Chapter 7
SEVEN
Mateo
The buzzing of my phone jolts me awake. I blink groggily, disoriented for a moment, before realizing it’s my ringtone. Grabbing the phone off the nightstand, I squint at the screen, the number unfamiliar.
“Hello?” I mumble, my voice still thick with sleep.
“Mateo!” The voice on the other end is chipper, way too energetic for this hour. It takes me a moment to place it.
“Yvonne?” I ask, sitting up straighter. “How did you get my number?”
“I begged Greyson,” she admits, laughing lightly. “And he caved. Don’t be mad. I’m calling with good news.”
“What kind of good news?” I grumble, still trying to wake up.
“We have the studio to ourselves today,” she announces, her enthusiasm bubbling through the line. “No interruptions, no distractions. Just us working on our Rumba.”
I rub my hand over my face, my mind racing.
I’m supposed to be home today, it’s Sunday, keeping up appearances for my dad’s “perfect son” routine.
Groceries and packages are scheduled to arrive, and the doorman will definitely report any unusual activity to him, but the idea of uninterrupted time in the studio is too good to pass up.
“That’s… great,” I say carefully, trying to hide my hesitation.
“So you’ll come?” she presses.
“I can come for a few hours,” I relent after a pause, already forming my excuse. “But I have a study group later, so I can’t stay long.”
The lie rolls off my tongue and it gives me pause.
I used to lie as well as I told the truth, blurring the lines until I couldn’t tell the difference.
In some ways, it scares me to be falling into the same bad habits I once carried in the past, but I tell myself that it’s necessary.
I either tell a harmless lie or I tell her the truth, baring the ghosts that still haunt me.
“Perfect!” she exclaims. “I’ll see you there in an hour.”
“Yeah, see you then,” I reply, hanging up. I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling for a moment, the implications of my decision settling over me. If I want to compete in Paris, I have to take risks. This is one of them.
The studio feels different when it’s empty, and it’s when I like it the most. The usual buzz of chatter and movement is replaced by a calm stillness, the kind that amplifies every sound and every breath. Yvonne is already there when I arrive, stretching by the mirrors. She grins when she sees me.
“Took you long enough,” she teases. “Ready to get started?”
I nod, setting my bag down and slipping on my dance shoes. The familiar feel of the floor beneath my feet helps settle the nerves of sneaking out and the greater risk of being caught today. Yvonne cues up a playlist, and the sultry rhythm of a Rumba track fills the space.
“Let’s go from the top,” she says, moving into position. I place my hand on her back, our movements tentative at first as we find the beat together. The music swells, and we begin to flow through the steps.
The Rumba is a dance of tension and release, of push and pull. Every step demands passion, every movement an unspoken conversation between partners. Yvonne’s body moves fluidly, her arms extending gracefully as she turns. I match her steps, my focus deepening as the music intensifies.
“Stronger connection,” a voice calls out, startling us both. I glance toward the mirrors and see Greyson leaning against the wall, his sharp eyes dissecting every move. Vaeda stands beside him, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable.
“You’re too focused on the steps,” Greyson continues. “The Rumba isn’t about technique alone. It’s about emotion and storytelling. Show me your chemistry.”
Yvonne and I exchange a glance, her cheeks flushing.
We start again, this time letting the music guide us more freely.
I concentrate on the tension in her movements, the way her body leans into mine before pulling away.
My hand on her back steadies her, grounding us both as we move through the sequence.
I need to be here in the moment with Yvonne, but my gaze keeps flickering toward Vaeda. I can’t help it. Her dark eyes are fixed on us, and even from across the room, I feel the heat of her stare. There’s something about the way she watches so intensely that makes my pulse quicken.
“Better,” Greyson says, nodding. “Now, refine the footwork. Vaeda?”
Vaeda steps forward, her gaze locking on mine like a tether, and the air suddenly feels heavier. “Your weight transfer is too abrupt,” she observes, her tone cool. “You need to let the movement travel through your entire body, not just your feet. Watch.”
She steps into the center of the room, and my vision seems to narrow on her as the music fills the space around us.
Her movements are smooth and deliberate, her body an effortless extension of the rhythm.
There’s a sensuality to the way she moves, the way her hands and hips speak the language of the dance.
I watch intently, too intently, as heat coils low in my stomach.
When we try again, it’s better, though not as seamless as hers.
I can still feel her gaze on me, keen and knowing, and when I meet her eyes, there’s a flicker of a challenge, or maybe that’s what I’m hoping for.
Perhaps Vaeda is envisioning herself in my arms, my hands drifting dangerously close to the swell of her ass.
It leaves me feeling excited, my breath coming out in short puffs. It feels like I’m chasing my new high.
“You’re getting there,” she mutters, her tone neutral, but her words carry a hint of approval. “Keep working on it.”
We run through the sequence again and again, each repetition bringing small improvements.
The music crescendos, and Yvonne and I hit the final pose, her body arching gracefully as I hold her steady.
Even as I hold Yvonne, my eyes betray me, sliding once more to Vaeda.
Her arms are crossed, her expression guarded, but there’s a crack in her armor, the briefest flicker of interest that’s brewing between us.
It’s forbidden, probably fleeting, but utterly undeniable, like a shot directly to my vein.
“Much better,” Greyson exclaims, clapping his hands once we straighten. “Take five, and then we’ll do it again.”
As I step back, wiping the sweat from my brow, I catch Vaeda watching me. Her gaze is piercing, as though daring me to look away first. My chest tightens as a thousand unspoken words catch in the space between us, my high climbing with it.
Determined to prove myself to her, to everyone, I nod before turning back to Yvonne. The competition in Paris isn’t just a dream, it’s a goal, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get there. Even if it means ignoring the pull I feel every time Vaeda’s eyes meet mine.
The music starts again, the Rumba’s seductive rhythm flowing through the studio like a current. Yvonne steps into position with a confident smile, her hand slipping into mine. I steady my breathing, grounding myself in the steps we’ve practiced countless times.
This time, we aim for more emotion and chemistry. I focus on the tension between our bodies, the lean, the pull, and the subtle give in her movements as she follows my lead. Yet even as we flow through the same sequence, something feels off. My mind isn’t fully in the dance. It’s with Vaeda.
She stands by the mirrors, her arms crossed, and her laser gaze fixed on us, analyzing every movement.
I can’t help but notice the way her auburn hair catches the light, strands of copper and gold glimmering with every subtle shift of her head.
Her dark brown eyes are intense, their heated stare pressing against my skin.
“Stop,” she snaps suddenly, her voice cutting through the music like a blade. Yvonne and I both freeze mid-step, startled.
Vaeda steps forward, closing the distance between us with a confidence that makes my stomach tighten. “You’re still too stiff,” she says, her gaze locking on mine. “You need to feel the connection, not just mimic it.”
Then she pauses and tilts her head slightly, a challenge glinting in her eyes. “I’ll show you.”
Yvonne steps back without a word, her expression carefully neutral, and suddenly Vaeda is in front of me.
She places one hand lightly on my shoulder, the other slipping into my palm.
Her touch is firm yet soft, and the subtle scent of her perfume, musky and floral, wraps around me, intoxicating and impossible to ignore, and my high catapults.
“Ready?” she asks, though her tone makes it clear she expects nothing less.
I nod, my throat dry, and we step into the music.
Dancing with Vaeda is nothing like dancing with Yvonne. Vaeda’s movements are fluid, effortless, as though the music itself flows through her veins. Every shift of her weight is perfectly balanced, and when she presses into me, there’s a magnetism that leaves me breathless.
“Your frame,” she mutters, her voice low but insistent. She lifts my arm slightly, adjusting the angle of my hand on her back. Her fingertips brush against mine, sending a spark through my skin. “Better,” she murmurs, her eyes flicking up to meet mine.
I try to focus on the steps, on the tension and release of the Rumba, but it’s impossible.
Her presence is overwhelming. The soft curve of her freckled nose, the way her auburn hair glows under the fluorescents, the faint sheen of sweat along her temple that catches the light.
Every detail of her feels magnified, as if we are the only two who exist on Earth.
“Don’t just lead,” she directs, her voice pulling me back. “Listen. Respond.”
Her words echo in my mind as we move, and I start to let go of the choreography, letting the music guide me instead. Vaeda’s body leans into mine, her movements a perfect conversation of music and feeling. I feel the shift in her weight before it happens, the subtle push and pull that connects us.
“Now you’re getting it,” she says, her breath warm against my cheek as we turn.