Epilogue
Mila
Five years later.
The first time Dash shoved a sketchbook into my hand, he intended it to be a form of therapy and an outlet for me.
It was; I drew and never looked back, took it, and ran.Running was typical for me back then.
Art taught me something else. I don ’ t know if Dash intended it, but it worked in his favor. It showed me how to be persistent. Some drawings are easy, but others are so challenging that you want to ball up the paper and start over.
The best sketches and paintings are the ones you struggle to create.That ’ s what gets it noticed: blood, sweat, frustration, tears, and shouts of joy. It ’ s commitment.
Just like a relationship. There are good times and bad moments, ups and downs, even sideway jerks. But I committed myself to trying because Dash did what he had never done before.
No, it wasn ’ t him trusting me; he always trusted me. The moment we first met, he told me things that others would have killed to hear.
Dash decided to live in the moment with me. We can plan our futures but never live long enough to see them, so it ’ s best to live in the moment. Still plan, but make sure you live. Look at each sunrise and feel the air as you inhale it. Before you know it, it ’ s passed.
Dash still plans our future. He ’ s hired more security than most presidents have, but he holds my hand, kisses me openly, and puts me first.
Not every mission we planned went smoothly, and when it became too hard to talk, we drew. Sometimes, Dash draws me with black wings and other times I ’ m naked on his bed.
The best drawing was when he placed our child in my arms, stepped back, and captured the moment on paper. I framed that sketch and placed it on my nightstand.
It took guts to run, but it took a heart to turn around and confront our fears. I ’ m so happy I did, or I wouldn ’ t have the family I have today. All those people we helped wouldn’t have their families, either. We took tragedy and turned it into a ballad for others to play and listen to. We made our love into a song and dance that the world could witness and enjoy.
◆◆◆
Twenty years later.
The lights dim as a spotlight shines upon the pristine stage. The orchestra begins to play, and slowly, violins fill the air, making the ballet come to life. It ’ s still strange to be sitting in our private balcony seats and not be on the stage. Not that I want to be back spinning in my pointe shoes. I just never imagined I ’ d be sitting in a theater watching a ballet again.
“ I don ’ t understand why he has to put his hands on her and pretend as if he ’ s helping her turn.” Dash hisses as he stares at our daughter, spinning center stage with her dance partner.
Our daughter loves ballet. More than even my mother loved dancing. The moment she slipped her foot into a ballet shoe, I saw her future. Sparks twinkled in her eyes and never dimmed. I never pushed her; I did the opposite. I tried for years to talk her out of dancing, but the moment she was old enough to go on pointe, I knew I had failed. She loved it, and who was I to kill her passion? It was my job to fan the flames and cheer her on.
I have. Dash has as well, but now that she is older and dancing ballets about love and having a partner touch and lift her, it ’ s starting to test his limits.
“ Calm down. It ’ s just a performance.” I swat his knee. “ And her partner ’ s boyfriend is in the orchestra,” I smirk as I look up at my husband. His fearsome, protective trait has never faded, but our daughter suffers the full brunt now.
“ I don ’ t care who the guy fucks in his spare time. His hands are on my daughter.” He leans closer, elbows digging into his knees. He ’ s plotting murder.
Reaching out, I place my hand on his leg, ensuring he doesn’t pole vault over the balcony and kill the poor kid. “ Calm down.”
“ I blame your father for this.” Dash grunts
I do, too. Years ago my father showed our daughter photos of me and my mother dancing. Our daughter was just a little girl, and after seeing the pictures of us as ballerinas, she insisted she became one.
“ It ’ s different. This is what she wants. She ’ s not being forced into it. Let her do what she loves.”
“ I am. I ’ ve memorized the entire black swan show, and if I have to endure the fucking nutcracker again, I ’ ll call up Nova to poke my eyes out and throw them on stage! I see fucking sugar plum fairies spinning in my dreams, turning every night into a nightmare,” he grunts.
I laugh so loudly that I receive glares from the neighboring balconies. “ I love you,” I whisper as I lean over and kiss his cheek.
But instead of relaxing, he stiffens when his eyes look to the left of the stage. I follow his glare and spot the silhouette of the figure I have come to memorize.
“ He ’ s back. Again.” I whisper as a chill runs up my bare legs.
“ I told you I wanted to kill him.” Dash grinds his teeth.
I shake my head, “ If you kill Anders's son, he will kill you.” Anders's son has a deep love for our daughter. It started as a fascination when we visited them one summer. That turned into an obsession, and now it ’ s turning into something else. Something Dash and I can relate to, but as parents, we struggle to support it.
Love.
Dash promised me he would never force our daughter into a marriage she didn ’ t want, but I fear if she married someone other than Anders's son, that boy would kill the groom and steal our daughter away for himself.
Worse, what if she wants Anders's son?
“ This has to stop. He has to stop seeking our daughter out.” I stress.
Dash looks at his shoes. “ What are you not telling me?” I demand.
“ It ’ s not just his fault,” Dash mutters.
“ What?”
“ Our daughter seeks him out, too.”
“ What?” I feel boneless. Why didn’t she tell me?
“ Who do you think sent him the invitation for the opening night?”
“ She didn ’ t!” I gasp.
Dash looks sternly at the stage. “ Anders told me.”
“ That girl is playing with fire, and I blame you.”
“ Me?”
“ Yes.” I cross my arms. I ’ m not mad she ’ s fallen in love, nor am I upset it ’ s with Anders ’ s son, it ’ s just…she ’ s my baby and she ’ s not ready to experience the things I did. Love in our world is different because our world has the curtains pulled back. We see the stages surrounding us, all the monsters dancing on them, playing games as they try to capture your attention.
“ Say the word, and I ’ ll have her on the next flight to Siberia. She can stay with Leo ’ s family.”
“ Stay or be forced?”
“ It ’ s all the same.” Dash tugs his lip up, but it doesn ’ t reach his eyes. “ I don ’ t know if I can sit by and watch our daughter fall in love, Mila. I remember putting diapers on her.”
“ You always put them on backwards.” I smirk at the memory.
“ Did it matter? She pooped and peed in them all the same.”
I swat his chest then we both look forward at the stage. The music dips to a deep bellow as her and her partner break, separated as the plot of the ballet plays out.
My throat thickens. “ If we tear them apart, we will be like our parents.”
“ Our parents forced us together,” Dash smirks.
“ Forcing is what I meant. I don ’ t want to force her.”
“ I know. But it ’ s fucking Anders's son. I might call Anders my brother, but I don ’ t want to be legally tied to him.”
“ It might fizzle out.”
Dash raises a brow. I look back at the stage as our daughter spins off of it, directing where Anders's son is waiting. Dash reaches out and turns my face to him. “ I love you.” He grins.
For a moment, the stage fades, everything does. It ’ s just him and me again. Time hasn ’ t etched its lines on our faces or bled the color from our hair. We ’ re just two lovers, once star-crossed and separated by broken bridges, who found their way back to each other.
We thought our love was as thin as paper, but we forgot the ink that stained the paper told a story. It always left a mark, no matter how faded it had become. So, over the years, we gathered up all the ripped pieces of ourselves and pieced each other back together. We continued to write our story, making sure to fill that book with so many happy memories that we could confidently bind them and place them in our hearts, hopefully to be retold time and time again; this way, our love didn ’ t die when we did. It would become a legend that outlasted our beating hearts.
Our love would endure and live on forever, but it would also remind us that not every love story is like a fairytale; the prince doesn ’ t always come to save you, and neither does the princess save the prince.
Sometimes, you have to be brave enough to allow yourself to crumble, to watch others fall, and let the kingdom burn down. Then, find the strength to pick yourself back up and fight.
That ’ s what the moral of our love story is. Endurance, acceptance, and, above all, respect. Because if you can ’ t love yourself, why would others find value in you? We each had to hit rock bottom and find no worth within our flesh and bones in order to understand the true value of self-respect.
“ I love you too, Dash King. Always and forever.”