Serenya's POV
The moment I step out of the rehearsal hall, the sound of applause trails after me like an accusation. The clapping doesn’t feel like praise—it feels like the echo of something I shouldn’t have taken, the consequence of a lie stealing its way down my spine. I push through the narrow side corridor, past framed photographs of earlier performers whose smiles seem frozen in judgment. The faint scent of furniture polish and stage flowers follows me like a ghost.
My pulse throbs louder than the echo of my heels against the polished tiles.
I shouldn’t have lied.
The thought slams into me so sharply I reach for the wall, fingers digging into cold concrete. The ring burns faintly on my finger—hot enough to feel alive, insistent enough to remind me of what I’ve done. The magic clin
