front of the running lenses.

"Please don't blame Marcus, Lena," she sobbed softly, her voice carrying beautifully across the acoustic room.

"She's just... she's just missing her mother too much right now. She can't separate her grief from the reality of the performance.

"It's my fault for suggesting the lift."

"Let's just show her the stability of the lift," Bianca turned to Marcus, wiping her cheek.

She stepped into Marcus's arms and began the new transition.

As he lifted her, Bianca shifted her weight sharply to the side. She fell, struck both hands against the floor, and screamed.

Marcus dropped beside her and pulled her into his arms. "Bianca! Where are you hurt?"

He shot to his feet and turned on me. "Are you satisfied now, Lena? You broke her focus. Apologize to her."

"You know exactly how she fell, Marcus," I said, my voice eerily steady.

"You felt her weight throw itself to the left. She did it on purpose."

"I do not care how she fell," Marcus said, stopping inches from me.

"The sponsors saw her get hurt after you caused a scene.

"Apologize by tomorrow morning, or Bianca replaces you in the final. I can file it tonight."

He expected the threat to pull me back into line.

I looked at him, and the final thread of twelve years of shared history snapped cleanly in two.

"Then go ahead and register her," I said, my voice light, devoid of any weight.

"Our twelve-year partnership ends right here."

Marcus let out a harsh, arrogant sneer.

"Don't talk nonsense, Lena. You'll be back at the barre tomorrow morning by eight, weeping. You have nowhere else to go."

At 8:47 p.m., the team email arrived:

"Official statement scheduled for 9:00 a.m.—Lena Hart apologizes for her emotional outburst and Bianca Lane's injury."

My name was already beneath it.