Terry Abigail's palm came hurtling toward her with no restraint.
Eleanor’s instincts flared—something was off.
Terry Abigail… she was going to hit her, for real.
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed sharply. In a split second, her hand shot up, intercepting the incoming strike with precision. Her fingers locked around Terry Abigail’s wrist, squeezing just hard enough to make a point.
A sharp gasp escaped Terry Abigail’s lips.
Pain flashed across her features, only to be quickly masked by a veil of wide-eyed innocence and confusion. “Susan, what are you doing?” she asked, voice honeyed, laced with false concern. “How are we supposed to rehearse like this?”
From the sidelines, Hazel Johan’s fists curled into tight balls of frustration. Her jaw clenched.
What the hell was going on?
This Susan is an embarrassment.
Had four years off the stage dulled her instincts completely? And yet… earlier, she’d performed flawlessly.