Chapter 3

My arms remained suspended in empty air.

For twelve years, Damon had always stepped back for those eight counts.

“This part is yours,” he used to say. “No one touches it. Not even me.”

The side door flew open.

Delphine ran onto the floor and into Damon’s arms at the exact moment my solo disappeared.

He caught her cleanly and lifted her overhead.

“Stop the music,” I said.

The audio engineer hit mute.

Damon set Delphine down and came toward me. “What are you doing, Corinne? We’re showing the sponsors the new version.”

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

My eight-bar solo had been crossed out in red. Beneath the replacement lift: Requested by D.R. Approved by D.T.

I dropped the sheet on the hardwood.

Before anyone could move it, I pulled out my phone and photographed the revision log.

The technician flinched.

“Did this approval come from my account?” I asked.

He looked at Damon, then at the cameras. “It came through the company portal.”

Not from me. Never from me.

I saved the image to a private folder before Damon could reach for the paper.

“You canceled my training. You put her in my dress. You rehearsed behind my back and used the broadcast to make me look unstable.”

I looked up at him. “Now you’ve cut my mother’s handwriting out of her own dance.”

Delphine’s eyes filled immediately. She reached for my arm in full view of the cameras.

“Please don’t blame Damon,” she whispered. “Corinne is still grieving. She can’t separate that from the performance.”

Then she turned to him. “Let’s show her why the lift is safer.”

Damon lifted her again.

Delphine’s fingers tightened on his shoulder. Then she threw her weight hard to the left.

She hit the floor and screamed.

Damon dropped beside her. “Delphine! Where are you hurt?”

When he looked at me, his face had changed. “Are you satisfied, Corinne? Apologize.”

“You felt her throw her weight,” I said. “She did it on purpose.”

“The sponsors saw her fall after you made a scene,” Damon barked. “If your mother were here, she would be ashamed of your bitterness today. Apologize by tomorrow, or Delphine replaces you in the final.”

He expected the threat to pull me back into line.

“Then register her,” I said. “Our twelve-year partnership ends here.”

Damon gave a short, arrogant laugh. “You’ll be back tomorrow. You have nowhere else to go.”

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

Official statement scheduled for 9:00 a.m.—Corinne Ashby apologizes for her emotional outburst and Delphine Roan’s injury.

My name was already beneath it.