It seemed Sangria’s fate had already been set the moment her mother drank the contents of that stench-filled bowl. Onstage she was a tool, the theatre’s means of making money; offstage, she was beaten by her father, considered to be less than a toy, his means of entertainment below his belt. Beneath the spotlight, she was always a dull gray; until she met that stroke of red. When the woman with a ram symbol painted between her brows gently knocked on the dressing room, all would be rewritten.