Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Luna
The applause crashed over the stage like a wave.
I stood in the golden spotlight, breathing hard.
Sweat trickled down my spine, my toes throbbing in their satin pointe shoes—that familiar sting after each perfect landing.
I bowed low, and when I lifted my head, the lights blazed so bright I could barely see.
But I loved this feeling. Up here, the light belonged to you.
The applause belonged to you. Every breath belonged to you alone.
For six years, the stage was the only place I could truly be myself.
The curtain fell slowly, cutting off the applause and the lights.
"Luna! That was incredible!"
"You were a queen tonight!"
My fellow dancers swarmed around me, filling my arms with flowers. I smiled, thanking each embrace. Only when I reached my dressing room did I let myself relax, untying my pointe shoes. My ankle gave a soft crack. Relief.
I sat before the mirror, studying the woman looking back.
Sweat dampened the hair stuck to my face. My cheeks flushed from exertion. But my eyes were bright. Calm. The woman from six years ago, eyes always red-rimmed, gaze always carefully pleading and wounded, was gone.
Principal dancer, Royal Ballet, London.
I'd earned that title through countless nights in the studio, falling until I couldn't get back up.
"Luna!" Amy burst through the door like a hurricane, her face lit with barely contained excitement. "That performance was stunning! The audience went wild!"
She dropped into the chair across from me, flipped open her folder, and slid a contract forward. "Kennedy Center invitation. Washington. Joint production, four-week residency. Incredible terms. Take a look."
My eyes caught on one word. Washington.
The world went quiet for a second. Then images surfaced from deep in my memory, edges faded, carrying a dull ache.
Six years.
"Luna?" Amy's voice pulled me back.
"Yeah, I see it." I closed the contract and pushed it back. "Can I think about it?"
She studied me, didn't push. Nodded. "Of course. But I need an answer by the day after tomorrow. The terms really are exceptional."
"I know. Thanks, Amy." I smiled at her.
Out in the hallway, the word "Washington" drifted back into my head.
Was he still there?
Maybe. Maybe he'd forgotten me entirely. Maybe someone else was beside him now. Maybe he never even looked for me. After all, I was just a "suitable" wife to him.
I shook my head. Luna, none of that matters anymore.
I drove home. The Thames wound past my window, its lead-gray surface occasionally cut by a passing barge leaving dark furrows in its wake. A thin line of deep purple still clung to the distant skyline—sunset's last goodbye.
Back at the flat, the hallway smelled of Sophie's cooking, warm and enveloping.
My key had barely touched the lock when the door flew open from inside.
"Mommy!"
A small, soft body launched at me with perfect aim, arms wrapping tight around my waist, face burying into my clothes, and nuzzling hard.
"Mommy, you're finally home!" Laila looked up, her pale blonde curls a tangled mess catching the hallway light. Her light brown eyes—exact copies of mine—sparkled with reflected light. "I waited forever today!"
I crouched and scooped her up. She immediately wrapped her legs around my waist, arms circling my neck, clinging like a little koala. "How was the show?" she asked, serious as a tiny adult.
"It was a success." I kissed her soft cheek. "Was my baby good today?"
"Super good!" she answered without hesitation, her little face radiating absolute certainty. "Sophie said I was an angel!"
At the door, Sophie smiled helplessly, nodded to me, and mouthed, "More or less."
I carried Laila into the living room and settled on the couch. She curled in my lap, grabbed her stuffed rabbit, and launched into the day's adventure story. Her little mouth moved up and down, voice rising and falling with what she considered appropriately dramatic plot points.
I listened, hand patting her back gently. The turbulence that "Washington" had stirred in my mind slowly settled in this familiar, warm chatter.
After tucking her in, I closed her door softly, made coffee, and sat in the living room.
Outside, London's night lights flickered—yellow dots distant and dense, beautiful and remote.
I remembered the first time I held Laila.
An autumn morning in London, sunlight streaming through the hospital window—rare and warm. She lay in the crook of my arm, so small, so wrinkled, soft, pale blonde fuzz on her head. Her tiny hands curled into fists by her face, breathing fine and even. Looking at her, the whole world went quiet.
I looked down at her and said my first words: "Hey there, little one. I'm your mom."
Then I cried. Sobbed until my face was a mess of tears and snot. The nurses thought it was postpartum hormones. Only I knew how much of those tears were joy, how much fear, how much terror of the unknown.
Six years ago, three days after arriving in London, I saw two lines on a pregnancy test in a corner drugstore bathroom.
My mind went blank.
I was pregnant. With Cassian's child.
What was I going to do?
That night, I sat alone on my flat's cold floor, leaning against a water jug, and thought all night. I remembered that rainy night, the smashed car, the unanswered calls. My mother's icy voice. "Go to hell."
I remembered all those days of careful pleading, all that ignored devotion, all those tears swallowed alone in the dark.
Then I touched my belly. Still flat, but I felt something there.
I made a decision.
I would have this baby.
Not because I still loved Cassian. Precisely because I didn't want anything more to do with him. This child was mine. The first wholly new life I could decide about completely on my own.
The months that followed still seem unbelievable.
The pregnancy was brutal. When morning sickness hit hardest, I'd hug the toilet bowl until I was dizzy, then wipe my mouth and head to the studio anyway.
Less than a month after having Laila, I was back in the studio. Amy practically jumped up and down, screaming I was insane, said I had a death wish, and physically forced me to go rest.
But I had no other options. No support, no savings. Dance was the only thing I knew how to do, the only thing I could hold onto. And I had a tiny, soft person depending entirely on me.
Laila was a good baby. Better than most, Sophie said—and she'd raised plenty of children. Sometimes I wished she'd fuss more, just so I'd know I wasn't alone in barely holding it together.
After she was born, I had no time to breathe. Days with her, nights after she slept, practicing in front of the living room mirror. Over and over until I was exhausted, until I could collapse into sleep—and sleeping meant not thinking.
A year later, an opportunity came. A retired ballet master happened to see footage of me in the studio. He was moved by my "tenacity" and recommended me to the Royal Ballet's second company.
From corps to soloist, soloist to principal—I clawed my way up every step.
Toes blistered countless times, blood gluing shoes to my feet.
Muscles pulled countless times, pain keeping me awake at night.
Sometimes I'd come home too exhausted to even lift Laila, just lie beside her little bed watching her peaceful sleeping face, crying silently.
But it was all worth it.
Every time I stood on stage feeling applause meant for me, I knew it was worth it. Every time Laila ran to me laughing and calling "Mommy," I knew it was worth it.
That woman on a rainy night with a wrecked car, calling everyone and getting almost no answer—she was gone.
Now I was a principal dancer. Laila's mother. Someone who'd walked here one step at a time on her own.
My phone buzzed.
A name appeared on screen. Seb.
I sipped my coffee and answered.
"I saw tonight's show." His voice was warm as always, like rare winter sun in London. He paused, transitioning naturally. "Amy talk to you about Washington?"
I hesitated. "You know about it?"
"She asked me. If you go, they want us to partner again," he said. "I told her it's up to you. You go, I go. You don't, I'm fine either way."
I looked out at the flickering lights. Said nothing.
"Luna," his voice softened slightly, "I respect your choice. Whatever you decide, I support you. I know Washington for you is..."
"Just another performance venue," I said, calmer than I expected. "No different from any other city."
He didn't call me out. Just said, "Sure," then added, "Alright, just another venue. Kennedy Center's a good stage. We didn't nail that Milan version last time—this is a chance to fix it."
I walked to the window. Night was deep, Thames lights glittering like scattered gold.
Seb and Cassian were completely different men.
Seb respected every decision I made, even when he disagreed.
When my foot injury flared, he said nothing—the next day, the best pain patches appeared in my locker. When Laila got sick and I couldn't leave rehearsal, he silently covered all my positions without one complaint.
That quiet companionship once left me bewildered.
Once, after rehearsal, we sat in the empty studio. He suddenly asked, "Luna, have you ever thought about starting another relationship?"
I froze, then told him straight. "No. Maybe never. I'm not sure."
He looked at me, gaze gentle. Then he said, "Okay. I understand."
That was it. No pressing. No disappointed expression. No "I'll wait for you"—that supposedly romantic but actually pressuring line. Just "I understand," then he stood and got water.
In that instant, it was like lightning struck my brain.
People could be like this. Saying no didn't require elaborate explanations or apologetic pleading.
I'd once exhausted myself trying to please someone who didn't know how to respond in that marriage, worn myself down to nothing, only to finally understand—when only one person gives in a relationship, that's not love. That's depletion.
So now, I didn't want any chance of repeating that. Even though I knew Seb would probably never be that way.
"Luna?" Seb's gentle voice came through the phone. "Still there?"
"Yeah," I said. "Thinking about Washington."
"Decided?"
I ran through the contract details in my head. Kennedy Center, four-week residency, best terms I'd seen for this kind of invitation. Venue, promotion, logistics—everything showed real commitment.
And it was my work. My stage.
Washington was the city of that heartbroken woman from six years ago. It could also be the city of the principal dancer standing on the Kennedy Center's stage now. Those two things didn't conflict.
"I'm going," I told Seb, voice firm. "I'll tell Amy tomorrow."
He paused a beat, then laughed softly. "Good. I'll let her know too."
"And," I smiled though he couldn't see, "thanks for calling tonight."
"Get some sleep. We've got rehearsal tomorrow." He hung up.
I set my phone on the armrest. Wind blew through the half-open window, carrying river dampness and that crisp autumn chill.
I sat on the couch a while longer, then stood, turned off the lights, and went to bed.
Before sleeping, I cracked Laila's door. She was out cold, little hand spread open by the pillow, pale blonde hair messy across her face, breathing even and unguarded.
I closed her door gently, went to my bedroom, lay down, and closed my eyes.
Washington. Six years.
This time, I was going back as my true self.