Dr. Evans' office on the Upper East Side smelled of antiseptic and leather. He was a man with silver hair and hands that were always slightly damp. He was the best orthopedic surgeon in the state, according to Julian.

Sienna sat on the examination table, her bare foot extended. Dr. Evans pressed his thumb into the scar tissue around her lateral malleolus.

Sienna gasped, her hands gripping the edge of the table.

"Tenderness is still present," Dr. Evans murmured, making a note on his tablet. He didn't look at her. He looked at the x-ray illuminated on the wall screen.

"It's been three years," Sienna said, her voice trembling. "Why does it still feel like there is glass inside my joint?"

"As I've explained to Mr. Sterling," Dr. Evans said, turning to face her with a practiced, clinical detachment, "the structural damage was severe. But the physical healing is largely complete. The pain you are experiencing is... complex."

"Complex means in my head," Sienna spat out.

"Complex means your nervous system is hypersensitive due to your psychological state," Evans corrected. "We call it central sensitization. That is why I've agreed with Dr. Aris to prescribe the adjunctive medication. To calm the nerves firing in your brain, not just the foot."

"I don't have a history of hysteria," Sienna said. "I have a history of a shattered ankle."

The door opened, and Julian walked in. He didn't knock. He owned the building, or at least the foundation that funded it.

"How is she, Doctor?" Julian asked, ignoring Sienna and walking straight to the x-ray.

"Refractory pain syndrome," Evans said. "She's resistant to the physical therapy. I suspect she's not doing the exercises at home."

"I do them every day!" Sienna cried. "I do them until I'm weeping!"

Julian turned to her, his face a mask of disappointment. "Sienna, please. Don't raise your voice." He looked back at the doctor. "She forgets, Doctor. She thinks she does them, but I watch the security feeds. She spends most of the day staring out the window."

Sienna's mouth fell open. Security feeds?

"You watch me?"

"To make sure you're safe, darling," Julian said soothingly. "You know you've been prone to falls."

Sienna felt a chill crawl up her spine. If he watched the feeds, he saw everything. But then she remembered the bathroom. The heavy marble shower had a blind spot near the vanity if the door was angled just right. She had tested it once, dropping a towel and leaving it there for hours. Julian had never mentioned the towel. There were gaps in his omniscience.

He turned back to the doctor. "What do we do? She wants to dance again. It's her dream."

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Dr. Evans said, shaking his head. "The joint is too unstable. If she attempts any high-impact activity, she risks permanent crippling. She might never walk again."

Sienna felt the blood drain from her face. The sentence hung in the air like a guillotine blade. Never walk again.

"Is there no other surgery?" she whispered. "A graft? A fusion?"

"We've done everything," Evans said, closing the file. "Acceptance is the next stage of your recovery, Mrs. Sterling."

Julian walked over and wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her head into his chest. Sienna could smell his cologne-sandalwood and something metallic.

"I've got you," Julian whispered into her hair. "You don't need to dance to be worthy of love, Sienna. You have me. I'll carry you."

Sienna closed her eyes. Tears leaked out, hot and defeating. She felt small. She felt broken. But deep down, in the place where the dancer still lived, a tiny, illogical thought sparked: Why didn't Dr. Evans touch the spot that actually hurts?

The invitation was for a charity auction at the Kensington Gallery. Sienna didn't want to go, but Julian insisted. He said hiding away would only fuel the rumors that she was institutionalized.

She wore black. It felt appropriate.

The gallery was crowded. Waiters circulated with champagne flutes that Sienna wasn't allowed to touch. She stood by a pillar, her weight shifted to her right leg, watching the socialites of Manhattan pretend to care about abstract art.

"Well, if it isn't the Broken Swan."

The voice was sharp, dripping with faux sweetness. Sienna turned to see Eleanor Sterling, Julian's mother. She was a woman made of pearls and malice, holding a martini like a weapon.

"Hello, Eleanor," Sienna said, keeping her face neutral.

"You look pale," Eleanor critiqued, scanning Sienna up and down. "Julian tells me you're having... episodes again. It must be exhausting for him. He works so hard, and then he has to come home to a nursemaid's job."

"Julian is a wonderful husband," Sienna recited the script.

"He is a saint," Eleanor corrected. "Do try not to embarrass him tonight. The Board is voting on the new Chairman next month."

Eleanor drifted away, leaving the scent of expensive gin in her wake. Sienna felt the familiar tightness in her chest-the panic rising. She needed air.

She limped toward the back of the gallery, looking for a restroom or a quiet corner. She turned down a corridor that led to the private offices.

The door to the main office was slightly ajar. Sienna heard a laugh. It was a low, throaty laugh she recognized. Sophia.

She froze. She shouldn't look. Julian told her that her jealousy was a symptom of her illness. But her feet didn't move.

Through the crack in the door, she saw a sliver of the room. Julian was leaning against a mahogany desk. Sophia Thorne was standing in front of him, wearing a red dress that looked like a splash of blood. She was close. Too close.

Sophia reached out and straightened Julian's tie. Her hand lingered on his chest.

"She's never going to recover, is she?" Sophia asked.

"Patience," Julian said. His voice was different-colder, sharper than the one he used with Sienna. "The timeline is delicate."

"I'm tired of waiting in the wings, Julian."

"You'll get your spotlight, Sophia. Just keep playing the part."

Sienna gasped. The sound was involuntary, a sharp intake of breath.

Julian's head snapped toward the door.

Sienna spun around, ignoring the scream of pain from her ankle, and hobbled back down the hallway as fast as she could. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt her ears. The timeline. Playing the part.

She emerged back into the crowded gallery, breathless and sweating.

"Sienna?"

Julian was suddenly there, standing in front of her. He was holding two glasses of sparkling water. He looked calm. Perfectly composed.

"I... I saw you," Sienna panted. "In the office. With Sophia."

Julian frowned. "Sophia? Sienna, Sophia isn't even here tonight. She's performing at the Lincoln Center. It's Tuesday, darling. You know the company schedule."

Sienna stared at him. "No. I saw her. Red dress. You were talking about a timeline."

Julian sighed, a sound of infinite weariness. He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. He held it up to her face.

It was a live feed from the Lincoln Center backstage. On the tiny screen, Sophia Thorne was warming up in a white tutu. Live.

"See?" Julian said gently. "You're hallucinating again, my love. It was just a shadow. Or maybe you saw a painting and your mind played a trick. You've been confused about the days lately."

Sienna looked at the phone. Then she looked at the corridor. It was empty. Was it Tuesday? She thought it was Thursday. The days were bleeding together into a grey soup of medication and naps.

The room began to spin. The floor tilted.

"I... I need to go home," she whispered.

"Of course," Julian said, putting his arm around her waist to support her weight. "I'll take you home. I'll increase the night dose. You need sleep."

As he guided her out, Sienna looked back one last time. Near the exit, a woman in a red dress was slipping out the side door. She had dark hair.

It wasn't Sophia. It was just a stranger.

I am going crazy, Sienna thought, terror gripping her throat. I am actually losing my mind.

The divorce papers were hidden inside a folder of sheet music for Giselle. It was a pathetic rebellion, a fantasy Sienna indulged in on her darkest days. She had never contacted a lawyer. She had no access to her trust fund; Julian had power of attorney due to her "medical incapacity."

But she needed to know.

Two days after the gallery incident, Julian was in D.C. for a lobbying trip. It was the first time he had left her alone in months. The security guards were still at the door, but they didn't follow her into the bathroom.

Sienna used a burner phone she had bought from the nanny next door for five hundred dollars cash-money she had stolen from Julian's wallet bill by bill over a year. She knew she would have to destroy it soon; it was a cheap, traceable thing, but it was all she had.

She dialed the number she had memorized from a billboard. Kensington & Associates.

"Kensington Law, how may I direct your call?"

"I... I need to speak to Nate Kensington," Sienna whispered, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, the water running to mask her voice.

"Mr. Kensington is a senior partner. He doesn't take unsolicited calls. Do you have a referral?"

"Tell him... tell him it's about the girl who broke her wing." It was a stupid code, something from their college days, ten years ago. She didn't even know if he would remember her. Nate Kensington had been the quiet, brooding scholarship student in the pre-law program while she was the heiress ballerina. They had barely spoken, but he had always looked at her with an intensity that unnerved her.

There was a long pause. Then a click.

"Sienna?"

His voice was deeper than she remembered. Rougher. It didn't have Julian's velvet smoothness. It sounded like gravel and reality.

"Nate," she breathed. "I can't talk long. I need help. I think... I think I'm trapped."

"Where are you?" The question was immediate. No 'how have you been', no pleasantries.

"Home. I can't leave. The guards..."

"Are you in immediate physical danger?"

"No. Yes. I don't know. My mind... Julian says I'm sick. But things are happening, Nate. Things that don't make sense."

"Listen to me closely," Nate said. His voice was a lifeline in the dark. "Do not eat anything he prepares personally. Do not sign anything. Can you get out for an hour? Any excuse?"

"Physical therapy," she said. "Thursday. 2 PM. The clinic on 5th."

"I'll be in the coffee shop next door. Wear a hat. Don't acknowledge me until I sit down."

"Nate... I have no money. He controls everything."

"I don't want your money, Sienna." There was a silence on the line, heavy with unspoken history. "I just want you to stay alive until Thursday."

The line went dead. Sienna crushed the cheap burner phone under her heel, wrapped the pieces in toilet paper, and flushed them down the toilet. Her hands were shaking. For the first time in three years, the shaking wasn't from fear. It was from adrenaline.