Page 5 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"Probably nothing," Magnolia had waved dismissively, her sunset-orange eyes finally meeting Marigold's. "Just remember, dear sister, not everyone is built for the spotlight's shadow."
Now, backstage, the pieces snapped into place like a dislocated joint being reset. The pain was immediate and searing.
"She was with him yesterday too," came a whisper from one of the corps dancers nearby, not realizing Marigold could hear. "His assistant said they had lunch for hours at Bellini's."
Marigold's hand to do everything to afloat and not crumble at the heaviness of all these unexpected instances that were piecing together the grand puzzle.
Bellini's.
Our restaurant.
Now that we were away from the grand audience, what a perfect time for her to speak loud and clear.
"You always had everything handed to you," Magnolia said, loud enough for Marigold to hear across the space between them. "The talent. The attention. The perfect Alpha. I just helped him see what I've always known…you're not worth the pedestal they put you on."
The remaining audience members nearby fell silent, their expressions a mixture of shock and morbid fascination.
Why? When? How… long has all of this been going on?
"How long?" Marigold asked, her voice steadier than she felt. "H-How long have you been planning this?"
Magnolia's freckled cheeks flushed with something like pride.
"Since the day they chose you for principal dancer instead of me. I was always the better strategist, Mari,” she declares with immense pride, her eyes twinkling with pure delight.Cunning and full of gleeful deceit. “You just twirl better."
She turned away then and there, slipping through the side exit — the same door Rowan had used, leaving her to stand their like a complete fool./
A doll used until its peak of admiration and tossed for the next best thing…
Not content to live in the penumbra of Marigold's success, Magnolia had set out to eclipse her completely. And now, under the unforgiving scrutiny of an audience that once adored her, Marigold grappled with the full weight of her sister's treachery.
Marigold's legs —legs that had carried her through countless performances, that had been strong enough to execute perfect fouettés and grand jetés— suddenly felt foreign beneath her.
She swayed slightly, her normally impeccable posture crumbling from the center outward. Her shoulders, alwayspositioned with ballerina precision, curved inward as if to protect what remained of her heart.
"Careful there, dear," said a stagehand, reaching for her elbow.
Marigold flinched away, her dancer's poise abandoning her completely.
Her hand fluttered to her throat, where the delicate silver necklace Rowan had given her on their first anniversary seemed to tighten like a collar. With trembling fingers, she yanked it off, the chain breaking with a soft snap that somehow echoed in her ears.
"I don't understand," she whispered, more to herself than anyone. "Everything we built..."
The theater lights, once warm on her skin, now felt like interrogation lamps exposing every flaw, every naïve belief she'd held. Her knees buckled slightly, and this time she couldn't prevent the stagehand from catching her arm.
From the auditorium came the unmistakable sounds of a scandal unfolding — hushed exclamations, the rustle of programs being used to hide whispered conversations, the electronic chirps of messages being sent.
The news would be across social media within minutes.
"Did you see her face?"
"I can't believe he would do that here?—"
"The sister, though! I always thought they were close?—"
"The company will have to recast Giselle now?—"
An older woman in the front row stood up, her face lined with concern rather than judgment.
