Page 30

I can barely keep my jaw from dropping to the floor as I stand at the entrance of the grand foyer in the opera house. Everything is washed in gold—the columns spanning the large space, the intricate gilded ceilings, the heavy tasseled drapes, the light from multi-layered chandeliers glinting off the tall windows and mirrored accents.

It’s like Midas has made himself a home here and never left.

A string quartet plays classical music in one corner, and the space is ablaze with a quiet energy. A soft hum of conversation and the clinking of champagne flutes fill the air as I stand to the side, feeling extremely uncomfortable in my dress.

Belle said the dress was fit for a starlet, and as I look at my reflection in the dark windows, the sun having set long ago, I know she’s right. It’s a beautiful one shoulder gown made of tulle and satin in a mermaid silhouette with a thigh high slit. The material molds to my body and the color makes me appear almost nude, but tastefully. The bodice is covered in crystals and a small train sweeps out on the ground. The sweetheart neckline is modest, but low enough to see the swells of my cleavage.

Grace and Olivia hemmed and hawed when they saw me in the gown, with Grace making joking comments about why I couldn’t wear something like that to her wedding. She arranged my hair into a loose updo with wispy strands framing my face and dangling over my bare shoulders. My makeup is a simple cat-eye, no dark eyeshadows or thick liner, but my lips are in a dark red shade I like.

That was the concession I made—I got to pick the lip color as long as it wasn’t purple, and the nose stud stays—a small crystal to match the dress.

I look unrecognizable.

I look like the sixteen-year-old girl with dreams of love in her heart, the girl who wore a beautiful dress to her first ballet function with her best friend, who didn’t know hours later, her life would change.

My breath quickens as I stare at my reflection, desperate to hold on to the present.

The past is in the past, and I survived.

I not only survived, but I thrived. I didn’t let that night ruin my life. And here I am, standing inside the opulent Palais Garnier in the middle of fucking Paris, playing the role of Odette.

You’re a badass ballerina, Taylor Peyton-Anderson.

The thought stays the rising panic inside me, and I take my first steps into the room.

Immediately, I sense their eyes on me—the women eyeing my outfit up and down, some with awe in their eyes, others with their noses pointed in the air. But it’s the men’s gazes I feel the most—the malicious intent, the way they slowly examine me from head to toe as if I’m cattle to be purchased.

The nausea immediately makes an appearance and beads of sweat appear on the back of my neck. This is just your trauma making you feel things, Taylor. Not reality.

Then the searing heat of his familiar gaze settles on me.

Looking up, I find him in the far corner, a few businessmen surrounding him. They’re trying to get his attention, but he isn’t looking their way.

Instead, his attention is all on me.

Charles in a tux should be outlawed—a capital offense. He’s standing tall and regal, like he owns the place. His powerful body, which I’ve briefly felt that fevered night, is stretching against his tailored attire. His blond hair is artfully swept up, a slight wave in the thick tresses.

But those eyes. Those piercing blue eyes.

They are burning hot. Smoldering. I feel myself bursting into flames from his intense perusal.

My heart skips a beat as we stare at each other.

Should I say hi? I texted him thank you for taking care of me, but that was the extent of our interactions.

The girls told me he had swung by to help them with the showcase and for that I’m grateful. Then there were the Gossip Times articles I read online about him nearly punching a reporter in the face in front of ABTC when they asked him if he sided with his former CFO on his assault trial. It caused an upheaval for a week before the press moved onto the next piece of juicy gossip.

I remember the clamoring in my chest when I watched that video clip of him—eyes blazing with fury, teeth bared, snarling as he gave his two cents about his CFO. A rare moment of public emotion from him. It was like he was unraveling at the seams, and I couldn’t help but wonder why. What changed?

The public apparently agreed because Charles Vaughn suddenly appeared on a lot more internet searches and billionaire heartthrob lists.

I was wrong about him before. I shouldn’t put him in the same group as the other rich men who take without asking. He treated me like I was precious that night. He made me feel normal.

Maybe my radar is just messed up—like how my body reacted to Sir Ian before, who has never been unprofessional toward me.

I think back to the latest update from Emerson on the case—he ended up texting me after I finished getting ready for the gala, much to my relief. He told me he located a suspect from that night, a financier from the UK, and he’s chasing that lead down. He mentioned nothing about Sir Ian.

A beautiful brunette in a red dress walks up to Charles and drapes her arm on his shoulder. He holds my stare for one more second before turning to her and unleashing his dazzling smile.

An ache settles in my chest before an unsettling anger burns in my gut, and that is enough to jar me back to reality.

He took care of me because I’m their lead dancer in the ballet tour to save the reputation of his company. Don’t think too much of it.

And the betrayals from Camden and Alexis still cut deep. You don’t want any emotional entanglements, remember?

The brunette is now trailing her fingers over her cleavage and making moon eyes at him and, to his credit, he keeps his gaze on her face. I narrow my eyes in distaste.

“You were wonderful tonight.” A large hand slides around my waist.

I jump and stifle a scream when I see Steven’s dark brown eyes peering down at me. “Holy shit, warn a girl next time.”

He frowns. “I did. I called your name. I thought you heard me.”

A muscle in my cheek twitches—a half-assed attempt at a smile. “Oh, I was thinking about my next performance. There are some things I need to fix.”

Steven stares at me for another beat before his shoulders soften. “Well, Grace tells me you’re too hard on yourself, and she’s right. To my untrained eye, you were perfect.”

He smiles and presses a brotherly kiss on my hair. He glances over to the far corner, where Grace is drinking champagne with Olivia and laughing. His eyes soften and fill with affection. “She’s so proud of you, you know. She tells me she only knows random facts and how to crunch numbers, but she doesn’t have an artistic bone in her body, and she definitely isn’t changing lives with her art.”

A lump thickens in my throat. He turns to me. “Grace told me she had a dream about your mom last night—that she was so happy and proud of the woman you’ve become. All your grit and sacrifices paid off, and you’re the most beautiful swan she has ever seen.”

But it’s fake though. The swan is a disguise. I feel like an ugly duckling underneath the feathers and tutu.

“Thank you, Steven. Grace is lucky to have you,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.

He squeezes my shoulder and nods toward his wife. “Going to get a dance out of her before we leave. Have fun tonight, Tay. You deserve it.”

I watch him as he strides toward my sister and pulls her in for a brief but intimate kiss. A flare of envy strikes me in my chest, and I unwittingly look for a tall blond man wearing a charming mask, but I don’t see him anywhere.

I wonder if the sexy brunette took him somewhere for a quick romp.

The thought causes a pang in my heart I refuse to analyze.

A waiter comes by with a tray of drinks and I watch him pour water from an unopened bottle, satisfied it hasn’t been tampered with, before taking a glass. Walking around the room, I do my best to channel my inner Belle, who grew up in the glitz and glamour of high society functions.

I smile at patrons and make small talk with a few who approach to congratulate me on a successful debut. They quickly scurry away after our conversations die down fast—I’m a dancer, not a socialite. Small talk is not my forte. I prefer moonlight and quiet, not humans as company.

My toes ache from dancing and the four-inch gold strappy heels I have on. A headache threatens to form at the base of my spine. I see Lisa with Dev, chatting with some stuffy-looking old men with gray hair, no doubt networking, which is what I’m supposed to be doing. Couples whirl on the dance floor and I just want to take a breather—somewhere I can hear myself think.

“No! I said, no!” a soft voice says.

“That wasn’t the deal, we said…” The words trail off when I turn around, trying to locate the source of the argument.

Maddy darts out the door, her face splotchy and eyes shining with tears, a man trailing after her. The hairs rise on the back of my neck as alarm churns through me.

Quickly, I set down my drink and follow them out of the hall down a long corridor. Their shoes click and clack on the marble floors and I try my best to keep up and not make too much noise behind them.

I make a right and enter a dark, empty circular room, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

Fuck. Where are you, Maddy? My thoughts flash to the shadows of men crowding me that night, taking what didn’t belong to them.

No one would miss you, little beauty.

Predators target the weakest prey, and there’s no one weaker than a poor girl with no one to miss her at home.

I can’t let anything happen to Maddy.

Panic seizes me as I quickly rush around the room, past the tables and various boxes and furniture they have set up in here. Moonlight streams in from the tall windows, rendering the shapes inside the room as looming shadows.

Menacing. Dark. Just like that night. Sweat beads on the back of my neck as I navigate the maze, desperate to find the girl who’s almost like a little sister to me.

I’m sure they went this direction—where are they?

A slap rings out in the dark space, followed by a choked sob. I gasp and head toward the commotion. After creeping past a tall cabinet, I see two shadowy figures standing behind a bookshelf with Maddy.

“Arrête, ce n’est ni le moment ni l’endroit,” one man says to the other, his voice too soft for me to hear.

Damn it, why didn’t I pay attention in French class in high school?

“Cette garce doit apprendre à conna?tre sa place. Tu sais ce qui se passera si elle le dit à tout le monde?” the other man replies as he tugs his hair, appearing frustrated. Something bitch and something tell the world . I growl in frustration under my breath.

“Elle ne le fera pas. Je vais lui parler. Calme-toi, Laurent,” the other man murmurs.

I will talk to her. And the angry man’s name is Laurent. I can’t make heads or tails of this conversation.

Maddy sniffles, her words echoing in the room. “I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t care what I promised, I don’t—”

I fist my hands tightly, my eyes on the small trembling shadow of the person huddled in the corner. I don’t care who these people are. How dare they hurt a young, defenseless girl like Maddy?

A girl who has her whole life ahead of her.

A girl who probably dreamed about dancing the white swan role as she ate plain bread for dinner.

A girl who believes in love.

A low growl makes its way up my throat, and I charge forward, wanting—no needing—to save Maddy, to give the men a piece of my mind, to—

A hand clamps around my wrist and pulls me into a recessed alcove, and another hand smothers my scream.

Terror races through me and I thrash in his arms. I won’t be doing this again.

This isn’t happening. I’ll die before I let him hurt me again.

I raise my stiletto heel and am about to slam it on his foot when the mystery man says, “Shh… It’s me. Stop struggling, minx.”