Complete silence now. 2,800 people holding their breath.
Vanessa Hart's face had gone pale beneath her stage makeup. Her hands clenched at her sides. When she spoke, her voice had lost all its warmth. "That's a very serious accusation from someone who doesn't understand the complexity of live performance."
"I'm not accusing—" Darnell started.
But she cut him off. "No, no, it's fine." Her laugh was too loud, brittle. "If you think it's so easy, if you think I need assistance hitting my own signature note..." She turned to the musical director. "James, kill the backing track. All of it."
James looked stricken. "Vanessa, I don't think—"
"Kill it now."
The musical director made a gesture to the sound booth. Through the monitors, engineers could be seen frantically adjusting settings.
Vanessa turned back to the audience, her smile wide and terrible. "Let's settle this right now: no tracks, no assistance, just me and the orchestra, the way it's always been." She looked at Darnell. "Step back, sweetheart. Let me show you how a professional does it."
Darnell moved to the side of the stage, clutching the microphone stand for balance. His stomach churned. This wasn't what he'd meant; he hadn't been trying to challenge her. He'd just been explaining what he'd heard.
The orchestra prepared. The conductor looked uncertain, but raised his baton. Vanessa positioned herself at center stage. She took a breath, rolled her shoulders back, lifted her chin: the posture of absolute confidence, the posture that had graced a thousand magazine covers.
"From the bridge," she commanded.