Owen had not imagined there was a version of Sara who would look through him like this.
Backstage light cooled her face to porcelain. The orchestra tuned in the pit; a blue gel washed the wings. He had come armed with urgency, with hospital numbers, with the word rare that used to unlock her compliance. None of it reached her.
“Rosalie needs you," he said. “They think a transfusion could stabilize her. Your type matches. If we go now—"
“I go on in eight minutes," Sara said. The calm in her tone startled him more than the slap had. “Tonight's performance is not a hobby. It is the one thing I built that no one owns. Anyone who tries to keep me from the stage—I will not forgive."
“She's your sister." He heard himself reach for the old rope.
“She is Lily's daughter," Sara said evenly. “I
