Chapter Eighty-Two. Sarah Lynn
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
SARAH LYNN
I step out into the lights. The air is cold on my bare scalp. I watch the surprise flutter through the crowd like wind through wheat.
Then I see Mom, standing just offstage. Her face is pure rage. Not the tight-lipped disappointment I’m used to. Not even the sharp bursts of anger she usually saves for Kayden. This is different. And for a split second, I regret what I’ve done.
My whole life, there has never been a better feeling than when my mother is proud of me.
But it was never really me she was proud of. She was proud of her own reflection. Now I can’t undo what I’ve done, and neither can she. I lift my chin, eyes locked with hers. She turns her back to me and walks away into the darkness.
I move through the motions of my routine, limbs lighter, chest buzzing, and when the crowd claps, the applause feels like it belongs to me.
When I finish, I join Hannah in the wings, and we stay to watch Olivia.
Mark rises from his seat and kills all the lights but one, a single spotlight on Olivia in her plain black leotard, her thin frame a silhouette.
The opening notes of “The Dying Swan” unfurl, soft and aching, and Olivia begins to dance.
I’ve never heard a crowd go so silent, so still.
As if even breathing would shatter the moment.
Olivia’s body is a sharp blade of elegance, her movements precise, up on tiptoes so long it makes my own calves burn.
Hannah grabs my hand. I’m full up to the top, like a Coke can shaken up. For a fragile second, I feel like the three of us are one body moving together, like nothing could pull us apart.
When the final note fades, Olivia lies on the floor, gracefully collapsed, arms extended above her head.
For a breath, the silence holds. Then she rises slowly, her chest heaving, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the audience.
The applause starts low, hesitant, like they are afraid to break whatever spell she’s cast. She doesn’t smile. She simply bows and turns to go.
That’s when I see movement in the audience—Sheriff Ryan rising from his seat, cutting through the rows toward Emily.
He leans down to whisper something, and I watch the color drain from her face.
The light glints off his badge, off the metal at his hip, as he guides her up the aisle and out of the room.
By the time Olivia steps offstage, we’re already reaching for her, pulling her into a hug.
“You were incredible,” Hannah whispers.
Olivia exhales, shoulders softening. “I think I’m done,” she says quietly. “That’s all I wanted. I wanted her to see me dance.”
I nod and squeeze her arm.
We walk back to the dressing room together, joining the other girls.
The air hums with nervous energy—zippers, perfume, laughter—but it feels muted, like we’re underwater.
Hannah and I unzip our garment bags, slipping into our evening gowns.
Usually, in this moment, my mother would be here, tucking and adjusting, smoothing my hair, retouching my makeup, making sure I am perfect. But she’s nowhere to be found.
Olivia just sits there at her vanity, still in her leotard, her bare shoulders trembling.
“You sure you don’t want to change?” I ask.
She shakes her head slowly. “No. I’m done.”
Before I can say anything, one of the volunteers pokes her head in. “Final lineup, ladies. Time for crowning!”
Hannah and I exchange a look, then back at Olivia. She doesn’t move. The volunteer calls again, and Hannah squeezes Olivia’s hand before we go.
At the doorway, I glance back. Olivia’s still in front of the mirror, motionless, the light from that single, swaying bulb pooling around her like a halo. The reflection staring back at her looks almost like a ghost.