"You're off the roster, Tessa." Madam Rostova slid the tablet across her glass desk, her manicured finger tapping the screen. "Effective immediately."

I stared at the paused video frame. "You're pulling me from *Swan Lake*? Over a tabloid rumor?"

"It stopped being a rumor an hour ago." Rostova hit play.

Bettye's tear-stained face filled the screen. She sat on a plush daytime television sofa, clutching a tissue to her chest.

"I never meant to hurt Tessa," Bettye whimpered, her lower lip trembling for the cameras. "I really didn't. But Carter... Carter told me the one he truly loves has always been me. We couldn't fight it anymore."

I shoved the tablet away, the metal scraping harshly against the glass. "She's lying. I caught them in a hotel room together. She orchestrated this entire narrative."

"The public doesn't care about your truth," Rostova said, leaning back in her leather chair. "Carter Brooks held an emergency board meeting this morning. He formally introduced Bettye as his partner. He told his shareholders that he ended things with you weeks ago, and you simply refused to accept it."

My stomach dropped. "He threw me under the bus to save her reputation."

"He protected his company's stock, and he protected the woman he wants." Rostova folded her hands. "Our sponsors are threatening to pull their funding. They don't want a jealous, unstable ex-fiancée as the face of the fall season."

"I brought this company a twenty percent increase in ticket sales last season," I reminded her, digging my nails into my palms. "People came to see me dance."

"They came to see a rising star," Rostova corrected. "Now they see a woman who refuses to let go of a man who doesn't want her. The internet is tearing you apart, Tessa. Look at the comments."

She swiped her screen, pulling up a feed of thousands of replies.

*Tessa needs psychiatric help.*

*Carter looks so relieved to be with Bettye.*

*Imagine faking a perfect relationship just to trap a guy.*

I looked away. "You're letting them win. You're letting a lie dictate artistic casting."

"I am protecting my bottom line. Your understudy is taking over. Pack your locker."

The rehearsal hall was entirely empty. The mirrors reflected a woman I barely recognized. Pale skin, hollow eyes, a tense jaw.

I grabbed my worn pointe shoes and shoved them into my duffel bag. The pink silk ribbons tangled around my fingers, forming a messy knot. I yanked the fabric hard, snapping one of the ribbons completely.

My phone buzzed on the wooden floorboards.

*Carter.*

I swiped the green icon and put the device on speaker. I refused to hold it against my ear.

"Are you done throwing a tantrum in the press?" Carter's voice echoed off the glass walls, sharp and impatient.

"A tantrum?" I zipped the duffel bag with a violent pull. "You just cost me my career."

"I did what I had to do," he shot back, lacking a single ounce of remorse. "Bettye was getting death threats online after the restaurant incident. I had to step in. I had to clear her name."

"By destroying mine?" I asked.

"Stop being so dramatic. We both need to end this decently."

A harsh, jagged laugh tore from my throat. It bounced around the empty studio, sounding borderline unhinged. I wasn't crying. The tears had completely dried up, replaced by a burning, furious energy.

"My apologies," I sneered. "Your idea of decent is making me bear all the blame for your love story?"

"You're making this worse for yourself, Tessa. You always do this."

"I always do what? Tell the truth?"

"You need to accept reality. Bettye and I have history. We have a connection you and I never had."

"You bought a ring for me," I snapped. "You were going to propose to me last night."

"I was confused," he lied smoothly. "Seeing Bettye again made me realize I was settling."

The word struck me like a physical blow.

"So you publicly humiliate me?" I asked, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You announce to your board that I was some delusional woman clinging to a dead romance?"

"It controls the narrative," Carter insisted. "And speaking of the narrative, Bettye posted a video on her social media an hour ago."

My blood ran cold. "What video?"

"It's that old footage of you screaming in the studio when you injured your knee last year. She added a caption about how stressed and fragile you've been lately. She was trying to show sympathy."

"Sympathy?" I kicked a metal folding chair. It clattered loudly against the floorboards. "She maliciously edited that footage, Carter! She cut out the part where my knee popped. She made it look like a psychotic breakdown!"

"People are drawing their own conclusions," he replied calmly. "They think it's proof of your out-of-control jealousy. They think you've been unstable for months."

"You let her do this. You gave her the ammunition."

"Just stay out of the public eye," Carter warned, his tone shifting to a low threat. "Don't post anything. Don't talk to reporters. Let this blow over, or I'll have my lawyers send a cease and desist."

"Go to hell."

I ended the call.

I stood in the center of the room, entirely stripped of everything I had built. My fiancé was gone. My lead role was gone. My public image was shattered into a million jagged pieces.

I pushed through the heavy glass doors of the dance company building. The evening air hit my face, carrying the bitter chill of autumn.

I expected a swarm of paparazzi, but the sidewalk was completely deserted. The streetlights flickered overhead, casting long, lonely shadows across the concrete.

I adjusted the strap of my duffel bag, preparing to walk to the subway.

A sleek black Maybach glided around the corner. Its engine barely made a sound as the luxury vehicle pulled up directly against the curb, blocking my path.

The rear door swung open.

A man stepped onto the pavement. He wore a charcoal tailored suit, the fabric perfectly cut across his broad shoulders. His dark hair was styled back, revealing sharp, calculating eyes that immediately locked onto mine.

Isaac Mercer.

I froze. I knew exactly who he was. Every dancer in the company knew him. He was the billionaire investor who funded half the arts district. More importantly, he was the man who attended every single one of my performances for the past three years. He never sat in the VIP boxes. He always bought the darkest corner seat in the back row of the mezzanine.

He didn't offer a polite greeting. He didn't ask how I was doing.

Isaac glanced at the heavy duffel bag slung over my shoulder.

"They took your lead," he stated. It wasn't a question.

"News travels fast," I replied, tightening my grip on the canvas strap.

"I own the building, Tessa. I know everything that happens inside it before the board even signs the paperwork."

"Then you know I'm toxic right now." I took a step back, putting distance between us. "You should get back in your car. If Bettye's fans take photos of us standing together, they'll drag your name into this mess too."

Isaac didn't retreat. He closed the distance, his tall frame towering over me. He reached out, his long fingers lightly brushing against the frayed canvas of my bag.

"Let them try," he murmured, his voice a low, steady rumble.

I looked up, searching his face for a hint of pity. I found none.

"You don't owe me anything," I told him. "You've bought tickets to my shows. That makes you a patron, not my savior."

"I'm not trying to save you," Isaac said. "I'm making an investment."

"An investment in a ruined dancer?"

"An investment in the best talent this city has ever seen." He held my gaze, his expression unreadable. "If they don't want your stage, I'll give you one."