Page 52

ANGELIQUE

T he city is quiet today. Maybe it’s just the early hour or the weight in my chest muting everything.

I stand in front of the mirror inside our New York hotel room, smoothing down the front of my slate-grey pantsuit.

The fabric’s soft and expensive, but inside I feel like the seams of me are barely holding.

Two years. That’s how long it’s been since I saw my mother. Since I saw Alec. Since I stood on a bridge and thought there was nothing left for me. And now, here I am, on the other side of survival.

“You look gorgeous.”

I blink, meeting Reign’s gaze in the mirror.

He’s buttoning his jacket, a deep navy tailored within an inch of his life.

His platinum hair is neatly styled, his Patek watch catching the light as he adjusts it.

He’s calm and composed, as usual. He walks up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, planting a kiss on the back of my head.

“You always do,” he murmurs.

I offer him a weak smile, but the moment I do, my lip trembles. Reign turns me to face him without hesitation, arms caging me in with a kind of devotion I never get used to. I let my forehead fall against his chest, and he holds me tight.

“We should go get matching tattoos after this,” he says suddenly, voice teasing. “To celebrate.”

I laugh through the nerves, the sound watery. “You make it sound like winning’s a sure thing.”

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his gaze unwavering. “You’re winning, Angel. Because if you don’t…” His jaw flexes. “I’ll burn this city to the ground.”

I snort, wiping under my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grins. “And you love me.”

“I do,” I whisper.

The courtroom is cold. White walls, polished wood, murmured tension stretching through every bench and corner. Alec sits in a wheelchair next to his lawyer, chin high but skin pale, and my mother is beside him, not a hair out of place. She doesn’t look at me, not once, but I don’t care.

My attorney, Cassandra Vale, stands in front of the court. Her tone is composed as her closing statement echoes through the silence.

“Your Honour, this case is not just about misconduct—it is about willful silence. Her partner and senior, Alec Fontaine, subjected Angelique Sinclair, a professional dancer, to manipulation and sexual coercion.”

She pauses and stares at Alec with disgust before turning her attention to my mother.

“When she came forward, not only was she ignored—she was fired. Marginalized. Treated as a liability. The Big Apple Ballet Company had knowledge of Alec Fontaine’s prior complaints and still kept him on payroll.

Analise Sinclair, my client’s own mother and a Director at the company, actively discouraged her from pursuing legal action and instead protected the perpetrator. ”

Cassandra returns to facing the judge as she continues.

“We are not asking for sympathy. We are demanding accountability. For negligence. For wrongful termination. For aiding and abetting abuse in a professional environment. For the irreparable harm inflicted on a young woman’s life. The time for silence is over.”

She sits beside me without a word, placing her hand over mine and giving me a small squeeze. The judge flips through his documents, lips pressed in a firm line as he carefully examines some reports.

While we wait, I feel a gentle tug on my ponytail. I turn around and find Reign watching me with a tiny smirk and it grounds me.

“All rise.”

I turn back around and stand, my heart pounding so fast I think I might pass out any second.

“In the matter of Angelique Sinclair versus Alec Fontaine, Analise Sinclair, and The Big Apple Ballet Company…”

I hold my breath as I stare at the judge.

“…this court finds Alec Fontaine guilty of rape in the first degree. He is hereby sentenced to twenty-five years in prison and will be registered as a sex offender. Mr. Fontaine is ordered to pay a criminal fine of five thousand dollars to the state, as well as any restitution Ms. Angelique Sinclair may require, including costs related to therapy.”

I close my eyes for a second, my knees nearly buckling.

“Upon the completion of his sentence, he will be permanently barred from working in the dance industry in any capacity.”

I did it , I think to myself.

“... Analise Sinclair is found guilty of obstruction of justice in the first degree, a Class D felony, and is hereby sentenced to seven years in state prison.”

For the first time since I can remember, my mother’s mask cracks—just for a second.

“…The Big Apple Ballet Company is found liable for wrongful termination, gross negligence, and institutional failure to protect its employees. The court orders the company to pay one-million dollars in civil damages to the victim, covering lost wages, therapy, and emotional suffering. An additional $250,000 in punitive damages is awarded. Furthermore, the company is mandated to implement comprehensive reforms to its internal policies, staff training, and reporting procedures.”

I turn and meet Reign’s eyes, and in them, I see all the things that matter—love, pride, relief, but most of all, safety.

He pulls me into his arms right there in the aisle, and I whisper against his chest, “Let’s go get that tattoo.”

He laughs softly. “Wings?”

I nod. “Wings.”

He gives me the smallest, surest smile, and I feel my body exhale in a way it hasn’t in years.

As the judge’s gavel strikes, the bailiffs move in.

Alec is cuffed and wheeled past me, his jaw clenched, his eyes black with rage.

He stares me down with a look that once would’ve chilled me to the bone, but I don’t flinch or look away.

I smirk, and disbelief shifts in his face. His power is gone, and he knows it.

My mother follows next, wrists shackled and expression blank, like she’s still trying to understand how it all slipped through her fingers. I don’t offer her a look, because I don’t owe her one.

Cassandra leans over and squeezes my hand. “You did beautifully,” she whispers. “It’s over now.”

I nod, but I don’t stand until I feel Reign slide in next to me, the worn floor creaking softly under his polished shoes.

His tie is a little loosened now, hair a little messy, like he’s been running a hand through it all morning.

In his arms is a bouquet of ballerina-pink peonies, my favourite flowers, the kind my father used to bring home when I was little.

I stare at them for a second, then up at him. “You remembered,” I breathe.

He nods. “I remember everything,” he reminds me. “You bloomed, Angelique. Even after everything.”

My throat thickens as he presses the bouquet into my arms and leans forward, brushing his lips against my forehead. When he pulls back, he keeps his eyes on mine.

“You ready?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m ready.”