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“How are you feeling about it?” Grace’s voice travels through the speakers of my laptop during our video chat.

Her dark blue eyes glint violet under the golden rays of the afternoon light, her hair mussed up by the wind. She’s curled up in her favorite chair on the patio of the new place she bought with Steven on the Upper West Side.

But nothing can dim the beauty of a blushing bride—well, almost bride, that is. She and Steven are getting married in two months in August. In a spectacular fashion, Steven proposed to Grace on top of the Eiffel Tower last year, and of course, my sister said yes to him.

As I stare at her beaming face, a ball of happiness gathers inside my chest. Mom would be so happy to know Grace has found someone to love and cherish her the way she deserves.

“Tay? Hey, earth to Tay! Stop munching on that carrot stick.” She waves at the camera.

I take an exaggerated bite of the carrot, my lips twitching when she sticks her tongue out at me like we were still kids. To this day, she can’t fathom why I love this vegetable so much.

I think it has something to do with this snack being the last thing I remember tasting and enjoying before that night. Perhaps it’s the one thing that remains untainted. A person can change, memories can be distorted, but a favorite taste in a happy moment will forever be associated with that time.

It stays with you.

“Of course, I’m excited. I’ve had to grovel my way back to the understudy position.” I shove a bunch of therapy books off my bed—I don’t want Grace to see them and ask why I’m reading enough books to sit for a med school exam—books I’ve dog-eared, highlighted, spilled ketchup on in the late night hours when I couldn’t sleep, my mind heavy from grief or manic from nightmares of that night.

Healing is a journey, and I’m in the driver’s seat. Another mantra I hold on to.

“ Swan Lake ! It’s a big deal! That’s what you were obsessed about when we were kids! You know, I’m still jealous Mom took you to the ballet and never me.”

“You don’t even like ballet! You said you were bored because there was no speaking or singing.”

Grace purses her lips and shakes her fingers at me. “That’s not true! I like ballet when it’s you dancing on the stage. Although, I always have to research the plot beforehand to understand what’s happening. It’s like reading CliffsNotes of Pride and Prejudice before I dig into the book. Why the hell would I want to do that?”

“It’s about the beauty in the movements—conveying emotions without words. Because sometimes, there are no words to describe what you’re feeling.” I swallow as a sudden heaviness forms on top of my chest.

Grace cocks her head to the side and squints at me. I cough into my fist. “I’m talking to a rock. Anyway, yes, it’s a popular ballet—a classic. So, it’s no surprise the company went with this ballet for the international tour. It’ll have the biggest draw.”

The infamous international part of the Bank of Columbia apology tour is kicking off in a few weeks. It’s actually genius timing to have the tour a year and a half after the allegations came out, because the actual trial for the former CFO is going on right now, and press coverage has been nonstop. This tour will generate some positive news for the bank.

Madame Renoir has prepared us as much as she can. She is now officially retired and Sir Ian will start next week to oversee the last legs of preparation before our first performance at the Met Opera at the end of the month. Apparently, the two of them worked on the choreography and vision together.

“It was kind of harsh, demoting you for a year, don’t you think? I mean, sure, you had some words with that bitch, Carla, but she bullied you first.” Grace waves her fists, her face flushed at the mention of my nemesis.

She still doesn’t know what happened, and it appears Charles never told Steven or the guys, or else I’m sure I would’ve gotten an earful from Grace. I never thought I’d be thankful for that asshole.

“Eh, fuck it. At least Madame Renoir bumped me back up to soloist before she left.” As Madame Renoir packed up her things in her old-fashioned, stuffy office, she also told me I had a gift and she’d hate for it to go to waste.

“But you have to tame your anger, Taylor, or else it will destroy everything, including your art.”

All I could do was smile at her then, all the while feeling the ever-present flames singeing my skin. She told me I’d have another shot at a promotion—if I do well on the international tour. She had put in a good word with Sir Ian for me.

But I’d have to work for it.

Impress a man who still makes me uneasy whenever I come across articles online about his imminent return to the Big Apple. No new memories have popped up. Just those glimpses of blond hair, light eyes, fragments of sounds and sentences.

I still don’t know why my body reacted so strongly that day at ABTC.

Maybe I’ll figure it out once I see him again.

The ballet community is aflutter with excitement—the king is returning home and will bring glory to the art stateside. The press is eating it all up—Sir Ian Vaughn, champion of women and assault victims, working with the disgraced Bank of Columbia in a charity ballet tour. Tons of good press for Charles, no doubt.

Unfortunately for me, Charles is a permanent fixture in our lives now, with him being close friends with Steven and our siblings. While I’ve gotten to know my half-siblings more, begrudgingly like them a lot, and have even hyphenated my last name with theirs, my relationship with Charles hasn’t thawed one bit.

We make it a point to avoid each other at events. Whenever we are in proximity to each other, like at Grace’s celebration event at The Orchid for the grand opening of her consulting firm or when Maxwell and Belle got married half a year ago in this prime time drama worthy of an arranged marriage, we’d inevitably butt heads. I can’t stand the fake smiling golden prince persona he wears in public.

I’ve seen the darkness lurking behind the mask—the angry glares he levels my way, the fake-ass smile he uses at press conferences, his harsh commands when he used his whip on his friend in The Sanctuary, the clench of his jaw whenever I point out his inconsistencies. I’m sure he hates me because I don’t put up with his bullshit.

But I tolerate him because the people I care about love him and I’m sure he does the same with me. And so, he gets to be the warm fucking sun and I’ll happily be the lonely moon in the dark skies as long as he stays out of my way. It’s gotten to a point where the girls make fun of our mutual hatred of each other.

“Anyway, what are your plans today?” Grace asks as I hear the sliding door next to her open.

Steven pops into the screen wearing a simple T-shirt, his black hair tousled. He grins and murmurs, “Tay,” before pressing a soft kiss on his fiancée’s forehead.

Grace flushes and reaches up to cradle his jaw. My heart pinches; the same sensations I’ve had more this past year as I witness my girls being paired off one by one make a reappearance. Millie with Ryland, her professor—apparently the two have history going back a few years ago. Belle with Maxwell, and, of course, my sister with Steven.

I look away and swallow the lump lodged in my throat, feeling like an intruder in their private moment.

“I’ll see you at the performance, Tay. Break a leg,” Steven says. “You’re going to kick ass.”

The backs of my eyes burn unwittingly. From the outside, I look like I have everything I want. Family who loves me, even though I miss Mom and her whimsical romantic thoughts daily. A career in ballet, even though I haven’t reached the pinnacle yet. Financial security, being a Peyton-Anderson now, that is the envy of most people in the world.

But I’m hollow inside. A thousand shipwrecks have capsized inside my chest. I’m left adrift, barely clinging on to life in the dark abyss.

And no one sees me.

I shake myself—the Lochness Monster has been visiting more frequently these days and I suspect it’s because of all the changes happening, but I’ll fight like hell before I get sucked in. Maybe I’ll give Olivia a call tonight—she’s single, great company, and likes slasher movies too. She says it’s fun to psychoanalyze the serial killers. I smirk inwardly; the idea sounds better and better by the second. Pizza and bingeing on Netflix . Plotting murders of fictional serial killers. We’ve become good friends since that night at The Sanctuary, even though I had to grovel my way to her good graces after I ran off that day.

Clearing my throat, I say to the happy couple, “I have to go back to the ABTC to practice. Every second counts now.” And Sir Ian wants to see me. My shoulders tense at the thought, but I brush it away.

My hand moves to close my laptop, but Grace’s voice stops me.

“Hey Tay, you know you don’t have to worry about the performance, right? As much as I don’t understand ballet, I believe in you. That Sir Ian will love you because you’re so talented. You can do this!” She beams widely at me.

I strain a smile before shutting the laptop lid.

Sir Ian wants to see me.

The memory of that disastrous first meeting floats to the forefront.

Why was I so scared that day? Will it happen again when I see him?

Nausea churns inside me, and suddenly, I want to puke.