The theater was empty, but Marina could still hear the applause.

It echoed inside her skull like a ghost clapping in the dark—haunting, hollow, unrelenting.

She stood barefoot on the center of the stage, drenched in sweat and silence, wrapped in the memory of a performance that had never been hers to control. Her hands trembled at her sides, aching with restraint. Her lips, still painted red, curled into something between a smile and a scream.

Above, the stage lights flickered—then steadied, casting her in a pool of golden warmth that felt like fire.

And then he stepped out from the shadows.

Dominic Vale.
The revered director. The perfectionist. The manipulator.
The man who had taken her apart, scene by scene, until there was nothing left but the version of Marina he had written.

“You were flawless tonight,” he said, voice low, lethal with praise.

She flinched. Praise from Dominic was never a compliment. It was a chain. A whisper that said: You belong to me.

He moved closer, slow and measured, like a predator with all the time in the world. The weight of his gaze pinned her in place more effectively than rope ever could. His eyes scanned her body—not with desire, but with ownership. Like an artist inspecting his sculpture for cracks.

“You know the rule,” he murmured, lifting her chin with two fingers. “No one sees the puppet bleed.”

She didn’t answer. She hadn’t spoken in days. Not since the night he rewrote the final act—and rewrote her along with it.

Her silence was his triumph.
His curse was her voice.
And her curse… was still becoming his salvation.

She looked up at him through lashes thick with tears and hatred.

And for the first time, he smiled.