The stage lights burned against Vivienne's skin, and applause thundered through the entire auditorium. She held her final arabesque, leg extended behind her at the perfect angle, arms positioned with studied grace, spine straight as architectural steel. The music faded to silence. The heavy curtain descended with a whisper. Vivienne's chest moved with controlled breaths, sweat cooling on her neck beneath the perfect bun Mrs. Chen had secured that afternoon with military precision.
Backstage carried the familiar cocktail of hairspray and rosin dust. The other girls from her ballet troupe clustered together, voices bubbling about the performance, about spotting their parents in the audience, about Madison's party afterward. Vivienne tuned them out. She pressed a towel to her face and checked her phone with trembling fingers. The screen showed nothing. Papa was supposed to text when he arrived.
