Chapter 4

At nine the next morning, the country watched me apologize for something I had never done.

The dance company's official account posted the statement with my digital signature at the bottom.

Within minutes, the league and every sponsor page had shared it.

The post included a carefully edited rehearsal video.

It showed Bianca falling, Marcus rushing to protect her, and then my face—cold and still—without a second of what had happened before.

The caption read: "A painful setback, but a unified front. True artists put the competition first."

My phone filled with messages. The comments called me a jealous, aging diva who was destroying her own mother's legacy.

Marcus removed my access to the company's media dashboard, leaving me unable to correct the statement through any official team channel.

At 2:00 p.m., Marcus messaged me:

"The crisis is handled. Wear black and come to the gala. You're still my fiancée. Stand with the team, smile for the cameras, and stop making Bianca pay for your grief."

I did not answer. I still went, because the league office at the venue held the official registration files.

The moment I entered the ballroom, the humiliation was waiting for me.

The massive promotional banner spanning the entrance wall had been completely replaced overnight.

My face was entirely gone.

Dead center stood Marcus and Bianca, locked in a fluid, romantic frame.

"Marcus! Bianca! Over here!" a wall of flashbulbs went off as a swarm of sports reporters surrounded them.

"Is this roster swap permanent for the National Legacy Cup? Has Bianca officially taken the lead?"

Marcus kept one hand around Bianca's waist. "We are using the partnership that gives this dance its best chance to win," he said.

He did not deny that she had replaced me.

A reporter spotted me standing in the shadow of the pillar and thrust a microphone toward my face.

"Lena! Do you agree with the statement released this morning? Are you stepping back due to psychological instability?"

Before I could answer, Marcus stepped in front of the lens and blocked me from the camera.

"Lena is under a great deal of emotional strain," he said. "She is not in a condition to answer questions tonight."

Bianca came to my side and took my hand for the cameras. Then she leaned close enough that only I could hear her.

"Smile for the lenses, Lena," she purred, her eyes bright with triumphant malice.

"If you frown now, the national audience will only believe the statement more. They already think you're a bitter lunatic."

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," the gala host's voice boomed through the ballroom speakers.

"To honor our legacy partners, please welcome Marcus Cole and Bianca Lane debuting the first public preview of The Last Turn!"

The room erupted into thumping applause.

Marcus caught my eye as he walked past toward the backstage stairs, leaning down to hiss under his breath.

"It's a ninety-second broadcast snippet. Keep your mouth shut and don't ruin the team's standing in front of the country."

I stood motionless in the dim periphery as the music began.

It was the music my mother had written in the final months of her life.

I watched Bianca dance through the stolen transition, occupying the exact spatial framework my mother had designed exclusively for my solo.

As the ninety-second preview concluded, the massive LED screen behind the stage flashed with the official production credits:

Adapted by: Marcus Cole & Bianca Lane

Based on the Original Work by: Evelyn Hart

My name was gone. My mother's work had become raw material for their new version.

I left the applause and went straight to the league office backstage.

A league official looked up from his monitor.

"Show me who changed the performer and credits for The Last Turn," I said. "Show me the approval."

He hesitated, then opened the official file and turned the screen toward me.

"The changes are active," he said. "They were submitted through your verified account yesterday."

I followed the timestamps until the last page filled the screen.

Beneath Marcus's approval was my electronic signature. Mine.

On a document I had never seen.