"Which one do you want?" "Gold," Hana said without looking up. Her hand trembled on the sleeve, then steadied like someone forcing a smile. "Gold is off-plan," the stylist said. "Stage manager signed the placements. The C-slot has strict lighting cues. The fabric—" "Leslie," Hana cut in, soft and sharp. "Do it. Please." Leslie held the hanger with both hands. The gold dress gleamed under the dressing-room lights. It would make Hana the sun of the gala. It would also make the entire choreography explode. "Mom signed the originals," Leslie said. "We can't change now." Guinevere sat on the couch with her clutch in her lap. Her nails clicked. "Leslie, find me a way. Hana's sponsor wants gold. This is a donor's gala. Grover loves gold." "Grover paid for the dress," Hana said. "That means I wear it." The stylist pinched the bridge of his nose. "If the dress catches the C-spot, the reflector panels hit a different angle. The camera--" "Leslie," Guinevere said, tilting her head. "You manage. You fix. Tell them you misread the rundown. Take the blame. It's not the first time you saved a career." Leslie's mouth went dry. She remembered late rehearsals, the threats, the contracts signed in her name. She remembered being the one who took the public fall last year when Hana's leaked photo surfaced. She remembered being fired from a job because a sponsor wanted a scapegoat. "I won't lie," Leslie