Page 6

“Damn, what’s going on outside?” I sidle next to Lisa, who has her nose smashed against the second floor window, which is cracked open a smidge. She’s no doubt looking at the commotion happening downstairs by the front entrance.

“Bigwigs are here. Charles is getting out of the car and people are pissed off.”

“Charles?”

“Bank of Columbia’s CEO. You really need to read the news, Tay. The scandal is crazy!” Lisa exclaims, then proceeds to tell me how the public is rightfully outraged at the crimes committed by a top executive at the bank.

Countless women have stepped forward with horrid tales of unwanted sexual advances—daughters, wives, sisters of everyday hardworking folks who fell victim to a monster at the company. Flames spark in my chest as Lisa recounts all the stories she’s read about so far. All those women whose lives are turned upside down. Women who’ll probably experience traumatic flashbacks like me.

Anger swims inside me and I eye the picket line and the angry mob gathered around a black town car as this man, Charles, steps out.

His muscular body is poured into a formfitting suit, his presence radiating with arrogance and prestige.

Like he doesn’t give a crap about the lives ruined under his watch at a company he leads.

Charles turns toward the reporters and the crowd. “I have no comment at this time regarding the alleged crimes being reported.” His face is flushed, and I notice his hands clench into tight fists as if he doesn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth.

Outrage and fury roar from the crowd, and I feel the same ire in my veins.

Alleged? From what Lisa just told me, there was nothing alleged about any of it. These bigwigs only care about saving their asses and lining their pockets, legal words and whatnot.

They never believe the women, just like how no one believed me.

Charles flashes the reporters what I’m assuming is a self-deprecating “I’m caught in a tough place, woe is me” expression and I grit my teeth. He unleashes a half-smile and says, “Bank of Columbia and ABTC are combining forces to raise awareness about sexual assault and to advocate for survivors. This will be an exciting partnership for us and I’m thrilled about what’s coming. Now, please excuse me, I’m late for a meeting to kick off this partnership and to discuss how we can positively impact this cause.”

“Wow, that is the most top-notch BS maneuvering that I’ve ever seen…and I’ve seen a lot from Dad and his business partners.” Lisa lets out a low whistle.

I bite down a growl and fist my hands by my sides. The fake as shit motherfucker.

Another validation for my aversion to rich men in suits—Mom’s exes, the monsters from my past, and even my birth dad, who I haven’t forgiven for abandoning Mom and us.

I excuse myself to go to the bathroom before heading into the rehearsal room for Madame Renoir’s meeting, which no doubt is to announce this partnership with ABTC and other smaller sponsors. I need to splash some water on my face to cool down. After feeling like I have my wits about me, I step out of the bathroom to head to the meeting.

I pass by a few older men in suits.

“They didn’t make them like this back in my day,” the bald one mutters under his breath, his lecherous eyes roving over my leotard-clad body.

Keep walking, Taylor. Keep walking. Don’t stir up trouble at ABTC.

His buddies chuckle and I see them turn toward a newcomer, their comments dropping in volume.

“Checking out my dancers, John? Not without my permission.” A new voice floats to my ears, and I fight a shiver at the rough timbre—powerful and masculine—currently laced with humor.

“Charles, just because you’re the largest sponsor doesn’t make them yours. Get in line.” More laughter. Ugh. So gross.

I can’t resist looking back as I enter the rehearsal studio. I see the back of the newcomer, a tall man, golden hair shining under the spotlight like a crown. That motherfucker I saw outside just now. Charles, the misogynistic, fake as shit pig. I really hope I don’t run into him in the future because I might not be able to help myself and give him a piece of my mind.

Once inside the room, I force my mind to focus on the white swan dance I’m trying to master instead. We have fifteen more minutes before the meeting. I might as well practice. I need to figure this out—push through this block I have with the role. Keep my eyes on the prize—the promotion dangling within reach. Maybe once I get it, I’d feel better about everything that happened.

Maybe I’d feel more…whole.

I take a deep breath and slip into my ballerina persona—perfect, poised, graceful. Calm even as the world riots around me. My hands and feet move on their own accord—the warm-ups easy. I practice my pirouettes, each spin pushing down the anger until it’s packed tightly at the base of my spine.

Calm. I’m calm. I’m Taylor, the ballerina now.

After a few more minutes of practice, I blow out a breath.

Then I sense someone staring at me. A man’s gaze, I’m sure. It’s distracting. Menacing. Unnerving.

The pressure in my chest increases, the hairs on the back of my neck stand like a cat’s would in the presence of predators.

Ignore him, Taylor. You’re Odette. The white swan is the queen and doesn’t care about the peasants watching her.

Temps levé arabesque . Leap. Extend the back leg. Leap again. Soft and vulnerable, gentle like a swan.

My mind refuses to settle and I feel my ballerina persona slipping. I come down from what must’ve been at least the hundredth leap today and my ankle protests. I’ve pushed myself too hard after my injury in the rooftop studio.

“Fuck!” I grit out. “What the hell, Taylor. That is the shittiest performance ever.”

At this rate, I’ll be lucky to keep my current position as a soloist in the company. A promotion will definitely be out of the question.

Frustration lances through me and I bite back a growl before I perform the last leap again, my movement exaggerated with the generous pizzazz of the black swan. I even add a shake at the end for the heck of it.

If I’m going to fail Odette again, at least I’m going out as badass Odile. Fuckers! I imagine giving a middle finger to the world because I can’t do that in front of everyone in practice. I snort, laughing at my petty act of rebellion.

You are nuts, Taylor.

I plop on the floor and stare at my fellow dancers, still hard at work.

Bethany McLean, our reigning principal dancer, executes the sequence I failed just now. There’s no frustration, no torture, no agony. There’s only the wistful vulnerability of a cursed swan who fell in love with a handsome prince.

She’s everything I can never be.

My nose burns and I tear my gaze away. Desperate to distract myself, I pick up my cell phone from the ground. A few messages await me.

Grace

Meet up at Corazón tonight, ladies? My treat. I’m craving spicy sushi and tequila. *Hearts emoji x5*

Millie

Someone is in a good mood today! I can’t believe you’re opening your own consulting firm soon. Ms. Overachiever making us all look bad. A hot boyfriend. Check. Girl boss. Check. Winning in life. Check. *winking emoji*

Grace

Aww, stop it. You’re next. I know it. You’ll find your man and then I’ll make fun of you. And I’m only starting a business. You’re going to get a PhD and change the world. You’re the one winning in life.

My lips twitch as I read the messages from my sister and my girlfriends. Grace went through some hell last year, but she’s now happily settled down with her financial titan boyfriend, Steven Kingsley. My sister, Irish twins as others call us since she’s only ten months older than me, deserves all the happiness in the world.

Belle

Ugh. I’m a failure all around then lol. Not only do I have to deal with my slimy boss every day, there are no hot men in my vicinity. No hot boyfriend. Check. Not acing my career. Check.

Grace

How’s that possible? You work in the fashion industry. How are there no hot men?

Belle

Okay, I amend that. No hot straight men. And wait a minute, why are we talking about me?

I snort before grinning, my earlier frustration lessening. Annabelle Law-McKenzie, known to friends as Belle, is the only child of a fashion empire, but unlike other rich kids, she’s working her way up from the bottom at her family’s company and is one of the sweetest and most down-to-earth people I know.

Millie

Sorry to disappoint, but I can’t go tonight. My asshole of a professor gave us a lot to do. I’ll be holed up in the apartment for the foreseeable future.

Millie

Tay, you’re still going to the open house at The Orchid with Grace next week to check out their new amenities, right?

Grace

The Rose floors! *Devil emoji* You should come with, Millie.

Millie

Um. No, thank you.

Grace

You never know. Maybe you’ll find your kink there.

I groan at the idea of going to that exclusive establishment for the rich and famous, but on a whim, I promised Grace I’d go with her after I read the newest therapy book I bought— The Wonderful and Terrifying Year of Yeses —a book recommended online about saying yes to new experiences and living without fear.

I’m about to type my response when I feel the menacing stare from earlier again. Only this time it’s more potent, more laser focused.

A frisson of unease slithers through my body. More messages ping through on my cell phone, but I can’t focus. I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.

Just as I’m about to search for the asshole who’s staring at me, someone claps loudly, interrupting the lively activity in the studio.

“May I have your attention, please!” Madame Renoir announces to the crowd.

A hush descends in the room. We turn toward the double doors where Madame Renoir is standing.

My gaze sweeps over the large space, past the other demi-soloists and the corps de ballet, the company musicians with their instruments huddling in one corner, when my eyes inadvertently land on the second floor balcony.

And I see him .

The asshole who’s making me uncomfortable with his intense scrutiny.

It’s the arrogant CEO, Charles.

He was striking from the earlier glimpses of him, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the sight of him from the front. The earlier charismatic demeanor is gone, and in its place is something far more formidable.

I notice his startling eyes first. An angry forcefulness radiating from them that steals my breath. A pair of eyes on a face so compelling, I can’t seem to look away.

Cold daylight shines down from the skylight above him, bathing his figure in a stark aura. His stunning blond hair appears almost white under the bluish light. His square jawline with an enticing divot on his chin and just enough scruff gives his stately appearance an edge of roughness.

A streak of danger.

He looks older than me by at least ten years. Madame Renoir drones on, but my mind can’t seem to compute her words as I’m locked in this strange staring contest with him.

Heat crawls up my neck, every nerve ending standing at attention. My body is priming to fight or flee, and I know I’m blushing like an innocent coed, which I’m anything but, but I refuse to look away.

From this predator, because that’s who he is. There’s no way he’s the prey. Then I’m reminded of his response to his buddies outside the bathroom and his comment to the crowd downstairs.

Rich assholes. How typical. Not all rich men are assholes, Taylor. You don’t even know him.

I know that. Logically, I understand that. But they say first impressions are lasting.

And clearly, judging from the way this Norse god of thunder is staring at me, he doesn’t seem to like me much either.

In fact, he looks at me with murder in his eyes.