Chapter 57
BELLA
Regional Competition – Manhattan, New York
The dressing room smells like hairspray, body glitter, and straight-up ambition. It’s complete insanity backstage. Girls darting between lighted mirrors, lashes flying, spray bottles misting, topped off with Javi and Rico yelling at us all in a Spanish fury.
Rico’s on a rampage with the outfits, slinging custom garment bags like it’s fashion week and he’s behind schedule.
“Haley, teal. Ellie, pink. Bella, purple.”
Javi bursts in like a whirlwind of cologne and chaos, waving a clipboard above his head.“Legacy!” he calls, eyes already scanning for strays. “I’ve got the schedule.”
He stops in front of us, dramatic as always. “Alright, mis estrellas, listen up.” He points the clipboard at Haley first. “Legacy opens, which means mi fuego, you better burn that stage down. It’s your routine, Hales. No pressure, just perfection, ?sí?”
Then he spins to Ellie, eyes gleaming. “And you, Miss Whitmore, your solo’s up against Maddie Rae. I want her crying into her rhinestones by the second eight-count, understood?” He clutches his chest dramatically. “Vamos, princesa, make me proud.”
He turns to me with a wicked grin. “Bella, you and Josh, ay Dios mío, my favorite duet, my little center-stage sinners. Don’t make me regret pairing you two. I want passion, drama, fuego y pecado, all of it.”
He claps his hands once, loud enough to rattle the mirrors. “And Trifecta, you close. Big finish. Smoke. Flames. Tears. Make the judges need therapy, ladies. This isn’t just Regionals, bebés. This is war in sequins.”
Ellie practically glows. Haley cracks her neck like she’s about to body-slam someone. Josh gives me a wink from across the room.
Javi claps his hands again, sharp and loud. “Alright, team. No pressure… but I want gold in every category. I want them begging for an encore. I want tears, real tears in the judges’ eyes.”
He leans in close, voice dropping low and lethal. “Don’t fuck this up.”
He spins on his heels and disappears through the curtains like a man walking into his own telenovela finale.
No pressure or anything.
Hair and makeup are working their magic around us, a well-oiled glam machine. I sit in front of the mirror, lips parted slightly as someone lines them in deep wine-red. I look like power and temptation stitched in silk and sequins.
But underneath it all, I’m fraying. These last few days have been a goddamn blur. Emotionally, physically, and to be honest… sexually.
Lex has literally fucked me senseless on every surface of their apartment. Kitchen counter. Living room couch. Bathroom vanity. Pinned against the window with the entire city of New York watching.
Even up against Cade’s massive bookshelf like we were reenacting some dark, twisted version of Beauty and the Beast—only this time, the Beast whispered in Russian and fucked like a god.
Cade walked in halfway through that one.
Didn’t even blink. Just loosened his tie, sat down in that big leather chair of his, and started stroking himself while he watched us like we were art.
Then he joined in. Took his time going down on me while Lex whispered filth into my ear and held my wrists above my head.
I think I blacked out at one point. In the best way.
Lex even read us poetry after. I’m not kidding. Completely naked. His voice all low and raspy. But it didn’t last long, he got distracted by my breasts and Cade’s dick and made us both come before he even hit the second stanza.
They keep asking me to move in. Cade with his soft eyes and slow hands. Lex with his dirty promises and unrelenting need. And God, I want to. I want them.
But something still holds me back…
Don’t get me wrong, I love them. So much it aches.
So much it terrifies me. But something’s still off.
The weight of everything I’ve learned—the Barinovs, the Russos, Zeke, the Izzy of it all—it’s sitting in my chest like lead.
And every time I try to exhale, it’s still there. Heavy, sharp, and fucking suffocating.
Irina keeps asking me to meet her for coffee. “Just a quick talk,” she says. She looks at me like I’m Izzy and it freaks me out. I don’t like it. I’m not ready to unpack all of that. Not with her. Not yet. So, I keep dodging and keep making excuses.
Lex doesn’t push but I can feel the disappointment every time I turn her down. He wants me to have with Irina what I have with Savannah, some kind of maternal connection.
But it’s different. I’ve known the Whitmores since I was fourteen. There’s history there. Real love. The kind that grew over late-night kitchen raids and family lake trips, long before any of us realized how much we’d come to matter to each other.
And then there’s Roman. He’s here, somewhere out in the crowd.
We’ve been texting a little since he saved my life.
Since he knelt in the street like some mafia vigilante dad and painted the sidewalk with a stranger’s skull.
He wants to be part of my life now. Says he doesn’t want to waste another second.
Cade told me to invite him to Regionals. Said it’d be low pressure. Not a dinner or a sit-down where we’d have to talk the whole time. Just a seat in the crowd. He could watch, cheer, and then leave.
And Luca? Luca’s been quiet all week. Not a single message. Which freaks me the hell out. I’ve been on edge—paranoid, checking corners, and flinching at shadows. Always waiting for the next move.
Which is so not me. I feel like I’m going soft after meeting the guys. Like the badass who shot Carlos in the dick is slowly slipping away.
Dr. Monroe calls it progress. Says my nervous system is finally coming down from the survival mode I’ve been stuck in for years. That I’m starting to process the trauma. Whatever the hell that means.
All I know is, I don’t like feeling exposed and vulnerable. Vulnerable gets you killed.
So maybe I shouldn’t have, but I called Uncle Jack the next day. Told him what happened, minus the skull-splattering part. I just said things got tense and I was safe now. Told him not to tell my dad, just to say I called and everything was okay.
He agreed.
Then, of course, he went and called Lex and Cade. Apparently, they’re best buddies now. Bonded over football, bourbon, and their shared obsession with keeping me alive. They made a whole safety plan for The Trifecta and everything.
Jack couldn’t make it today. It’s the anniversary of Aunt Claire’s death this weekend and Daddy decided to fly him to Arkansas for a fishing trip.
So to be safe, Jack sent a few of his buddies from the NYPD to be stationed all over this place. Plain-clothes officers. Canines. Probably snipers on the roof if I had to guess.
And I know it’s probably for the best, but it’s also a reminder that I’m not safe.
Not really.
Not even here.
Not even now.
“Bella,” Rico says, pulling me away from my thoughts.
He crouches down in front of me, voice gentle now. “You good, baby?”
I nod. “Yeah. I’m just… breathing.”
He gives me a knowing smile. Then leans in, pulling the strap of my costume onto my shoulder, fixing it with the kind of care most people reserve for religious artifacts.
“Breathe all you need,” he whispers. “Then go out there and burn the fucking floor down.”
???
We’re lined up in the wings now, the stage buzzing with nerves, victory sweat and enough glitter to choke a rhinestone. The crowd’s still electric from the last routine and the judges are scribbling like their pens might catch fire.
Ellie’s already holding her first-place plaque, bouncing in her heels with that megawatt smile that makes everyone around her look dim by comparison. She nailed her solo—clean lines, impossible turns, and that damn near airborne back bend she only pulls out when it counts.
Legacy took first too, which means Haley’s been insufferable since they announced it.
She keeps flashing her gold medal like it’s a weapon, flipping her hair and throwing fake kisses into the crowd like a cheerleader on a Red Bull bender.
I love her for it and I’m so proud of her.
That dance was her baby and it was amazing.
Josh and I took first for our duet. Not that I ever doubted it.
That routine was sex, strength, and in perfect sync.
He lifted me like I was made of smoke and I gave the judges just enough eye contact to make them feel it.
When they said our names, he picked me up and spun me like it was prom night.
Now it’s just The Trifecta left.
My fingers are ice. My thighs ache. And I feel like if they say anyone else’s name, I might actually break down in the middle of this stage in front of the entire New York dance elite.
The announcer taps the mic. “And now,” she says, smiling at the judges’ table, “for the final and most competitive category of the day, Small Group: Collegiate Division.”
Javi’s behind us, hands clenched so tight his knuckles are white. Rico has both hands clasped like he’s praying to the gods of fringe, rhinestones, and rhythm.
My heart pounds.
“In third place…” the announcer begins, dragging it out like this is The Hunger Games. “…The Revenants from Northvale University!”
A smattering of polite claps echoes through the crowd as The Revenants step forward, their smiles so tight they might crack. Maddie stands just a few feet away, her crown slipping, her pride bleeding out in silence. She looks like she just swallowed glass.
The announcer smiles, flipping open the final card like she’s about to crown Miss America. “And in first place…”
I grab Haley’s hand. She grabs Ellie’s. All three of us are locked in a death chain of sequins and nerves. It’s between us and this team of Boston who performed a lyrical routine that was crazy beautiful.
I’m sweating bullets and I swear to God, I know the announcer is trying to pause for dramatic effect, but if she doesn’t open her mouth soon I’m gonna—
“From Wexley University, The Trifecta!”
The crowd erupts. Rico screams louder than the announcer. Javi full-on jumps. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man’s feet leave the floor before. Haley shrieks. Ellie throws her arms around me. We’re hugging and crying and laughing all at once as someone shoves a plaque in our hands.
I can feel it in my chest, this isn’t the finish line. Not even close. It’s not over. Regionals may be a win, but we’re still a long way from Worlds.
Nationals is next, and if we think tonight was a fight? The next round is war.
The competition’s only going to get harder.
The pressure sharper.
The target on our back, bigger than ever.