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There were no flowers this morning, and he didn’t respond to my messages.

Dressed in my Odile costume while the makeup artist helps with the final touches of my black swan getup, I quickly open our text message thread. The last messages are the ones I sent him yesterday.

Taylor

I love the roses. How did you find them in the dead of winter?

Taylor

Will I be seeing you tomorrow for the last performance in St. Petersburg?

Taylor

I miss you.

Taylor

Reason number one: You chase away the monsters in my dreams and I want to fall asleep in your arms.

My heart pounds as I reread the message, heat creeping up my face as uncertainty threatens to swallow me whole. I debated whether to text him about my feelings. I wanted to call him, but it felt too intimate…too vulnerable. Too foreign.

I’m used to making snarky comments and flinging out curse words, not laying my soul bare.

But in the last few months, away from family and close friends, outside of Lisa and the brief visit from Belle, Grace, Millie, and Olivia during Christmas, I’ve realized something.

For the last seven and a half years, I told myself I didn’t need anyone, that men were more trouble than they’re worth. I was doing fine on my own, and I was finally learning to accept myself—my version of Odette with my past and my present.

I told myself love was for suckers, and there were so many more rotten apples out there than good ones; it was better to depend on myself and frankly not eat apples at all. Carrots were better. Much better.

But with every bouquet of roses, every note card and text I receive from the man who hides his true self from the rest of the world, he has given me bravery—the last little bit to push me across the finish line.

I dream about his kisses and the rough scrape of his hands on my skin.

I think about his deep, raspy voice and the way he tells me my thorns are beautiful.

I invent imaginary arguments I can have with him when I see him again because our fights are our strange form of foreplay and our love language.

Step into the light with me, Taylor. His words are louder with each passing day, and my decision becomes stark clear.

I miss him, and I want to be in a relationship with him. Not just sex, but the real thing—emotions, my heart, all of it. I want to be vulnerable with him and tell him my darkest secrets, the pain I’ve silently endured for all these years.

So, I worked up the courage to text him yesterday and to tell him the first reason he’s special to me. Now, it has been over twenty hours of radio silence, and I’m trying to fight both the embarrassment and disappointment flooding me.

This is what you get for trying again, the damn Lochness Monster whispers. Haven’t you learned from your past?

Oh shut up, you. He’s a busy man!

“We’re all set. You look great!” Sally, the makeup artist, pats my shoulder. “Have you seen Maddy? I saw Carla talking to her earlier, but I need to redo her makeup. Is she okay?”

Her words shake me out from my thoughts, and I frown. “What do you mean?” Maddy has been quiet these days, and she said I was overly concerned about her when I asked. Ainsley thinks she’s homesick, which I don’t blame her.

Sally shrugs. “She was crying earlier. I need to fix her makeup.” She leans in. “I heard she came into some money recently. I thought she’d be happy. She wouldn’t need scholarships anymore. But I must be wrong.”

Unease prickles my insides. None of this makes sense. Ainsley or Maddy would’ve told me if some earth shattering change was happening, right? Why wouldn’t they tell me?

“Anyway, I’ll find her myself. Good luck, Tay. Last performance before we head back home! I can’t wait.” She grins.

“Right? I never thought I’d say this, but I’m getting sick of traveling. Craving a good hot dog about now.” I strain a smile, my mind still on the trainees who are like little sisters to me. I need to find them to figure out what’s going on.

Sir Ian waves me over. It’s showtime.

I close my eyes and channel my inner black swan. Seductive. Enticing the men around her.

Seducing the white swan’s true love.

Have you ever been in love?

Madame Renoir’s question from almost two years ago comes barreling in. But this time, my heart spasms, images of him flooding my mind.

I know how it feels now.

Use my emotions as a source of power for my dance. Channel them. Harness them into something greater. That was what Sir Ian told me. I didn’t understand before, but I do now.

The atmosphere inside the Mariinsky Theatre in St. Petersburg this cold February evening is electric—perhaps the crowd senses this will be a special performance, because it’s the last one before we head back. But the place seems incomplete, like the hollow in my chest.

I know it’s because I’ve been searching for that familiar blond hair in the audience, not seeing him.

I feel incomplete.

I’ve missed him in every performance since Prague. His intensity. His electrifying gaze. How he wears his banked emotions in his startling blue eyes.

I’m not performing for you. I once told him in Sir Ian’s office.

But I want to perform for him now. Because whatever happens, he has awakened my heart, and because of him, I feel something.

I rake in a deep breath before smiling at Dev, taking on the persona of the seductive, strong black swan who pretends to be the white swan the prince actually loves. I often wonder what the black swan’s true motive is, what Mom was trying to tell me all those years ago.

Dev tugs me into him, our dance second nature by now. We move from the slower adagio movement to the faster allegro. I imagine he’s Charles, the man I’ve been missing, and this is my way of telling him I miss him and want him. My grazes become bolder, my pirouettes and leaps stronger. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dev’s eyes widen, no doubt wondering what’s gotten into me.

Then comes the thirty-two fouetté turns—thirty-two nonstop turns that are one of the most difficult moves in the ballet.

I’m a fighter…a survivor. I am alive and I’m fucking thriving.

My body thrums with energy as I throw myself into the turns, one after another, embracing my dark past, the black feathers sprouting from my skin.

I’m flying. With or without anyone, wherever my future takes me. I am flying as Odette and Odile.

Breathless exhilaration rushes through me as I come down from the difficult sequence. Dev’s smile widens—there’s awe in his gaze, and I hear loud applause breaking through the audience—normally, they’d wait until the dance was over.

Tears glimmer in my eyes, my heart pounding with a bittersweet joy.

I am Taylor Peyton-Anderson, almost twenty-four years old. Yes, I’ve had a difficult past, but I’ve risen above it and I accept myself now.

I am free.

My eyes sweep over the blurry crowd as I move into the final pose.

And I see him.

His passionate eyes trained on me from where he stands in the box closest to the stage. He’s clapping like the others, his lips curved into a smile.

He’s here.

Happiness rushes through me, giving me a high much more powerful than the cheers and applause from the audience. I bite my lip before smiling back and I see the acknowledging smolder in his gaze. But there’s something else in those eyes I’ve grown to love.

Something heavy and undecipherable. I frown.

The rest of the performance passes by without a hitch and we’re met with a standing ovation at the curtain call. Sir Ian glances at me and gives me a nod of approval.

“Excellent,” he mouths.

I know I’ll never be the Odette from the stage all those years ago.

But it’s okay.

I can shine as Odile. I can embrace the black swan. A weight has been lifted off my chest and I can finally breathe.

After changing out of my outfit and giving Lisa and Dev quick hugs, I dash out of the dressing room to backstage, then to the lobby, searching for a tall man with blond hair and icy blue eyes, a man I used to hate but am feeling very much the opposite emotion right now.

The lingering crowd gathers around me in excitement, notebooks and writing pads thrusted at my face, Russian and English requests blurting from their lips. I smile absentmindedly and sign autographs, my eyes still roving over the opulent marble interior, trying to find him.

I couldn’t have been mistaken, could I?

But he isn’t here.

After security escorts the crowd away, disappointment weighs inside me as I head out the side door, where a van would pick us up to take us back to the hotel.

As soon as I step outside to the frigid cold in the sea of white, I see him…

Charles Vaughn, holding a bouquet of burgundy roses, a soft smile tugging his lips.