3. Winter
WINTER
T he ballet rehearsal room is empty except for me.
Just the mirrors stretching wall to wall, cold and judgmental, reflecting every angle of my body.
My posture is not great, but I don’t really care.
This is just something for me to do, something for me to occupy my time with and keep my mind off of things.
I want to teach ballet to foster children when I graduate.
I don’t really know what that looks like or how it will all come together, but I know that it will.
I just know that I want to be a positive influence for kids like me who didn’t have anyone growing up.
I never met my birth father, and my mother passed away during my birth.
Things were rough until the Vales decided to foster me.
I still don’t know why people like them would take in a girl in her teens, almost ready to age out of the system.
I’m so thankful that they did, because if they hadn’t, I would have never met Tristan.
The marley floor squeaks softly under my pointe shoes, the sound thin and sharp in the silence of my solitude. The faint tang of rosin dust clings to the air, and sweat beads at the nape of my neck as I push through another repetition.
Breathe. Rise. Hold. Fall. Again. I say the words in my head as if I’m the instructor.
The movement is supposed to quiet me. But my chest feels like it’s pulling tight, every breath feels unbelievably shallow.
Across the room, my phone buzzes against the hardwood bench.
The sound jars in the stillness, vibrating like it’s mocking me.
I ignore it, jaw locking. Tristan would never call.
He doesn’t interrupt me here because he just shows up without warning.
Halfway through a movement, I’ll feel his eyes on me and sure enough there he will be.
Leaning in the doorway with his hood up, those green eyes locked on me until I’ve got full body chills just from his stare.
The thought of him stabs deep. I let it hit me, and it’s such a sharp and mean feeling.
Because I know that even if we didn’t have that awful night hanging between us, we can never be together the way that I want.
It’s for all the reasons I said I’m so thankful for.
It’s taboo to fall in love with your foster brother, and no one in his family, especially his father, would ever accept it.
Thinking about Tristan never comes clean anymore. It’s tangled in long sleepless nights, his face buried in me, his voice raw when he says my name. The bond we have is… wrong. Complicated. But I can’t cut it loose.
The phone buzzes again. I break from an arabesque, landing too hard, my toes aching inside the shoes.
My breath punches out, sharp and annoyed.
Focus is impossible, and I realize that I’m just as affected as Tristan is.
I try to be strong for him, but sometimes it feels like I’m just going to break into pieces.
I glance at the mirror and see myself. My long black braid is wound up into a bun, my chest is heaving in the light pink leotard Tristan bought me when he overheard me telling Madi I wanted one in this particular color.
My gray eyes show, even to me, just how haunted I am.
People say ballet is about control. They don’t understand that sometimes this feels like it’s the only place I have any control at all.
The Vales were never parental to me. And while I don’t know why they put in an application to foster me in the first place, I’ve always had a feeling that it wasn’t supposed to be for very long.
Especially not after I turned eighteen. The only thing I can think is that maybe Mr. Vale pays for my tuition at Castlebrook because Tristan wants him to.
I’ve always suspected that Tristan is the reason for every luxury I’ve been gifted in this life.
Every other foster home shifted me around after a few months, and I thought maybe this one would too.
But then I’d see Tristan in the corner of the room, watching me with that silent intensity, and I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Not if he had a say.
My muscles burn as I spin into a pirouette, trying to shake any heavy thoughts out. Spot, turn, land. My calf seizes, but I keep going. Push the ache higher until the strain distracts me. But then the phone goes off again, buzzing like an angry hornet’s nest, dragging me right back.
I sigh, annoyed, breaking from the movement. My shoes scuff loudly as I cross the room, sweat cooling on my skin. The screen lights up when I grab the phone, and my stomach drops. Speak of the devil himself.
Mr. Vale.
I freeze, clutching the phone too tight.
I’ve never once called him anything but that.
Not father. Not dad. Just Mr. Vale. Because that’s all he’s ever been to me.
An authority in the house, Tristan’s father, not mine.
And the fact that he’s calling at all? It’s strange enough to make my pulse throb unevenly in my throat.
He doesn’t really acknowledge me, especially not after the carjacking.
I swipe to answer, pressing it to my ear like it might bite.
“Hello?”
“Winter.” His voice is clipped, already sharp with impatience like I interrupted him in one of his important board meetings.
He’s richer than God, and it’s never really added up to me how he is.
Sure, he has multiple businesses, but the amount of wealth I’m told he has…
that I know he has due to his pull at Castlebrook, just doesn’t seem accurate.
Although Tristan and Sebastian developed, with Ramsey’s help, an online multiplayer chess game that makes them enough money that they’d never have to work again in their lives.
Maybe my math is just off. “Where’s Tristan? ”
I blink, caught off guard and pulled out of my thoughts. “He’s… not here. I’m in a dance studio right now. Why? Is something wrong?”
“I’ve called him. Over and over. He doesn’t answer.” His sigh crackles through the line, full of irritation. “And I know he spends a lot of time with you, so I thought maybe you’d know where he is.”
I do know where he is. I can check his location any time I want, and I’m grateful he gives me that peace of mind. Especially with everything we’ve been through after the carjacking first with Madi’s situation, and then Lilac’s stalker.
I can’t tell Mr. Vale all of that, so instead, I shift on my feet, staring at my reflection in the wall of mirrors. “I’m not sure why he’s not answering,” I say evenly.
Inside, I know exactly why. Tristan doesn’t answer the phone for anyone.
Not for his father. Not for his teammates.
Not for anyone but me. The thing is, Mr. Vale hasn’t noticed that because since the carjacking, I don’t think he’s tried to call any of us.
Does he even know Sebastian transferred to St. Killians? In freaking Ireland? Probably not.
There’s a pause. I hear the faint scrape of his breath, like he’s pacing or gripping the receiver tighter than necessary.
“One son’s off in Ireland, gallivanting around like the rules don’t apply to him.
And Tristan acts like he’s some sort of celebrity who can’t be bothered to take his own father’s calls. ”
I stand corrected. I guess he’s more aware of what’s going on than I thought.
My throat tightens. I stay quiet, because anything I say will come out angry because his son is struggling and all he cares about is that he didn’t answer his phone call. Mr. Vale doesn’t want the truth, he wants obedience.
Another sigh when I say nothing, harsher this time. “Look, I didn’t call to argue. I need him to call me back.” His tone drops, less clipped now, almost reluctant. “Because… I’m getting remarried.”
The words land like a slap. My whole body stiffens.
Remarried.
Since when?
Images crash into me too fast. The blood, Tristan’s mom gasping only once for breath, her hand slipping to the ground by her unblinking eyes. And now he’s replacing her?
“That’s… news,” I manage, keeping my voice soft, polite. Not shocked. Not grieving. Mr. Vale wouldn’t understand any of those things.
“She’s a good woman,” he presses on, like he expected me to ask about her. “She has two foster children close to your age. I’d like you and Tristan to meet them. We’re going away soon. A family getaway. Black Crown Resort.”
The name sticks like glass in my throat.
It’s owned by the not-so-secret society.
Sure anyone can book there, but I doubt Mr. Vale would be going there if he didn’t have some kind of connection with them.
Something feels off, and I’m usually not wrong about that.
Maybe it’s just the surprise wedding news.
I swallow. “I’ll… see if Tristan will come.”
He makes a sound that’s made up of a half laugh, half huff. “You’ll need to do better than that. He listens to you more than anyone. And Sebastian—” he cuts himself off with another sigh, heavy and sharp. “Sebastian better get his ass on a plane.”
Of course he won’t. Sebastian’s in Ireland, chasing the memory of a girl he pulled from a lake years ago.
I wasn’t there, the twins were young when it happened, but Tristan told me his brother was obsessed with finding her as soon as he was old enough to leave on his own.
Tristan said it consumed him, which I do remember him pouring over news articles when I first moved in, but I just thought research was his hobby.
“I’ll talk to him today,” I say politely, because there’s nothing else to say.
“Good.” His tone hardens again. “I expect him to call me back.” And then, without so much as a goodbye, he hangs up. Hopefully, he’s not holding his breath, because I think Tristan would do just about anything for me, but I feel like calling his father back might be where he draws the line.
The silence rushes back in, louder than before. My hand trembles against the phone.
And then I see him.
Tristan.