Page 34

I stare outside the window in the rehearsal room at the historic Estates Theater for our last performance in Prague in late November, barely paying attention to the moody scenery outside—wet cobblestone streets, streetlamps illuminated but barely making a dent in the dark night, gothic spires half-hidden by a blanket of fog as the chill sets in at night. My mind is filled with thoughts of what transpired in the last two weeks since the press conference.

Charles knocked on my hotel room door that night, his hair in disarray, his towering frame clad in a casual sweater and dark sweatpants. His cologne hit my nostrils, and I fought every urge to launch myself on him and snuggle in his warmth.

What’s wrong with me?

“Yes?” I eyed him, my pulse quickening.

He rested his arm on top of the doorframe and I fought a shiver at how manly he looked and how small I felt next to him.

“I want to apologize for the reporter’s questions.”

I fiddled with my T-shirt. “It’s not your fault. You weren’t the asshole. Why are you apologizing?”

Charles swallowed, his blue eyes darkening. “I know he brought back bad memories. My team should’ve vetted him better.” His voice was quiet, calm, but I saw a muscle twitching on his forehead.

Does he know what happened to me? Has he guessed everything? Panic rushed inside me. “I…Charles, it isn’t…I—”

“You don’t owe me any explanation. You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he murmured. His jaw worked, then he added, “Real men don’t force women into unwanted situations. But Taylor, I just want to tell you…if you ever need someone to talk to, someone to shoulder your burdens, I’m here. I’m strong. I can take your pain.”

A sad chuckle escaped his throat as he shook his head. “Despite what you may think of me, I care about you, and I meant what I said in Paris.” He looked up, his eyes intense. “You aren’t alone anymore,” he whispered.

His words burrowed deep into my heart, and part of me wanted to throw open the door to let him in, because damn it, I wanted to have normal relationships, to fall in love, have sex, to do all the things other women do without thinking.

But deep down, I was still terrified. I didn’t want to get hurt again. I’d gotten so used to the fear lurking inside me, I didn’t know how to be free of it. I thought I could separate physical pleasure from love. I thought I could try to have sex without being emotionally involved.

But it was impossible not to feel anything for him. I felt too damn much.

And so instead of telling him, I murmured, “Thank you.”

I moved to close the door, not missing the slump of his shoulders as he walked away.

“Charles.” My heart slammed into my throat. I wanted to be brave, for him, for myself, just for one second.

He paused and turned around, his eyes alert.

“If it could be anyone, it would be you,” I whispered before quickly shutting the door, not wanting to see his face or hear his response.

I blow out an exhale, watching my breath fog up the window in front of me, wondering if I made the wrong choice that night.

But it’s probably for the best. Charles is the nephew of my dance director, the best friend of my brothers. If things don’t work out between us, it’ll get ugly on multiple levels.

If I want to try having sex again, to reclaim my pleasure, maybe it’s better if I find someone harmless, unassuming, someone I don’t feel anything for.

It’s safer.

Plus, I haven’t seen the man very much these days. Charles has been busy with business meetings and events for the past two weeks, or perhaps he’s giving me the distance he senses I need. The only time I ever saw him was backstage in passing or I’d catch a glimpse of him in one of the private boxes during our performances.

Even through the distance, I’d feel his gaze on me, the intensity, the reassuring warmth.

And I’d feel comforted.

Because I wasn’t alone.

Riiiiing.

I startle and quickly take out my phone, my body freezing at the caller ID.

Emerson Clarke

My pulse quickens at the name of my private investigator. I left him a voice message yesterday asking for an update on the case.

Quickly, I answer, “Emerson? Do you have something for me?”

“Someone has taken great pains to hide their trail, Taylor,” he says.

“What do you mean?” I grip my phone tightly.

“The financier I told you about, he was arrested and thrown into prison for embezzlement three years ago, but he was killed in a scuffle shortly afterward. There were no witnesses. The murder was suspicious.”

My breath freezes in my throat. Murder? What? “W-Why do you think he has something to do with that night?”

The silence is heavy and grim.

“What? Just tell me, I can take it.”

“Shit. I didn’t want to tell you this until I could take care of it for you. But…there are photos…photos that came from his phone with a geotag.”

My heart lurches to the floor, and I sway on my feet. “Photos of…” Please don’t tell me, please, I beg you.

“Drunk girls in compromising positions at the hotel lounge you were at that night. It’s bad. I won’t sugarcoat it for you. I’m running facial recognition right now, so that’s taking a while.”

I place my hand on the window, trying not to throw up at the news. “A-Are there p-pictures of…o-of…”

I couldn’t get the words out. But thankfully, Emerson takes pity on me.

“No, I haven’t come across photos of you yet. There’s still a lot to comb through. The photos were found on the dark web and there are places my team hasn’t searched yet, but I want to be transparent with you.” His voice turns urgent, as if he’s upset he isn’t having this discussion in person. “We’re going to get these motherfuckers, okay?”

Closing my eyes, I focus on my breath, my teeth clattering as the hazy memories of that night swallow me whole like a tidal wave. How many of them were there?

When will this nightmare end?

“O-One more thing…were you able to locate Sir Ian?” I whisper, hoping this one memory I have—blond man, blue eyes—this one is false. That there is no reason for the nervousness I feel in his presence.

Because if he’s involved, I won’t be able to continue dancing at ABTC. I will fight like hell to get him arrested, to get the justice I deserve. It’ll be chaos, a dynamite thrown into our circle of friends and family at home.

And Charles, his nephew, the only man who’s ever been able to get close to me…I’ll have to cut ties with him. Because there’s no way he’d choose me over his family.

My pulse pounds rapidly in my ears as a hollow ache spreads inside my chest.

I can get through this. I’m Taylor Peyton-Anderson, take-no-prisoners badass. I can survive this.

“I can’t match the geotags of the photos to his phone yet.” My breath whooshes out, the sudden relief letting me rake in a much needed inhale.

“But his credit card statements and cell phone records show no activity for that night and the days before and after it. Nothing on social media either, so no alibi yet.”

“So we can’t rule him out.” I blow out a deep breath.

Clicking sounds come across the line, like he’s typing. “I’m sorry I don’t have better answers for you.”

Heavy footsteps echo down the hallway outside. “I-I got to go. Keep me posted, Emerson.”

I don’t wait for his response before I hang up and slide the phone back into my pocket.

“Taylor, I’ve been looking for you. I want to discuss the final lift with you. I think if you angle your leg—” Sir Ian frowns and cocks his head to the side, his startling eyes crinkling in obvious concern as he steps into the room. “Is everything okay?”

I shove my hands behind my back. “F-Fine. Everything is fine. Just a little homesick on Thanksgiving, that’s all.”

His eyes soften. “I’m so used to traveling around the world, I completely forgot today is Thanksgiving. I’m sorry you don’t get to spend it with your family, but Happy Thanksgiving, Taylor.”

My nostrils flare, my heart still racing too quickly inside me, but I think about Grace and Steven, who’re celebrating in LA with Steven’s family. Millie is also there because her shrewd billionaire brother, Adrian Scott, is married to Steven’s older sister, Emily. Belle and Maxwell are with the rest of the Anderson crew and Olivia has plans with her parents in Brooklyn.

I wish I were there with them.

“It’s okay. I should get used to this,” I square my shoulders and look him in the eye, “because if I’m going to be a principal ballerina, I will travel throughout the year as well.”

Sir Ian quirks his lips into a smile and I startle—the expression reminds me so much of Charles. “I like your gumption and spirit. Come with me.” He waves his hand, motioning for me to follow.

I quickly fall behind him. Focus on the dance, the performance. The past is in the past. Don’t let it control your future.

“I’ve seen improvement on your Odette. So, good job on that. I think you can do better, though. As I said, your lift should be…”

Discreetly, I power off my phone, needing to close the lid on the nightmare threatening to resurface.

The past is in the past.

But I can’t help but feel it’ll somehow taint my future.