My phone buzzed during dinner. I was sitting alone at the kitchen island, picking at takeout pasta I'd ordered an hour ago and forgotten to eat. The apartment was quiet. Gideon had texted earlier saying he'd be late. Again.

Celeste's name flashed across the screen.

"Pick up," the text said. "NOW."

I answered. "What's wrong?"

"Get to the rooftop bar at the Mercer Hotel." Her voice was tight. "Right now, Anahi. I'm serious."

"Celeste, I'm tired. I have rehearsal at six tomorrow—"

"He's here. With her. You need to see this."

My stomach dropped. I set down my fork. "See what?"

"Just come. Please."

I grabbed my jacket and keys. The subway ride felt endless. I kept telling myself it was nothing. That Celeste was overreacting. That there was a reasonable explanation.

The elevator to the rooftop bar opened onto a crowd of people pressed against the railing, phones raised. Music thumped from speakers. I pushed through, scanning faces.

Then I looked up.

Across the Manhattan skyline, drones hung in formation. Hundreds of them. Tiny points of light spelling out a name in letters twenty feet tall.

NYLAH.

My breath caught.

The crowd murmured and pointed. Someone near me laughed and said, "That's so romantic." A woman with a cocktail sighed. "I wish someone would do that for me."

I forced myself to look away from the sky. To scan the rooftop.

I found him by the far railing.

Gideon stood with his back to the city, jacket draped over someone's shoulders. Nylah leaned into him, her face tucked against his chest. His hand rested on her back, slow circles, the way you'd soothe a frightened child.

Or someone you loved.

He was saying something to her. She nodded. He pulled her closer.

I stood there at the edge of the crowd. My hands were cold. My chest felt tight.

Celeste appeared at my elbow. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't want you to hear about it from someone else."

I couldn't answer.

The drones shifted. The letters rearranged into a heart.

Someone in the crowd whistled.

Gideon looked up then. His eyes swept the rooftop—and landed on me.

He didn't flinch. Didn't let go of Nylah. He just stared at me for a long moment, then said something to her and crossed the space between us.

"Anahi." His voice was flat. "What are you doing here?"

I blinked. "Celeste called me."

He glanced past me at Celeste, then back. His jaw tightened. "You didn't need to come."

"I—" I stopped. Swallowed. "What is this?"

"Exposure therapy." He said it like it was obvious. Like I was slow for asking. "Nylah's androphobia is getting worse. Her therapist suggested incremental public exposure in a controlled environment. I thought a gesture like this would help her associate positive emotions with being seen."

I stared at him. "You chartered drones."

"She needed something big enough to override the fear response." He crossed his arms. "It's working. She's been out here for twenty minutes without a panic attack."

"You spelled her name across the sky."

"Anahi." His voice dropped. Irritation bled through. "Don't make this about you."

The words hit like a slap.

"I'm not—"

"She almost died for me." He stepped closer. His voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge in it. "She saved my life when we were kids. She has spent years struggling because of trauma she endured that night. The least I can do—the *least*—is help her heal. If that makes you uncomfortable, that's something you need to work through."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Behind him, Nylah was watching us. She looked small under his jacket. Fragile.

She met my eyes and smiled.

I turned and walked to the elevator. Celeste called after me, but I didn't stop. I rode down forty floors in silence. Walked to the subway. Rode home.

The apartment was dark when I got back. I didn't turn on the lights.

I sat on the couch in my jacket and pulled out my phone. Opened the calendar. The spring showcase was six weeks away. *Swan Lake.* White Swan. The role I'd trained a year for. The role I'd bled for.

I thought about the way Gideon had looked at me on that rooftop. The irritation. The certainty.

I thought about Nylah's smile.

I set the phone down and pressed my fingertips together. An old habit. Something I did when I needed to hold myself still.

Then I stood, walked to the corner of the living room, and ran through my variation in the dark. Thirty-two fouettés. Perfectly centered. Mechanical.

When I finished, my legs were shaking.

I didn't hear Gideon come home that night. I didn't wait up.

Celeste's voice message came through while I was stretching at the kitchen counter. I almost didn't listen. My thumb hovered over delete.

I pressed play.

"Anahi." Her voice was tight. "He brought her to rehearsal today. Front row. She's—God, she's *butchering* your choreography. The corps is trying not to stare. Even Madame Lavelle looked like she wanted to say something, but you know she won't. Not with Burke money on the line. I just—I needed you to know. I'm sorry."

I deleted it. Opened my laptop. Typed 'evening painting classes Brooklyn' into the search bar.

I signed up for Wednesdays at seven.

---

Sunday dinner at the brownstone was a command, not an invitation. My mother had texted three times. "Family dinner. Six o'clock. Don't be late."

I wasn't late. I was never late.

The dining room smelled like roasted chicken and my grandmother's good candles. The table was set with the dishes she'd left me—the ones with the blue rim that I'd grown up eating off of every Sunday. My mother had taken them out of storage without asking.

Nylah sat beside Gideon. She wore a soft gray sweater, sleeves pulled over her hands. Her hair fell forward. She looked down at her plate.

My mother set a serving dish in front of her first. "Eat, sweetheart. You need your strength for the showcase."

Nylah's voice was small. "Thank you, Mama."

Gideon's hand rested near hers on the table. Not touching. Just close.

My father carved the chicken. He didn't look at me. He'd been quieter than usual lately. I knew the Burke investment was up for renewal next quarter. I knew he needed Gideon happy.

"Anahi." My mother's voice pulled me back. "Pass the potatoes."

I passed them.

"How is work?" she asked. She meant the administrative assistant position I'd taken at a law firm after I resigned from the academy. She said 'work' the way other people said 'hobby.'

"Fine."

"That's good." She refilled Nylah's water glass. "Nylah, tell your sister about rehearsal."

Nylah glanced up. Her eyes were damp. "It's hard. Everyone is so talented. I don't know if I can do it."

"You're doing beautifully," Gideon said. His voice was firm. Certain. "Madame Lavelle said you've made incredible progress."

I looked at my plate. Madame Lavelle had trained me for eight years. She used to say I had the cleanest lines she'd seen in a decade.

She hadn't called since I resigned.

"I was thinking," I said quietly, "about auditioning for another company. Maybe something smaller. Regional."

The table went still.

Nylah's breathing changed. Short. Fast.

"Another company?" My mother's voice was sharp. "Anahi, your sister is finally—"

"I just meant—" I started.

Nylah's chair scraped back. She stood, one hand pressed to her chest. Her breath came in gasps. "I can't—I can't breathe—"

Gideon was on his feet instantly. "Nylah. Look at me. You're okay."

"She's leaving—" Nylah's voice broke. "She's leaving because of me—because I took her role—"

"No one took anything," my mother said, moving toward her. "Anahi, look what you've done."

I sat frozen.

Nylah reached for the table to steady herself. Her hand knocked her water glass. It tipped, rolled, shattered on the hardwood.

Everything happened fast.

Nylah dropped to her knees, sobbing. Her hand closed around a shard. I saw the glint of glass. I saw her eyes meet mine for half a second.

Then she stumbled forward, reaching for me—

The glass dragged across my forearm. Sharp. Clean.

Pain bloomed hot and immediate. Blood welled up, ran down my arm, dripped onto my grandmother's tablecloth.

"Oh my God—" My mother's voice was distant. "Nylah, baby, let go of the glass—"

Gideon pulled Nylah back. She collapsed against him, the shard falling from her hand. She was crying so hard she couldn't speak.

I pressed my grandmother's handkerchief to the wound. The linen turned red.

My father finally moved. He grabbed a kitchen towel. "We need to take her to the ER."

"I'm fine," I said. My voice sounded far away.

"You're bleeding everywhere." My mother was still focused on Nylah. "Gideon, get her to the couch. She's in shock."

No one was looking at me.

I stood. The room tilted slightly. I pressed the handkerchief harder.

"Anahi, sit down." My father's voice was tight. "I'll drive you."

"I can drive myself."

"Don't be ridiculous—"

"I said I can drive myself."

I walked to the door. Blood soaked through the handkerchief. I grabbed my keys with my good hand.

Behind me, Nylah was still crying. Gideon's voice was low, soothing. "You didn't mean it. It was an accident. She knows that."

I closed the door behind me.

The night air was cold. My arm throbbed. I got in my car and sat for a moment, staring at the brownstone through the windshield.

Every window was lit. I could see shapes moving inside. My mother's silhouette. Gideon's.

No one came after me.

I started the engine and drove to the ER alone.

The ER smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. I sat on the exam table with my arm extended while a nurse cleaned the wound. The cut was deep. Clean. She worked in silence, her gloved hands steady.

"Sixteen stitches," she said finally. "You're lucky it missed the tendon."

Lucky.

She left me with discharge papers and a prescription I wouldn't fill. The curtain around the bed was thin. I could hear everything beyond it. Phones ringing. A child crying. My mother's voice in the waiting room.

"She didn't mean it. She was in shock. You saw her—she could barely breathe."

Gideon's voice, lower. Soothing. "I know. Is she okay now?"

"She's asking for you."

Footsteps moved away from my curtain. Toward Nylah.

I looked down at my bandaged arm. The gauze was already spotted with red.

The curtain parted. My father stepped through. He looked tired. Older than I remembered.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

"Sixteen stitches."

He nodded. Didn't sit. "Gideon wants to talk to you. About the brownstone."

I stared at him.

"He thinks—we think—it would help Nylah feel more secure. She's been so fragile since the showcase announcement. Having a space of her own, somewhere she feels safe..." He trailed off. Cleared his throat. "The paperwork is ready. We just need your signature."

"The brownstone was Grandma's."

"And she left it to you. Which means you can decide what to do with it." His voice was careful. Measured. "This is family, Anahi. Your sister needs you."

I pressed my fingertips together. The pressure made my arm throb.

"Where's Mom?"

"With Nylah. And Gideon."

Of course.

A hospital administrator appeared behind my father. She held a clipboard. "Ms. Perez? I have documents that need your signature."

My father stepped aside. The woman set the clipboard on the bedside tray. Property transfer forms. My grandmother's address typed neatly across the top.

I looked at the papers for a long time.

Then I set them face-down.

"Send Gideon in," I said quietly. "Alone."

The administrator glanced at my father. He nodded. They left.

I sat on the exam table and waited. My arm hurt. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

The curtain moved.

Gideon stepped through. He looked at my bandaged arm first, then my face. His expression was unreadable.

"You wanted to see me?"

I nodded. "I need to tell you something."

He crossed his arms. Waited.

I took a breath. "The warehouse. When we were sixteen. It wasn't Nylah."

His jaw tightened. "Anahi—"

"It was me." My voice was steady. Quiet. "There was a storm. The building was collapsing. You were unconscious inside. I crawled in and dragged you out. I had a surgical mask on because I had a stress rash all over my face. You never saw me. When you woke up, Nylah was there. She took the mask off me while I was passed out. You saw her first."

Gideon stared at me. His arms stayed crossed.

"I have a painting," I continued. "A watercolor I made years later. Of the warehouse. It's in the brownstone. In the attic. There are other things too. My hospital records from that week. The mask. My school ID from that year."

He didn't move.

"I'm not asking you to believe me," I said. "I'm just telling you what's true."

Silence stretched between us. Long. Heavy.

Then Gideon laughed.

Not cruelly. Not like he was mocking me. Just—reasonably. Like I'd said something absurd and he was being patient about it.

"Are you serious right now?" He shook his head. "Nylah warned me you'd try something like this."

I blinked. "What?"

"She said you've always been jealous. That you'd eventually make up some story to—" He gestured at me, at the exam table, at the bandaged arm. "To what? Get attention? Make yourself the victim?"

"Gideon—"

"You're pathetic." His voice was flat. Final. "Nylah saved my life. I was there. I remember her face. I remember her voice. And you're so desperate to compete with your own sister that you'd lie about something like that?"

My chest felt tight. "I'm not lying."

"You're delusional." He stepped back toward the curtain. "Sign the papers, Anahi. Give Nylah the house. It's the least you can do after what you put her through tonight."

He left.

The curtain swayed behind him.

I sat on the exam table. My arm throbbed. The discharge papers were still on the tray beside the unsigned property transfer.

I picked up my phone with my good hand. Opened a browser. Typed 'flights to London.'

One-way tickets started at eight hundred dollars.

I booked the earliest one.

Then I stood, gathered the discharge papers, and walked out of the ER. My mother was in the waiting room with Nylah wrapped in a hospital blanket. Gideon stood beside them. My father was on his phone.

None of them looked up.

I walked past them. Through the automatic doors. Into the cold night air.

Something inside me had died on that exam table.

Something else was being born.

I got in my car and drove home to pack.