Chapter 1
"Ten minutes until showtime."
Grace Dempsey looked up at the stage assistant, the comb clutched so tightly it bit into her hand.
"Thank you so much," she said, inclining her head graciously, pleased to note her voice did not tremble.
"The crowd is sold out. There are people standing in the back! I've never seen it this packed!" The stage assistant's cheeks were flushed, and he clasped his hands together, giving her the kind of look that was usually reserved for mega rock stars or A-list movie stars.
Not a classically trained concert pianist like herself.
She waited until the door closed before she allowed the starch in her back to drain out, and she slumped down, deliberately setting the comb down on her dressing table.
You've got to get it together. Everyone is expecting to see a performance like last time. You can't let them down.
She had no sooner thought that than cramps squeezed her abdomen painfully, and she only hesitated a moment before she jumped up from her seat, running to the restroom.
She barely made it in time. But it didn't take long because she'd already emptied out everything in her digestive system from both ends. Her hands slid on the doorway as she leaned against it, her knees shaking, her forehead hot and clammy, hands cold and clammy.
How was she going to go out and perform? She couldn't even sit at her dressing table without having to run to the restroom.
And what was wrong with her? She'd never had this kind of problem before. She'd always been eager to perform, excited. She looked forward to it.
But today, today, she was scared to death to go out in front of that huge crowd.
Everyone was expecting her to be able to play like she had last time. And the time before that. And the time before that. And she could, she knew she could. She just had to play the way she always had.
Except that the idea of going out made her turn right back around and head back into the restroom.
She couldn't go out like this. There was just no way.
But she couldn't cancel. Not at this late moment.
Her phone buzzed, and she finished washing her hands, drying them on the towel and noticing that they shook so badly she could barely hang it back up.
On trembling legs, she walked back out into her dressing room and picked up her phone.
It was her manager.
Clearing her throat, she stared at her phone. Could she tell Sasha that she couldn't go out on stage? It would be unheard of for her to cancel at such late notice, unless there was a serious problem, probably requiring hospitalization. If she wasn't dead, she would perform. That's the way she'd been brought up, that was her mindset, except...
She took a deep breath. What was wrong with her?
Her hands trembled and she almost dropped her phone. How could she hit the notes with her fingers shaking so hard?
Finally, she swiped and put the phone to her ear.
"Hello?" she asked, in the cultured, casual tone that she always used. To her ears, it didn't sound like anything was wrong. How could she fake it so convincingly and yet be so utterly sure that she absolutely could not go out on stage?
"Grace. I just wanted to let you know that the president has made a last-minute decision to attend. He is settled in his seat, and he is looking forward to your performance. I just spoke with him, and he gushed over your last concert. He has several members of his cabinet with him, and they are eager to hear our American talent."
Grace swallowed hard, but she knew she wasn't going to be able to hold down the dry heaves for long.
"I can't." The words came out choked, as much as she would like to have continued to be able to speak in her unaffected tone.
"I'm sorry?" Sasha said, like the idea that Grace might have said that she couldn't do it was absolutely ludicrous.
"I'm sorry. I want to be able to, but I absolutely cannot." At least she had gotten better control of her vocal cords. Why couldn't she have been a singer?
