The next three weeks were torture disguised as discipline.
Elena ran rehearsals like a tyrant. She drilled the company until feet bled inside satin pointe shoes, until spines shook with exhaustion, until every transition in the new Salome was carved into muscle memory with surgical precision. No one dared complain. They all knew the reviews would either crown them or bury them, and Elena’s reputation was a blade balanced on their necks.
Valeria, officially named understudy with the promise of two performances, absorbed the punishment with a half-smile that never reached her eyes. She took every correction Elena threw at her, every vicious “Again, from the entrance—cleaner, you look like a w***e with a broken hip,” without flinching. But when Elena’s hand lingered on the small of her back
