The gala night arrived like a fever dream.
The theater glittered: chandeliers blazing, champagne flowing, patrons in diamonds and tuxedos pretending they had come for art instead of status. Backstage smelled of rosin, sweat, and panic. The new Salome was bold even by this company’s standards: sheer costumes, explicit choreography, a seven-veil drop that left the lead in little more than strategically placed gold chains and body paint. Critics were already sharpening knives.
Elena danced the title role herself tonight. The board had insisted; only the principal could carry the risk. Valeria, understudy and official cover, was dressed as the Slave: a costume that was mostly black leather straps and a collar, her back entirely bare, ass framed by two thin strips that disappeared between her
