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Acid churns in my stomach, each wave higher than the last. I’m seasick on dry land as the god of thunder hurls lightning bolts at me with his stormy eyes.

“Taylor! Apologize to Sir Ian and Mr. Vaughn at once ! What has gotten into you? This is unacceptable and we at ABTC do not condone this behavior! I’m afraid I’ll—”

The tsunami of her words crashes over me, the tiny voice inside my mind finally piercing through the craze. No. No. Please don’t fire me. Oh God, I haven’t had a flashback that intense for years. Why now? Why the fuck now?

My pulse bangs against my ears, panic making my vision blurry, and I feel sick to my stomach again. I need to fix this. I need ballet—the only thing I have left.

I need to apologize.

Staring at the furious man whose blistering stare is rendering me immobile, I mutter, “I…I’m…I’m sorry. Please…Please don’t…”

I can’t get the words out. A heavy sense of shame washes over me—why am I apologizing? He grabbed me first—he didn’t let me leave.

He didn’t know you had a flashback because Sir Ian reminded you of the monster, the man you don’t really remember because your mind was too drugged up that night.

I finally notice the notes of cedarwood and bergamot in the air—his scent—and I realize how close we’re standing. I quickly stagger back a few steps.

“You will apologize to my uncle as well,” he commands in that deep, raspy voice. Goosebumps flicker to life on my arms.

His uncle. This intimidating asshole is Sir Ian’s nephew. I feel lightheaded as I sneak a glance over at the man himself, an involuntary tremor of fear rushing through my body.

I shake myself—I’m going insane. It can’t be him. I don’t even remember what he looks like, right? But still, my mind is fighting the apology at the tip of my tongue. I shake my head. I can’t apologize to him when fear is all I’m feeling whenever I look at him.

“I can’t,” I whisper. “I can’t.”

Charles recoils at my words, his eyes darkening. A muscle twitches in his jaw.

“Charles—” Sir Ian says, but the looming god in front of me holds up his hand.

“This is unacceptable,” Charles grits out, his eyes pinned on me.

Someone tugs on my shoulder. A reassuring scent of lavender. Lisa, the voice of reason, trying to save me yet again.

She rises to her tiptoes and whispers in my ear, “Whatever it is, it isn’t worth your career. Everything you’ve worked for! They’re going to fire you! You hit our sponsor in the face!”

Her words are like a fire extinguisher to the fiery rage incinerating my body and what remains is bone-deep fear.

Everything I’ve worked for. My sacrifices. Grace and Mom’s sacrifices.

My gaze becomes unfocused and nausea comes roaring back in full force.

I can’t breathe. Lisa is right. Just apologize and get out of here, Taylor. Sweat gathers on my forehead. I stare in Sir Ian’s direction, not meeting him in the eye. “I-I’m s-sorry, sir.”

The room breathes a collective sigh of relief, as if we’ve averted a crisis, but I don’t feel any relief at all. My fingers tingle. My skin itches. I want to claw myself. I want the pain, tons of it.

I can’t breathe. My lungs rattle from exertion. I can’t breathe.

I need to go home. I need to—

“Look, young lady. Obviously, there’s been some misunderstanding. We’ve all made mistakes before and I don’t fault you for it,” Sir Ian begins, his voice still sending shivers down my spine.

I shrink further into my mind.

Lisa clutches my shoulder tightly and I’m never more grateful for her presence than now.

“But I really haven’t met you before. I’m not sure what’s going on, but whatever it is, you’re mistaken.”

Unshed tears blur my vision as I grip my wrist, trying to stem the shudders from showing.

I won’t cry for him. For them.

Glancing up, I finally take in Sir Ian’s concerned face. His blue eyes are crinkled as if he’s sincerely concerned by this turn of events. Charles stands slightly in front of him, his arms crossed—a formidable sentry—like he’s afraid I’m going to finish what I started and he’ll protect his uncle with his life.

Sir Ian smiles softly. “I don’t want my career here to begin on a bad note. Let’s start over, shall we? I’ll forget about this if you can. And I’m sure Charles will forgive and forget too.” He looks at his nephew.

My heart hammers inside my chest. I stare at those blue eyes again. Clear. Innocent eyes. Could I’ve been mistaken? After all, I was drugged. Were his eyes really blue? Wasn’t it dark, Taylor? You couldn’t even describe him to a sketch artist.

Doubts rain in my mind.

“Charles?” Sir Ian murmurs.

Charles stares at me, the fire burning hot in his eyes. His head dips into the barest of nods.

My lips tremble as I finally take in the rest of the room—my colleagues whispering furtively to each other, Ainsley and the other trainees’ faces crumbling with obvious concern. My skin heats and I swivel my attention to Madame Renoir, who looks like she’s about to have an aneurysm.

Hanging my head, I whisper again, “I’m sorry.”

I flee from the room.

Half an hour later, I trap myself in the bathroom of my tiny studio apartment in the Theater District. Murky steam from the shower fogs up the mirror. I watch as the vapors swirl and slither, foreboding, much like the darkness that has tainted my soul that fateful night.

A sentient being intent on ruining me.

My pulse is rioting in my veins as I rake in deep inhales. It was a flashback, the worst flashback I’ve had in years. It’s not reality. I’m safe now. No one will hurt me anymore.

I repeat my affirmations. All the self-help books recommend this. But I still feel like a thousand ants are crawling on my body.

I need pain. I need control. The past is in the past. Not the present. I’m calm. I’m in control.

With trembling hands, I pull open the top drawer of the bathroom counter and grab an unassuming plastic box—my lifesaving kit for sanity. Flicking the lid open, I pull out a large-gauge needle. Just the needle, no syringe, no illegal substances. I haven’t sunk to that level yet. I glance at my reflection under the florescent lights again.

Bloodless, pale skin—lifeless like my soul. Messy, black strands I’ve tugged again and again on my subway ride back home. Red-rimmed eyes that look haunted.

Everything is okay, Taylor. Pain. You need pain to ground you. We’ve been through this before. Regression is okay. It’s normal.

Holding my breath, I slide the needle underneath my skin on my inner thigh, away from the veins, and flinch from the searing pain as I twist it inside my wound. I watch my blood drip out slowly.

One drop. Two drops. Three drops.

The darkness spreading on the white floor.

The initial gutting pain calms the jitters in my body. Focus on the pain, Taylor. Control it. Everything else doesn’t matter.

Closing my eyes, the muscles in my shoulders slowly loosen and I take in my first real breath since my outburst at the studio.

I shouldn’t be doing this. This isn’t healthy.

Logic beckons me to listen to it. Imploring me to let the past go. Hurting myself now won’t ever erase my trauma—it just prolongs the agony. But I don’t know any alternative. It’s the only thing keeping me going. It’s my ritual when flashbacks get this bad.

After that horrible night, I tried the cops, who took one look at me and said I had no evidence because I washed everything away. I tried therapy, but I couldn’t make the words come out. I remember sitting in the tiny room, staring at the annoying fly buzzing near the ceiling, the therapist latching onto the fact I couldn’t remember everything. And I couldn’t afford anything out of pocket—too fucking expensive.

I was mute. Silenced.

You’re better than this, Taylor. You’re stronger. A fighter. Plenty of women have suffered worse and they have their shit together.

My mind refuses to listen, and instead, those voices barge into my mind again.

“Fly, Harriet.”

“Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

More unwanted memories barrel in, crashing through the uneasy calm. The needle isn’t enough. I need more. I got this. I breathe in and out for a count of five.

Tossing the needle to the floor, I scramble inside the shower, wincing as the piping hot water singes my skin. My mind on autopilot, I reach for the body wash and rub it over myself, then I grab my loofah and scrub. My ritual. I can do this.

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.

My pale skin turns flushed, then pink. Raw. I still feel disgusting. Dirty.

I pinch the piercing on top of my clit—more grounding pain. I crave it.

I curl up in the corner and bury my face in my hands. My eyes burn as much as my skin does. It’s like my chest is being torn apart fiber by fiber. My lungs rake in a deep inhale. I can breathe now.

Feel the pain. Welcome the pain. Purge your thoughts.

It’s just a flashback. You’re safe now.

I shudder and hold my knees tighter against me, all the while letting the hot water wash away my shame, my darkness, mourning a loss I thought I’d put behind me.

I remember a little girl falling in love for the first time, dreaming about a future where anything is possible.

I remember the warm embrace of a boy I thought loved me, not an ounce of fear inside me as I watch him brush a lock of hair from my face.

I remember dancing on the stage, donned in pure white, angelic with grace, as my instructor marveled at the beauty of my Odette.

Why did I react that way to Sir Ian? Was it him all those years ago? But he didn’t act like he recognized you.

My mind swirls in confusion—I don’t know what’s up or down anymore.

My immediate impulse is to quit everything and run away—to hide from all unpleasant memories and sensations. But as I breathe in the moisture in the shower and feel my muscles slowly relaxing, logic beckons at the door.

I’ve worked hard to get to where I am, one step away from reaching the pinnacle of my career. I don’t know what happened today and why I reacted that way, but until I know more, I can’t make rash decisions.

It’s okay. I have time. He isn’t coming for another year and a half. Maybe I’ll remember something by then. Maybe…maybe I’ll finally be able to put the past behind me.

Heaving out an exhale, I relish the scalding hot water lashing on to my skin. Focus on the pain.

“Fly, Harriet.”

I’ll never be able to fly again. My wings are clipped.

But I’ll survive, just like the black swan from Mom’s story.