Six months later, Euphoria smelled like roses instead of smoke.That was the first thing I noticed when I stepped into my old dressing room before the reopening performance. Not the fresh paint, not the new mirrors, not the security discreetly woven into every hallway Brian had redesigned with the grim satisfaction of a man personally offended by trap doors.Roses.Clean linen.Warm lights.A place remade.For a long moment, I stood in the doorway and let myself feel the difference.The last time I had belonged to this room, I had been a woman people kept trying to save, use, accuse, or frighten. Now my wedding bouquet sat dried and framed on the wall beside the children’s paper flowers, and my mother’s compact rested in a glass case beneath them, not hidden anymore.Lena Vale’s name was there too.Not as a rumor.Not as a scandal.As a woman who had risked everything to keep the truth ali
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