Page 7

She was butchering the dance. A bloody massacre. Killing the beautiful swan in front of my eyes.

I recognized her the moment I laid eyes on her. She was the dancer I saw on TV in Firefly’s room a few weeks ago. The alluring woman with the haunted eyes so captivating, I couldn’t look away. My breath quickened when I spotted that raven hair, and for a brief second, I was breathless with anticipation.

She took me away from my dark thoughts when I was in Firefly’s room. What magic would she wield for me today? Could she distract me from the damn mess I found myself in?

But no, I was clearly mistaken before. The woman on the TV was a beautiful mystery—multi-layered and fascinating and this woman here…

She was a volcano threatening to level everything and everyone around her.

My blood pressure rose inside me as I watched her flail her arms and legs out like she wanted to strangle the white swan with her bare hands. Instead of drawing me away from the guilt threatening to eat me alive, I was consumed with useless what-ifs.

Firefly would’ve hated this. Her favorite ballet, reduced to a toddler’s tantrum. If she were here, she would’ve done justice to the role. She would’ve taken it seriously.

Then the minx twisted her ankle and tripped.

Her entire persona changed from a fierce ballerina to a goth brat throwing a fit in public. She wiggled her ass, muttering what seemed to be a litany of curses, then plopped down to the ground and started texting.

Like she didn’t care. Like she didn’t know how important dancing the role of Odette in Swan Lake was for a world-renowned ballet company.

Because not everyone got to have that chance.

Maybe Firefly would be the one dancing Odette if you’d made a different choice back then. If you’d only—

The goth brat smirked at her phone and I wanted to smear her dark lipstick and wipe that damn smile off her face.

Calm down, Charles. You know what happens to people who are too emotional. They become unstable. They become irresponsible.

And now she’s staring at me, her gaze widening with something…shock? Terror? Somehow, seeing that frightened expression sends a thrill through my veins. No one has ever reacted this way to me in public—I’m the charismatic CEO everyone loves. The golden prince.

It’s like she could see through me.

And something about that makes my skin sizzle with awareness.

The air crackles with intensity. The minx narrows her eyes and juts out her chin, her body rigid and defiant, as if daring me to go down there and give her a piece of my mind.

My fingers clench—if she were a sub in one of the kink clubs inside The Orchid, I’d discipline her because of that insolent expression on her face. My jaw twitches, and an unfamiliar fire gathers at the base of my spine as the air gets sucked out of the cavernous room.

Suddenly, she gets up and walks toward the front of the group. I know I should be down there too because they’re making introductions soon. But I can’t seem to move. My heart is racing—from anger, frustration, unsettling arousal—a barrage of strange and unwanted sensations hitting me from all sides.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Or maybe it does. After all, Charles, you are your parents’ child. Maybe instability runs in your blood.

Fuck.

Ignoring the heated stare from that asshole, I smooth my damp palms on my leotard and stand beside Madame Renoir in front of the room. The businessmen from earlier are also gathered there and I swallow the revulsion rising in my throat when the bald one doles out a sleazy grin.

Bethany smiles at me, still very much a picture of angelic grace. It’d be easy to hate her if she weren’t so nice. I quickly nod at her and force out a smile.

“As I was saying, it’s been an honor to be in this position for the last ten years, and I’m proud to have seen such growth from everyone. But alas, it’s time for me to retire. Fortunately, with Bank of Columbia’s sponsorship of ABTC, they’ve brought on the world-renowned artistic director and choreographer, Sir Ian Vaughn, to take over my position in a year and a half after he completes his current contract in France. Please welcome Sir Ian with your warmest applause.”

Cheers and clapping erupt in the crowd as folks recognize the name of the mysterious director behind the recent popularity of modern ballet in Paris. I follow suit, wondering if I’ll get along with my new boss, if he’ll support me in the promotion. I try to ignore the pinch of concern about him being a man. This is a professional setting, after all.

I should be fine.

Then the suits move to the side, letting a lean, middle-aged man with aristocratic bearing through.

Time freezes as the world spins around me.

My stomach drops to the floor and the sudden disorientation makes me want to throw up the contents of my breakfast.

Blond hair. Light eyes. That jawline.

No. No, no, no. It can’t be.

I shake my head, cold sweat forming on my neck. My breathing ratchets up into desperate gasps as I clutch my leotard, unable to tear my eyes away from the man striding toward us with a wide smile on his face, saying hi to the people around him.

“Are you okay, Taylor? You look pale,” Bethany whispers as she discreetly holds onto my arm, and I realize I’m trembling.

I couldn’t answer her.

Because I’m seeing things I shouldn’t be seeing. Hearing things I shouldn’t be hearing.

“Fly, Harriet.”

“ Merci beaucoup , Mademoiselle Renoir,” Sir Ian speaks.

The unmistakable raspy voice.

The man I remember in my tattered memory—the blurry and ever-changing visage of the monster who’s haunted me since I was sixteen. No. I’m healed already. I have everything under control. The past is in the past, and I’m in the present, moving on. Stop it, Lochness Monster!

“No one would miss you, little beauty,” the ghostly voice whispers.

Sir Ian scans the room before his gaze lands on me. He beams and extends his hand.

A distinct whiff of peppermint reaches my nose. The same smell from that night.

The world spins around me, the thundering pounding of my racing pulse eclipsing the sounds in the room. My chest heaves.

It can’t be him. Do you even remember what he looks like? You were drugged.

I can’t breathe. Fuck. Why can’t I breathe?

The people in the room morph into menacing dark shadows, and every atom in my body screeches at me to leave. The looming shadows move toward me.

Danger. I need to run. To escape them. Not again.

Screaming, I dart forward, desperate to flee from the monsters, my blood frenzied and hot, when suddenly someone grabs my wrist and holds on tightly.

I can’t move. Again.

The room fades away and I’m thrusted into the nightmare of my horrid memories.

Darkness cloaked me, my limbs feeling heavy. I could barely keep my eyes open, but whenever I’d open them, I’d see lights and colors streaking across my vision. I was so dizzy. Disoriented.

Everything came in fragments. Sounds of belt buckles clinking, zippers wrenching down, low grunts and raucous laughter. My dress ripping.

Their large hands. Two of them. No four. Or was it more? How many of them were there?

Heaviness. Pressure. Lots of pain. No, I don’t want this. I don’t want any of this!

My body wouldn’t obey me as my mind slowly caught up to what was happening to me.

I’m not here. I’m nowhere. This is a nightmare, and I’d wake up at any second.

“My beautiful Harriet. Fly, Harriet.” The same voice again. Then something happened. A strange sensation between my legs—the fire morphing into something else. I tried to speak, but only a moan slipped out.

“We’re just having fun, little beauty.”

Stop it. I don’t want this. Stop. No words would come out. A flash of red winked at me. I focused on it.

Blond hair. Light eyes. Were they green? Blue? Gray? A masculine jawline.

I’m not here. I’m far, far away.

“Look at her thrashing. She’s going to come, isn’t she?”

Peppermint. It smelled like peppermint. Like Christmas.

Wake up! My wrist throbs and someone is shaking me hard. I open my mouth to scream and this time my voice works.

“No! Get away!”

Bright lights sear into my eyes as the pain in my wrist wrenches me away from that dark place. My heart rams itself against my rib cage, threatening to give up on me.

My vision swirls—I’m in the eye of the tornado—and I finally see the large masculine hand gripping my wrist and I go ballistic.

“Let go of me, asshole!” My body finally regaining function, I swing my free arm at my assailant, a punch landing in a hard smack. Gasps and screams of horror and shock ring out in the room.

My assailant lets go of me and I heave in a sigh of relief. Then, another face pops into my vision—blond middle-aged man with light eyes. Peppermint. Sir Ian.

My eyes widen in horror. “T-The smell…it’s the same smell,” I whisper.

Panic slams through me, and I scream before shoving him hard. He staggers back a few steps before a few dancers catch him. “It’s been six years! I’m over this. The past is in the past!” Nonsensical words flow out of me, my mind still half-suspended in a flashback so real, so terrifying, I can’t reorient myself.

A sudden whiff of lavender reaches my nose. “Tay, Tay! Snap out of it, oh my God. Tay, calm down!”

Lisa.

Expelling deep breaths, I close my eyes and listen to the roaring sounds of my heartbeat. Lisa wraps me tightly in her arms and my legs nearly give out from underneath me. After a few seconds, which seems like minutes, I open my eyes.

Slowly, the room comes back into focus—businessmen and dancers, Madame Renoir, her hand covering her mouth in horror, a wall of mirrors, wooden floors, daylight.

I’m in the dance studio.

Acid churns in my stomach as my heart rate slows. What have I done?

Sir Ian stares at me with concern and I flinch as I take in his appearance again. My mind screams for me to leave, that the man in front of me is dangerous. He steps forward and I hold up my hand. “S-Stop. Stay away from me!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” a deep voice growls from my right.

I slowly turn toward him, my heart quaking in my chest. I take in the expensive, shiny dress shoes, expertly tailored pants and suit, a muscle twitching on a masculine jaw—a jaw and lips that are currently red from where I punched him earlier.

Murderous sky-blue eyes. Blond hair like a crown on a king. Oh shit.

I smacked him. Charles. The sponsor of the ballet company. The man keeping the lights on in this place. The man I need to depend on for my livelihood.

What have I done?