Page 315 of Blackwood

“Our top five placements for trio performances…”

I feel Lex shift beside me, and I don’t blame him. I can feel it too, the pulse in the air, the weight in my chest.

“In fifth place… Pulse Academy from Los Angeles.” Polished, clean, technically strong, but forgettable. The three girls step forward, trying not to look disappointed.

“In fourth place… Boston Elite.” I’m surprised they didn’t place higher to be honest.

“Thank fuck, they get to dance tomorrow,” Knox mutters.

“In third place… Crescendo School of Movementfrom Chicago.” Big stage presence. Great musicality. But they weren’t the story tonight.

That leaves two. The Trifecta and a trio from New York Performance Conservatory who performed a clean, jazz-contemporary hybrid that hit hard but didn’t really linger.

Bella, Ellie, and Haley are standing close, fingers tangled together in a chain I know none of them want to break. Ellie’s biting her lip. Haley’s staring straight ahead like she’s daring them to say any other name. Bella’s face is unreadable and her hands are trembling.

“And in first place…”

I shift in my seat.

“From Wexley University… The Trifecta!”

The house explodes. The entire audience is on their feet. And the fancy judge she was so scared of? He stands for the first time during the awards. No clapping. He rises slowly, deliberately, and gives one sharp, approving nod, the kind that says this wasn’t good. This was great.

Lex slaps my shoulder so hard I flinch. “They fucking did it!”

“They get to dance tomorrow,” I say, barely able to speak around the lump in my throat. “They really did it.”

Chapter 83

BELLA

Dallas, Texas

70 Days Since Daddy’s Death

The top floor of the restaurant Savannah reserved feels like something out of a dream, all glass and height and whispered wealth. The city of Dallas stretches out below us in a glittering sprawl, lights blinking like a sea of stars scattered upside-down. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap the circular space, curving with the slow, almost imperceptible rotation of the room. Every angle offers a different constellation of skyline, skyscrapers lit up in blues and golds, highways glowing like arteries in motion.

Inside, the restaurant is all quiet elegance. Sleek walnut tables. Black velvet chairs. Soft jazz curling through hidden speakers like smoke. There’s the faint scent of citrus and expensive wine in the air, layered over candle wax and wood polish. Each place setting is pristine—crystal glassware, weighty silver utensils, and linen napkins folded with military precision, like someone ironed them into submission.

I’m seated between Cade and Roman.

Lex is directly across from me, a wall of black-on-black elegance with the top of his shirt slightly undone, all heat and carved jaw tension. Daniel sits next to him, calm as ever, and Irina is perched on Lex’s other side like a marble queen drapedin—shocker—ice-blue silk. Her posture is flawless. Her silence is louder than anything she could say.

Cade’s hand rests lightly on the back of my chair, his fingers brushing the bare skin of my shoulder every so often. I keep my shoulders squared, my smile smooth, my breathing even. And I do my best not to spill anything on this dress.

It’s strapless, deep burgundy silk that clings and sweeps in all the right places. Ruched along the side, slit high enough to show thigh when I cross my legs. I know it’s borderline scandalous. I also know Irina hasn’t stopped side-eyeing me since I sat down, her lips pressed in a line so sharp it could probably cut glass.

Which only makes me love this dress even more.

Daniel is talking to the waiter, ordering a bottle of Barolo. Cade’s flipping through the menu, but I already know what I want.

“Old fashioned,” I say when the server stops by, flashing a soft grin. “Extra orange peel, please.”

Clay chuckles. “That’s my girl.”

Roman lifts a brow. “Strong choice.”

I shrug. “Learned it from Clay.”