"He'll kill me, Eva."
"He'll protect you. That's what family does."
"Is it?" The question floats between us. "Because I can't tell the difference anymore."
When we head back into rehearsal, it feels different. Conversations die when I enter rooms. Eyes follow me down corridors, then dart away when I turn. The whispers start before I'm out of earshot.
Alba arrives late, sweeping into the rehearsal hall with theatrical flair. She catches my eye during warm-ups and smiles, and the sardonic way she looks at me feels like poison darts directed at me.
"Places, everyone!" Luca claps his hands, and we scatter to our positions.
I know every note of this aria. I've performed it hundreds of times. But today, the music feels foreign in my throat. My breath comes short. The high notes strain.
Halfway through the climactic passage, the room tilts. My vision blurs at the edges. The orchestra continues, oblivious, as my voice cracks on a note I could sing in my sleep as my head spins and I feel my world rocking on its axis.
The music stops but in my head, the noise is the same—gasps, murmurs, the echo of hushed whispers around me.
"Rosaria?" Luca's voice sounds distant, muffled. "Are you all right?"
I grip the piano for support, but my legs won't hold. The floor rushes up to meet me, but Donata catches my arm before I fall.
"Get her some water," she snaps at someone behind me. "And a chair."
"I'm fine." The words come out breathless, unconvincing. And they're a total lie. I can't even stand up. Something is seriously wrong.
"You are not fine." Donata's weathered face shows genuine concern. "When did you last eat?"
"This morning," I mumble, but I'm already trying to think of when I actually did last eat.
"What did you eat?"
I try to remember. Coffee. Black coffee and nothing else. "I wasn't hungry."
"Madonna mia." She helps me into a chair. "You're going home. Now."
"I can continue?—"
"You will collapse again. Go home. Rest. Eat food. Come back tomorrow when you're not about to faint on my stage." Luca's orders aggravate me, but maybe he's right. I don't feel well, and if it's nothing more than low blood sugar, I'll be back and better than ever tomorrow.
The walk to my dressing room feels endless. Every step is like slogging through knee-deep water. I change clothes mechanically, my hands still trembling.
Eva appears in the doorway as I'm gathering my things. "How are you feeling?"
"Embarrassed," I tell her. The drama of everything that's happening makes me feel like I can't keep up to begin with, and now this.
"That's not what I meant." She steps inside, closing the door behind her. "When did you last have a proper meal?"
"I eat."
"Coffee doesn't count as food, Rosaria."
I shrug, focusing on folding my rehearsal clothes with unnecessary precision.
"Are you getting enough sleep?"
"I sleep." Her interrogation is happening because she cares, but it annoys me.
"How much water do you drink?"
