Boss Promoted Young Woman Over Me, I Decided to Seek Revenge

Anna is a prima ballerina and a role model for dozens of young women. However, one of these girls is about to take her place. After catching a young, new ballerina, Rebecca, with her boss, Kevin, Anna decides to fight for her place by playing dirty. Will her means be justified in the end?

The stage whispers under her feet.

Anna floats, spins, a vision in tulle and light.

Eyes follow every leap, the silence thick with awe.

She owns the moment, the music, the gasps of the crowd.

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"Anna Wilkerson," they whisper, as if her name might summon the magic all over again.

She twirls, lands – perfection. Another pirouette, flawless. The orchestra swells, she soars with the crescendo.

This is life, this is air. For Anna, there's nothing beyond the floodlights, the shadowed faces.

"Brava!" A voice breaks through as she holds the final pose.

Then, applause thunders, an avalanche of adoration. She rises from her reverence to the stage.

"Thank you," her heart beats the words silently, every clap a confirmation of her years, her sacrifice.

Anna lives for this sound, these moments. It's more than respect; it's love, it's everything.

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"Anna! Anna!" The adulation pours over her. She smiles, bows again. This is her empire, built on pointed toes and iron will.

Her green eyes glisten, not with tears, but with the unyielding pride of the prima ballerina she is.

"More! Encore!" But the curtain falls, her time up, yet never enough.

Backstage, the frenzy fades, just echoes now.

Her chest heaves, not from the dance, but from the weight of victory, heavy as a crown.

Anna Wilkerson, always the name on their lips, always the queen of the stage.

The changing room hums with the energy of a performance well-received.

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Anna, her skin still flushed from the spotlight's caress, weaves through the maze of congratulatory embraces and envious stares.

She catches her breath, each gasp weaving threads of vanity through the air—she is their sun, and they, mere planets in orbit.

"Anna, you were ethereal," gushes one girl, her eyes wide with unspoken yearnings to reach similar heights.

"Beyond compare," echoes another, her voice a tender melody of awe.

"Thank you, darlings," Anna replies, her words dripping with the honeyed poison of arrogance.

Her practiced smile belies the iron grip she holds on her realm of tulle and sweat.

A bouquet of flowers cuts through the throng—a vibrant clash of colors against the monochrome backdrop.

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Rebecca stands there, her dark hair a stark contrast to the pale balletic purity surrounding them.

Blue eyes, usually alight with fiery ambition, flicker with something softer, something akin to reverence.

"Anna, these are for you," Rebecca says, extending the bouquet towards her idol.

"I... I need just a word, an advice from you. How can I ever hope to be like you?"

Laughter erupts from Anna's lips—sharp, sudden.

It's a chime that does not sing of mirth but rather rings with the clarity of condescension.

"Sweet child," she begins, her tone laced with the patronizing taint of superiority, "one piece of advice? That will hardly scratch the surface."

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Rebecca's eyes hold steady, searching.

Anna leans in, her whisper a velvet cloak enveloping Rebecca's earnest inquiry. "It's all about talent, dear. And experience."

Her green eyes pierce through Rebecca, a challenge laid bare. "Years of it. That’s what sets the prima ballerina apart."

"Of course," Rebecca murmurs, her voice small, almost lost amidst the rustle of tutus and leotards.

"Remember that," Anna adds, turning away, her back a fortress wall between her throne and those who dare dream of ascending it.

The door swung open with a purpose that sliced through the air of celebration.

Kevin strode in, his presence commanding silence.

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He scanned the room until his eyes landed on Rebecca.

"Rebecca, a word?"

His voice was smooth but carried an edge of something final.

Anna's heart hitched as she watched them, her green eyes narrowed slits of calculation.

The other girls huddled closer, sensing a shift.

"Thank you all for a stellar performance tonight," he began, his back to Anna, addressing the room.

"However, starting tomorrow, the company will see a change. Rebecca will step into the role of prima ballerina."

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Gasps and whispers twined through the air.

They clapped, a symphony of accolades for Rebecca.

Anna's hands stayed by her side, nails digging crescents into her palms.

"Congratulations!" they chorused.

Her teeth clenched so tight she feared they might crack, but no sound escaped her sealed lips.

Fury boiled beneath her porcelain facade, burning hotter than the stage lights ever could.

Dawn barely broke when Anna's footsteps echoed in the empty rehearsal hall the next morning.

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She moved through her exercises, each plié and pirouette a silent testament to her dedication.

"Years of it," she whispered to herself, thinking of the advice she had given Rebecca the night before.

She walked to the changing room, muscles singing with exertion.

But then she stopped—laughter trickled out from a stall, a duet of whispers that shouldn’t belong.

Curiosity beckoned her closer. She recognized the timbre of those voices; one belonged to Kevin, the other to Rebecca.

Silence fell between them, filled only by the soft sounds of a kiss.

"Ah," Anna thought bitterly, "so that's how."

Rage surged like a tempest within her chest, each heartbeat a drum call to war.

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Yet, in a display of control as disciplined as her craft, Anna did not storm in or shout.

She simply turned, every muscle coiled tight, and walked away, her silence more deafening than any confrontation.

Her thoughts were a cyclone of betrayal and indignation as she made her way back to the rehearsal hall, steps measured, ready to dance not just for her career, but for her pride.

Anna leaned against the barre, her auburn hair pulled tight into a bun that matched the tautness of her expression.

Green eyes flitted across the room, locking on Rebecca with a glint of condescension.

"Look at her," Anna whispered, her voice dripping with derision as she nudged the ballerina beside her.

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"Does she really think sleeping her way up will make up for what she lacks in talent?"

The other girls tittered, casting sidelong glances at Rebecca, who was practicing her arabesques, oblivious to the mockery.

"Wait till Kevin sees this," Anna snorted.

"She'll crumble."

Rebecca took her starting position, unaware of the cruel audience she had in her peers.

As the music swelled, she launched into her part, her first move shaky and uncertain.

Laughter bubbled around the room, stifled giggles echoing off the walls.

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"Pathetic," Anna muttered under her breath, a smug smile playing on her lips.

But then, something shifted.

Rebecca's spine straightened, her arms found their strength, and her legs moved with an elegance that seemed to silence the air itself.

Each step flowed into the next, a story told through the grace of her limbs.

The laughter died down as all watched, transfixed by the transformation unfolding before them.

"Wow..." a girl murmured, admiration lacing her tone.

Anna's jaw clenched, her nails digging crescents into her palms.

She couldn't deny it; Rebecca was dancing beautifully.

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The room was thick with awe, the change palpable.

Anna could see it in their faces; respect for Rebecca was growing.

"Focus, Anna," she chastised herself silently.

"Your turn is coming."

But even as she prepared mentally, her heart raced with a fury she couldn't quell.

Rebecca had become more than a nuisance; she was a threat.

And threats needed to be neutralized.

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Anna's mind raced, plotting, while her face remained a mask of practiced calm. She would not let this stand. She couldn't.

Kevin's voice echoed through the rehearsal space, infused with encouragement.

"Great work today, everyone. Let's bring that energy to tonight's performance."

Anna nodded along with the chorus of murmured agreements, her expression a mask of supportive camaraderie.

But inside, a storm of bitterness churned.

As the dancers dispersed, she lingered back, her eyes tracking Rebecca's retreat to the changing room.

"Time to prepare," Anna whispered to herself, waiting until the coast was clear.

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Her footsteps were silent as she slipped into the dimly lit changing room, the air thick with the scent of sweat and hairspray.

With deft fingers, she retrieved the vial from her bag, the crushed glass shimmering like deadly snow within.

She glanced at Rebecca’s pointe shoes, innocent on the shelf. No one would suspect a thing.

Carefully, Anna unscrewed the cap and let the contents cascade into the satin-lined tips.

"Anna?" The sudden voice made her heart leap.

She spun around to see one of the corps girls peering in, an eyebrow raised in question.

"Ah!" Anna exclaimed, feigning surprise. "I forgot my hairpin."

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She plucked the first thing her hand found—a bobby pin—from the nearby counter, holding it up like a trophy.

"Can’t dance without this."

"Right," the girl said slowly, her gaze lingering a moment too long on Anna before she shrugged and left.

Once alone again, Anna exhaled sharply, shaking out the tension that had seized her muscles.

She swept her gaze over the scene, ensuring no trace of her treachery remained.

With a final glance at the sabotaged shoes, she turned on her heel and left, the echo of her lie ringing in her ears amidst the soft hum of anticipation for the night's performance.

The stage glowed, and the audience hushed.

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Ballerinas flitted across the boards like ephemeral sprites, grace embodied in human form.

One by one, they spun their stories in the spotlight, the narrative of movement entrancing all who watched.

Applause ebbed and flowed, a tide of awe for each exquisite act.

"Rebecca Thompson," a voice announced.

She emerged a vision in white, her dark hair a stark contrast to the delicate fabric that clung to her form.

The first chords of her music caressed the air, and she welcomed them with outstretched arms.

As she launched into her routine, there was nothing but the dance, her world reduced to the steps she had rehearsed to perfection.

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A gasp escaped her lips—not part of the choreography.

A sharp sting shot through her toes, her arches, as if dancing on knives.

Her face contorted ever so slightly, the mask of serenity betrayed by a flicker of pain.

She willed her body onward; this was her moment, and she would not—could not—falter.

"Keep going," she muttered under her breath, her movements growing more rigid, forced.

"Rebecca?" Kevin's voice cut through the orchestration, concern etched into every syllable.

His keen eyes had caught the minute disruption in her fluidity.

The ballerina pressed on, determined that her smile would outshine the agony.

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But as she pirouetted, the pain crescendoed, an invisible barrier she could no longer ignore. Her leg buckled beneath her.

"Stop the music!" Kevin's command resonated with urgency.

The hall fell silent, save for the haunting echo of a lone violin string before it too succumbed to stillness.

"Lower the curtains!" he bellowed to the stagehands, his usual composure lost to the unfolding crisis.

Rebecca lay crumpled, the embodiment of both strength and fragility.

The audience, once captivated by the beauty, now held its collective breath in the grip of unforeseen drama.

Panic. The stage a sudden storm of whispers and shuffling feet. Rebecca, was motionless, her chest heaving with shallow breaths.

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Anna's heart hammered; the thin veil of concern draped over her features as she pushed through the corps de ballet.

"Rebecca!"

Anna's voice was laced with feigned distress.

She knelt beside her rival, her fingers trembled—not from worry but anticipation.

"Can you hear me?"

"Anna?"

Rebecca's voice was weak, eyes fluttering open, catching glimpses of the chaos around them.

"Shh, don't try to move,"

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Anna soothed, her eyes scanning the vicinity. No one was watching closely.

The perfect moment. Her hands slid to Rebecca's ankles, deftly untying the ribbons of the pointe shoes.

"We need to get these off."

"Ow, careful..."

Rebecca winced as Anna pulled the shoes away, her movements swift, practised.

"Sorry, sorry,"

Anna murmured, her tone sugary sweet. She concealed the wince that threatened to betray her satisfaction.

With the shoes in her lap, she tilted them ever so slightly, letting the crushed glass slide out, the tiny shards catching the dim backstage light before disappearing into the shadows.

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"Is she okay?"

The question came from a hovering stagehand, too preoccupied to notice Anna's sleight of hand.

"Getting help now,"

Anna responded, her gaze not leaving Rebecca's pained expression.

"Stay strong, darling. You're going to be fine."

Her words were hollow, a performance worthy of applause.

"Thank you, Anna," Rebecca breathed out, unaware of the treachery encased in that gratitude.

"Anything for a friend," Anna replied, her smile hiding the venom in her heart.

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With the evidence disposed of, she stood, the discarded pointe shoes innocuous in her grasp.

She turned to face the others, her facade intact, the secret of her betrayal safe in the silence of the fallen dancer.

Anna’s heart thrummed a nervous cadence as she stepped into the chilled expanse of the studio.

Her ballet slippers whispered against the sleek marley floor, a stark contrast to the hushed murmurs swirling around her.

She caught fragments of sentences, laughter stifled behind cupped hands.

Her gaze remained fixed forward, a mask of stoicism painted over the fluttering panic in her chest.

"Did you hear about Rebecca?"

"Shh, Anna's right there..."

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Eyes bore into her back, each one a needle pricking at her composure.

She straightened her spine, chin lifted ever so slightly—a silent testament to years of disciplined poise.

"Anna,"

Kevin's voice sliced through the whispers, commanding and unexpectedly close.

She turned, her green eyes meeting his dark ones that always seemed to see too much.

"My office. Now."

The walk felt like a procession, a march toward an unknown verdict.

The door closed behind them with a soft click that echoed ominously in the suddenly too small room.

"Rebecca’s fall,"

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Kevin began, leaning against the edge of his desk, arms folded across his chest, "doesn't add up."

His curls, usually wild and untamed, cast shifting shadows on his furrowed brow.

Anna swallowed, the dryness of her throat making it feel like swallowing sand.

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, Anna."

He sighed, the sound heavy with disappointment.

"You've seen her—flawless in practice. It’s hard to believe she’d stumble over the basics."

Anna’s pulse quickened, the sensation icy despite the warmth of the studio.

"Kevin, I..." Her words trailed off, uncertainty anchoring them to her tongue.

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"Everyone knows how good she was before this."

He leaned in, searching her face for something she hoped he wouldn’t find.

Her breath came in short, sharp pulls.

The murmurs outside, the stifled laughs—they were about this. About her. About Rebecca.

"Anna," Kevin said, his voice softer now, but every bit as piercing, "what happened to Rebecca on stage...it's very suspicious."

"Kevin, I don't understand,"

Anna stammered, her confusion knotting her brows.

"What are you implying?"

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He paced before her, the space between them charged with tension.

"There's no concrete evidence," he admitted.

"But it points to you, Anna. You had the motive."

"Motive?" she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Envy." His gaze was unyielding. "Rebecca's success gnawed at you."

"Never," Anna shot back, her denial fierce and immediate. "I would never harm another dancer."

"Yet here we are." Kevin stopped pacing, his stance resolute.

"The role stays with Rebecca. You're out of the performance."

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"Out?" Panic surged through her veins.

"You can't do that."

"I already have." He avoided her eyes.

"Please, Kevin." Her plea cut through the still air. "Don't do this."

"Decision's made." His words fell like a judge’s gavel.

"Kevin..." But it was in vain.

She stood, her career teetering on the brink, her heart splintering in her chest.

The silence in her apartment was suffocating.

Anna sat motionless, the soft glow of an aging table lamp casting shadows across a sea of memories lining her shelf.

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Trophies glistened, their golden sheen dulled only by the passage of time.

Black-and-white photos smiled back at her—a sprightly young ballerina caught mid-leap, frozen forever in the prime of youth and success.

"Look at you," she whispered to herself, tracing the outline of a picture where her younger self beamed with pride, her auburn hair cascading like a fiery waterfall behind her.

Her gaze drifted away from the past's echoes and found the mirror that hung on the opposite wall.

She stood, her movements slow, heavy with dread. The reflection staring back was familiar but frayed at the edges.

Lines etched into her skin, each one a testament to the years spent under harsh stage lights, contorting her body into art.

"Old," she muttered, the word bitter on her tongue.

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Rebecca's image, vibrant and fresh, seemed to dance mockingly in her mind's eye.

Young Rebecca, with eyes as blue as a clear winter sky—eyes that held no history, no hint of struggle or decay.

"Is this it?" Anna's voice cracked. "Is this how I bow out?"

A tear betrayed her, slipping down her cheek, carving a path through the light dusting of makeup she wore as armor.

Her fingers trembled as they wiped the moisture away, but then clenched into fists.

"No," she declared, the word sharp and certain. A spark ignited within her.

"I won't let it end like this."

She inhaled deeply, the resolve hardening in her chest.

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Anna had been a fighter all her life—every pirouette and plié a battle won. This would be no different.

"Rebecca... Kevin... they won't decide my fate," she said to her reflection, to the woman who had conquered countless stages.

Anna straightened her back, her posture regaining some of the grace that had made her a prima ballerina.

She could feel the old fire returning, warming her blood, stoking her spirit.

"Time for one last dance," she vowed, her green eyes burning with a challenge only she could see.

"And I will not step down quietly."

Anna wrapped the cashmere scarf around her neck, obscuring half of her face.

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She perched oversized sunglasses on her nose, a shield against more than just the sun's glare.

With each step towards the cafe, her balletic grace was replaced by an unremarkable shuffle, blending with the city’s anonymous pulse.

"Can't be too careful," she murmured to herself, feeling the weight of eyes that weren't there.

The bell above the cafe door jangled as she entered, a sound that normally brought a sense of comfort.

Today, it was an alarm bell, announcing her presence to a world she no longer trusted.

She scanned the room and spotted him immediately—Terry.

He hadn't changed much; the same sandy hair, the same lean, alert posture of a dancer at rest.

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"Anna?" His voice carried a mix of surprise and certainty as he rose from the booth.

"Keep it down." Her tone was a hiss, her glance darted around the cafe, ensuring no one paid them undue attention.

"Sorry," Terry said, softer now. "What's with the disguise?"

"Need help," she stated bluntly, sliding into the seat across from him.

"Okay..." Terry's eyes searched hers. "What kind of help?"

"Stop the performance." Her fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.

"Anna, you know what that would entail," Terry cautioned, leaning in. "My methods..."

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"Harsh, yes. Necessary, absolutely." The words clipped out of her like the snap of a fan. "I've thought it over."

"Anna," Terry began, but she cut him off.

"Revenge, Terry. That's all I want. They humiliated me."

"Are you sure about this?" His question hung between them, heavy with implications.

"Never been more certain." Her green eyes, though hidden behind dark lenses, blazed with conviction.

"Alright," Terry sighed, a reluctant acceptance. "But remember, Anna, there's no turning back from this."

"No intention to turn back," she replied, her voice cold steel. "They made their move. Now it's my turn."

Backstage, the air hums with tension.

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Anna Wilkerson, her auburn hair coiled into a perfect bun, threads through the labyrinth of curtains and props to find Rebecca Thompson.

She clutches a bouquet of lilies, their white petals stark against the dark corridors.

"Rebecca," Anna calls out, her voice an unnatural chirp.

Rebecca turns, blue eyes widening. "Anna?"

"Good luck tonight."

The lilies exchange hands; Anna's smile feels like a stretch. "I hope it all goes smoothly."

"Thank you."

Rebecca's voice is a whisper, her grip on the flowers tentative.

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Then, unexpectedly, tears well up in Rebecca's eyes. They streak down, unchecked.

"I can't do this, Anna," she chokes out.

Anna's heart skips, but she steadies herself.

"What do you mean?"

"Being prima ballerina, it wasn’t my choice." Rebecca's face crumples.

"Kevin, he never asked me. He just... decided. And after last time..."

Anna watches, her internal triumph battling concern. She should be reveling in this moment, yet she finds herself stepping closer.

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"You don't want to perform?"

"No." A sob escapes Rebecca. "It's too much. I can't bear it."

Anna's mind races. Her plan, the performance, the revenge—all teeter on the edge of collapse.

She wants to feel victorious. Instead, she feels a pang of something else. Pity? Regret? No, she shakes it off. It's just the shock.

"Hey, hey,"

Anna soothes, her practiced grace wrapping around her words.

"Take deep breaths, okay? You don't have to do anything you're not ready for."

But as Rebecca nods, still crying, Anna knows the evening's script has just been rewritten. And not by her hand.

"Anna," Rebecca's voice trembles,

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"you were always my favorite to watch. The way you danced... it was magic."

Anna's poised mask falters ever so slightly.

Her heart thrums with the unexpected compliment, her usual retorts stilled by genuine admiration.

"Rebecca, I..."

"Please," Rebecca cuts in, desperation lacing her tone. "Dance tonight. For me."

Anna hesitates her mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

This could be her chance, but at what cost? "I can't—"

"Anna, you belong there," Rebecca insists, holding Anna's gaze.

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"You should be the one in the spotlight, not me."

The gravity in Rebecca's blue eyes pulls at Anna's resolve.

This isn't how she planned it, yet the opportunity to reclaim her stage beckons enticingly.

"Thank you," Rebecca breathes out, relief washing over her features.

As Rebecca composes herself, Anna steps away, retrieving her phone from the depths of her ballet bag.

She dials Terry's number with hands that betray no shaking, despite the turmoil within.

"Come on, Terry..." she mutters as the call rings unanswered.

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She glances towards the ceiling as if seeking patience, then after the beep, her words spill forth in a hurried whisper.

"Terry, it's Anna. Call off everything.

I'm going on tonight, we don’t need the plan. Just... stop it."

She ends the call, a knot forming in her stomach.

"Is everything okay?" Rebecca asks, noticing Anna's suddenly tense demeanor.

"Fine," Anna replies, tucking away her phone. "Just fine."

Her mind is far from calm, though, as she contemplates the stage, her once-friend, and the irrevocable steps she's set into motion.

The velvet curtains parted, and Anna stepped into the spotlight.

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Her heart was a hummingbird's rapid wings against her chest, each beat echoing the silent mantra that she was home.

The stage was hers once more.

"Places everyone," came Kevin's last call from the wings, his voice steady and reassuring.

"Thank you," she whispered back, meeting his eyes for a brief moment. The music swelled, and Anna surrendered to its embrace.

She danced. Each movement was a word in a story she penned with her body, fluid and articulate.

As the pas de deux approached, her partner lifted her high above. A collective gasp filled the theater as the stage gave an ominous creak beneath them.

"Anna!" Kevin's warning shout was muffled by the thunderous crack that split the air.

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Pain. White-hot, searing through her legs as the world crumbled. Darkness rushed in, swallowing the scattered applause, the horrified screams, the splintered wood.

"Anna? Can you hear me?"

Her eyelids were heavy, reluctant to reveal the sterile white of the hospital room. Kevin's form blurred into view, his dark curls haloed by the fluorescent lights above.

"Kevin..." Her voice was a rasped betrayal of her usual poise.

"Hey, don't speak."

He placed a gentle hand over hers, then proceeded to arrange a colorful array of fruits and a bouquet of flowers beside her bed, his touch careful not to jostle her.

"Everyone's worried about you," he said, his voice laced with a concern that reached beyond professional boundaries.

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"Everyone?" The word tasted bitter, knowing what she had almost done.

"Surprise!" The door burst open, and the troupe filed in, their faces a mixture of worry and forced cheer.

"Anna, we're all here for you," one called out, a smile straining against the gravity of the situation.

"Guys, I—" Anna started, but the shame curled tighter around her words, cutting them short.

"None of that now," Kevin interjected softly. "Let's see some of those famous signatures on this cast, huh?"

Laughter flickered in the room like hesitant candlelight as markers squeaked across the plaster.

They wrote messages of hope and inside jokes, each stroke a testament to camaraderie and forgiveness she wasn't sure she deserved.

"Get well soon, our star," read one.

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"Can't wait to have you back," said another.

The warmth of their presence pressed against the cold truth lodged in her stomach.

She watched their faces, a mosaic of the life she'd always known—could she ever tell them? Would they understand?

"Thanks," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes never quite meeting theirs. "I won't forget this."

"Take your time to heal, Anna," Kevin said, squeezing her shoulder gently before turning to see the others out.

"We'll be waiting."

As the door closed behind the last of them, Anna closed her eyes again.

She was alone with her guilt, the weight of gratitude, and the fear of a future uncertain and fractured like the bones in her legs.

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The door swung open, a sharp interruption. Two uniformed officers entered, their faces etched with solemn duty.

The air in the hospital room seemed to solidify, a tangible shift that made Anna's heart race.

"Anna Wilkerson?" one officer asked, his voice cutting through the hum of distant hospital activity.

"Yes," she replied, her throat tight, the single word barely audible.

"We need to talk about the incident at the theater." His eyes were steady on hers, unyielding.

"Intentional," the other officer blurted out. "The stage collapse."

A collective gasp rippled through the troupe. Rebecca's hand went to her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Someone tampered with the stage," the first officer continued, "and we've arrested an individual."

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"Interrogated him," added his partner. "He didn't act alone."

"Who would do this?" Kevin demanded, his voice a mix of anger and concern.

Anna's pulse thundered in her ears. She feigned confusion, shook her head. "I have no idea."

"Actually," the second officer said, pulling out his phone, "we have evidence pointing to an accomplice."

"Voicemail," the first clarified. "On the suspect's phone."

Silence clawed at the room.

Then the officer played the message. Anna's own voice, distorted by fear and malice, filled the space between them all.

"Whatever you did, Terry, stop it, cancel it! Right now! I've changed my mind ," the recording ended.

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Rebecca's eyes, once filled with admiration, now glistened with tears of betrayal. "You wanted to harm me," she whispered, her voice a knife twisting in Anna's gut.

"No, I—" Anna's protest died on her lips. It was too late.

With a sob, Rebecca turned and fled the room, the sound of her footsteps echoing like a death knell for their friendship.

"Rebecca!" Anna's call was desperate, futile.

The troupe's faces transformed from shock to disgust.

One by one, they turned their backs on her, leaving as if shedding the skin of the past.

The door's final click was the sound of her world sealing shut.

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"Ms. Wilkerson, you'll be charged accordingly," the officer stated, his words a formal endnote to her career, her reputation, her dreams.

Alone, crippled not just in body but in spirit, Anna stared at the sterile walls, the cast on her leg a mocking monument to her downfall.

Left with nothing, she realized the stage she’d coveted had been a mere illusion, and the final curtain had fallen with a devastating crash.

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