Chapter Eleven
Aurora
My life is unraveling—a thread being pulled until there’s nothing left but a pile of what-used-to-be.
Whatever’s left of my principles is evaporating, melting away under the heat of one man’s touch. A man who blackmailed me, manipulated me, owned me in every sense of the word. And I’m falling in love with him. Like a fucking idiot.
And now, because of that, I’ve missed an entire week of rehearsals.
A week.
Because my ankle is still swollen from the sprain. Because I was too caught up in him to care about the right posture, the right footing, the right anything.
In ballet, a week off is like death. If you aren’t consistent, you’re forgotten.
This morning, my phone nearly jumps off the nightstand with notifications. I wake up alone in Lucian’s bed, with forty missed calls from the director, twenty-something texts from Maya, and not a single one from my aunt.
Which means she hasn’t seen what I’m seeing yet. But she will. And when she does—God, she’ll die from embarrassment before she even calls me.
My face is plastered across my phone screen.
“The Ballerina Sleeping with Her Boss—Lucian Morelli.”
“Morelli’s Mistress or Muse?”
“Sleeping Her Way to the Stage—The Rise of Aurora Laurent.”
It feels like someone shoved a fist through my chest and just left it there. There are pictures of us everywhere—me in his arms, him holding me at the hospital, his hand on my thigh in his car.
The comments are disgusting, twisting everything until I barely recognize myself.
My aunt will read this eventually, and she will be heartbroken. Would she believe them? Would she also think that I only got the position because I spread my legs for Lucian?
I cover my mouth, but the sob breaks through anyway. I throw the phone onto the bed and start tearing through the room.
The rage is dizzying. I grab the lamp and hurl it across the room. I knock over his books, his framed photos—I destroy anything in my line of sight.
“This is your fault,” I whisper. “All of this. You did this to me.”
My phone buzzes—Maya is calling again.
I answer, because I don’t know what else to do. “What?”
“Aurora? Jesus. Are you okay?”
“Did you see it?” I choke out. “The articles?”
“Yeah, I saw them.” She sighs.
My breathing gets worse. “They think I’m a—”
“Stop,” she snaps. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation. No one with half a brain would believe that garbage. You’ve worked your ass off to get where you are.”
“It doesn’t matter!” My voice cracks. “People don’t care about the truth, Maya—they care about gossip. They’ll see his name next to mine and think I—”
“You think the audience cares who you sleep with?” she hisses. “You walk out on that stage, and they’ll only see you. The amazing ballerina. Not the headlines.”
“I can’t do this,” I whisper. “I can’t breathe—”
“Hey. Aurora. Listen to me. This’ll pass. You’re stronger than—”
The phone slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor. I sink with it, curling up on the cold tile. My hair sticks to my face, and I hug my knees, rocking in the fetal position. At this moment, I’m at my ugliest.
I want to hate him so much that it burns the wanting out of me.
But I can’t.
Even now, in the wreckage of everything he’s done, I can’t hate him.
The door bursts open, and he walks in. He’s breathing fast, eyes wild.
“Aurora—” He crosses the room in seconds, his hands reaching for me. “Are you hurt?”
I flinch away from his touch. “Don’t.”
He doesn’t even glance at the mess I made of his room—his eyes are only on me.
“Where were you last night? Why weren’t you in bed with me this morning?” I shout.
“I—”
“I want the truth,” I cut him off.
He looks at me quietly for a few seconds before speaking again. “You’ve seen the articles.”
“Yeah, I’ve fucking seen the articles.” I shove him in the chest. “You ruined me!” Another push. “You ruined everything!”
He lets me. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop me.
“They think I’m nothing but your little whore,” I shout. “They think all I ever was—all I ever did—was because of you!” My voice splinters at the end, my chest heaving.
He just stands there, taking all my anger without a word.
“Say something!” I yell. “Defend yourself. Lie!”
Nothing.
“I hate you,” I whisper, but it’s a lie. “For making me feel like this. For making me feel like I had no other choice but you. For turning me into a woman who had to spread her legs to not lose everything.”
His hand reaches for my face, but I rip myself away before it can make contact. “Don’t fucking touch me!”
His hands fall to his sides.
“Leave me alone,” I say quietly, even though what I mean is stay. Fix this. Find a way to mend my pride and my heart.
But he turns, opens the door, and leaves without a word.
And then it’s just me. Alone. Broken. Afraid.
It’s over. Whatever this was—it’s over.