nca

ume me. My work, my art, was my shield. I channeled every ounce of my pain, rage, and despair into my rehearsals

motion. The dancers moved with a fluidity that was both breathtaking and technically demanding

Today, she was dressed in a sharp business suit, a stark contrast to her usual innocent dresses

ally bright, echoing in the cavernous space. "I'm Ashley Wynn

My blood ran cold, a familiar metallic tast

am in their depths. "I've been reviewing the preliminary designs

ed to the wall, designs that had been meticulo

icured finger against a vibrant costume sketch. "My fiancé, Hunter, he agrees. He said

course. He was pulling the

plained, my voice strained but steady. "They're symbol

wider audience, no? Hunter always says, 'If it doesn't sell, it's not art.' And frankly, t

y hands. "Our audience comes for art, not for... for bl

ord, "has certain expectations. Hunter's expectations, to be precise." She pulled out her phone, a defiant gli

t. The dancers exchanged nervous glances, their movements stiffe

but Bianca here seems to think her vision is more important than... well, than yours. She just doesn't seem to understand

d in my stomach. The ma

d by the phone's speaker, fill

rt, at its core, needs to be understood. We're not funding personal expressions. We're investi

allet, Hunter! It's an art form! You can't just

sional setting, Bianca," he countered, his voice sharp. "As

a mixture of sympathy and fear. They knew who h

bling with contained rage. "You're going to destroy months of

esn't mean it. She's just passionate. And perhaps a little bit stressed. I know my own ideas aren't as refined as hers, but

ge out of the studio. You're paid to create, not to cause drama

my gaze fixed on the phone in her hand. "You're a businessma

, his voice laced with contempt. "Consider this a profes

upset the golden goose. Don't risk the sponsorship. I clenched my fists, my nails dig

and commercial compromise. It was a cacophony of conflicting styles, clashing colors, and mudd

e and a shared determination to salvage what we could. We fought for every nuanced movement, every graceful line, trying to re-inject the soul that ha

ing my dancers through the performance with a professionalism that belied the turmoil within. As the final

ing for a familiar face, a specific seat in the third row. A place Hunter used to occupy. A place he filled with pride and admiration after e

here

, white, just like he always did. A wave of warmth, of foolish longing, washed over me. For a fleeting second, the old fee

I saw

smile gracing his lips as he handed her the bouquet. Ashley buried her face in the blossoms, then looke

t. My limbs grew stiff, my smile freezing on my face. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow: he was truly gone. He no longer saw me. He

through my ribs, leaving behind only emptiness. I fought to maintain my composure, my

om the agony in my heart. This was not how my story would end. I woul

to him, to them. I walked off stage, my head held high, my hea

heer as I addressed my tired but relieved team backstage.

kly. They knew. They saw. But they followed. And I led.