Chapter 7 #2
But I’m not sure I am. My heart is pounding too hard, my concentration splintering under her proximity.
Those adorable freckles along her nose, the way her dark eyes seem to see straight through me.
It’s too much. Every step feels charged, every glance a spark waiting to ignite, and I’m on the edge of a second overdose.
When the music crescendos, she pulls away sharply, leaving me holding nothing but the air between us. For a moment, the absence of her touch feels almost unbearable.
Vaeda steps back, her expression as unreadable as ever, though there’s a flicker of approval in her eyes, or maybe it’s curiosity.
“Not bad,” she states, her voice clipped. “But you’re still holding back. Work on that.”
I nod, swallowing hard, but my throat feels tight. As she turns away, her perfume lingers in the space between us, a haunting reminder of how easily she unraveled me.
Yvonne steps forward again, her smile a little strained, and we move back into position, but as the music starts up once more, my mind keeps slipping.
Not to the competition, not to the steps, but to Vaeda.
To her chocolate gaze, her warm skin, the unspoken tether that hangs between us like the echo of a forbidden melody, and to the anticipation of my next hit.
VAEDA
The music fades, leaving the studio in a charged silence broken only by the rhythmic pounding of my heart.
I step away from Mateo, letting the space between us grow, but the echo of his touch remains on my skin like a brand.
My chest feels tight, and I force myself to focus on adjusting my hair, tucking loose strands of auburn away from my face.
It was just a dance, I tell myself. Nothing more.
But I can’t deny how my body betrayed me in those moments, how every step felt electric, every glance too charged.
His hand on my back, firm yet hesitant, sent a warmth coursing through me that I had no business feeling.
His honey eyes, so intent on mine, made me feel like the only person in the room.
And I hated it.
Hated how magnetic he was, how easily I was drawn to the raw determination in his gaze.
It wasn’t just his technique, though that had been better, more connected, and more alive.
No, it was something else entirely. It’s similar to what I used to feel with Gerardo when we danced, but I felt it deeper in my core.
I cross my arms, stepping closer to the mirrors to create more distance from him.
From the corner of my eye, I see Yvonne laughing softly at something Mateo said.
She leans into him with the easy familiarity of a partner, and I feel a flicker of relief.
They’re the same age, in sync, and the perfect pairing. I’m just his teacher, and yet...
I glance at my reflection, catching sight of the freckles across my nose and cheeks.
They’ve always been there, a remnant of my youth, but today they feel like a mocking reminder of the years between us.
Mateo is young, full of untapped potential, while I have a husband waiting at home. A husband who trusts me.
The weight of guilt settles inside my chest like a boulder, and I shift uncomfortably, as though moving could dislodge it. What am I doing? This isn’t about Mateo; it’s about the competition. About helping him succeed. That’s all it is.
As much as I try to rationalize, I can’t forget the way his gaze lingered, or the way his body moved with mine. It wasn’t just a dance. It couldn’t have been, not with the way my pulse raced and my breath hitched every time our eyes met.
No.
I turn sharply, facing the mirrors as if confronting myself.
This isn’t about him. It’s about the Rumba, about the story we’re supposed to tell through movement.
Mateo needed to feel the connection, the push and pull that defines the dance.
That’s what I was showing him. Nothing more. So why does it feel like more?
I force myself to think of Greyson’s critiques and of the competition in Paris. Of the pressure to see Mateo and Yvonne succeed. This isn’t about me. It can’t be. Mateo’s future depends on my guidance, not my… feelings.
I press my lips together, trying to push down the confusion and unease swirling inside my chest. When I danced with Mateo, it was different because of his rawness, his focus, and the intensity he brings.
It’s my job to shape that into something tangible.
To refine him and make him shine. To make Fusion Core succeed.
Anything else is a distraction.
I glance toward the clock on the wall, realizing how late it’s getting. Gerardo will be home by now, probably preparing dinner or reading on the couch. He’s been patient through all of this, through my late nights and extra rehearsals. He trusts me, believes in me.
The thought of him waiting makes the guilt heavier.
I shake my head, inhaling deeply to steady myself.
Whatever I thought I felt during that dance wasn’t real.
It couldn’t have been. I care about Fusion Core’s success, that’s all.
Anything else is a figment of my imagination, a fleeting moment of weakness that I’ll bury and never let see the light of day.
“Ready to go again?” Greyson’s voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present.
I nod briskly, not trusting myself to speak, then stand beside Greyson as Yvonne takes her place at Mateo’s side. They move into position as I fold my arms and watch, schooling my expression into bored nonchalance. Professional and detached.
But as the music starts again and Mateo’s gaze locks briefly with mine, I feel the faintest tremor inside my chest.
No.
It’s nothing.
It can’t be.
Later that evening, I step into the penthouse, the familiar scent of freshly baked bread wafting from the kitchen.
The warm, homey aroma tugs at something deep inside me, reminding me of the life I’ve built here, the life I chose.
Gerardo stands at the counter, arranging a tray of cheeses and olives with his usual meticulousness.
He looks up as I enter, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Welcome home, amor,” he says, setting the tray down and wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Long day?”
“You could say that,” I reply, slipping off my coat and hanging it over a chair. My voice sounds even to my own ears, but inside, there’s a tangle of thoughts I can’t seem to unravel.
His eyes flick to my jacket and I know it bothers him, but he won’t say anything.
He’ll just hang it by the door later when I get ready for bed.
My bad habits are something he’s overlooked, and I’m too lazy to change.
“Perfect timing,” he continues, his tone cheerful.
“I wanted to talk to you about something.”
I raise an eyebrow, already wary. “What is it?”
This is how we’ve been acting for the past few days, overly cheerful and skating around the fact that he drank himself into a stupor over our old competition videos as I sobbed in our closet.
“Your birthday,” he singsongs, his smile widening like a child revealing a secret. “I’m planning a surprise party for you next weekend.”
I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Gerardo, it’s not a surprise if you tell me about it, and you know how I feel about surprises.”
“Which is exactly why I’m telling you about it,” he counters, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “You deserve to celebrate, Vaeda. Thirty-three is a milestone.”
Every word he says is meant to make me feel cherished, yet it only enhances the discomfort I’ve been carrying since I left the studio.
I force myself to nod, even as my mind betrays me, flashing back to the warmth of Mateo’s hand on my back and how his amber eyes held mine just a second too long.
I shake the thought away, but it lingers, unwelcome and stubborn.
There are ten years stretching a gaping hole between us.
“Every year is a milestone,” I mutter, hoping the comment sounds lighthearted. Gerardo’s enthusiasm is hard to resist, even when it’s directed at something as unnecessary as a party.
“Trust me,” he stresses, stepping closer and placing his hands on my shoulders. His touch is comforting and familiar. “It’ll be perfect. Just let me handle everything.”
I nod again, grateful for the support he offers, but the guilt only grows heavier.
He’s always been this way: loving, patient, and unshakable in his devotion to me.
Yet no amount of his kindness can erase the memory of the studio today.
The way Mateo’s fingers had pressed against mine, his grip firm.
The subtle smell of his sweat and cologne mixed with the music as we moved together.
It wasn’t just a dance, my mind whispers, and I immediately shut it down. It was just a dance. That’s all it was.
“Fine,” I concede, relenting. “But keep it small. And no ridiculous themes.”
“Of course,” Gerardo vows, his grin widening. “Small and tasteful, just like you.”
His words are playful, affectionate, and they should comfort me, but I feel a strange hollowness instead. I force a slight smile, letting him think he’s won.
As Gerardo moves back to the kitchen, humming softly to himself, I sink onto the couch and stare out at the city lights beyond the windowpanes. My mind is a battlefield, fighting to stay in the here and now with my husband, where I belong.
Only I can’t seem to stop replaying the way Mateo looked at me when I corrected his steps. The way his touch felt so strong, deliberate, and yet deferential. The way his gaze lingered when I stepped back, as if he didn’t want to let me go.
“Vaeda?” Gerardo’s voice pulls me back, and I look up to see him holding out a glass of wine, his expression warm and expectant.
I take it with a small smile, muttering a quiet, “Thank you,” but my chest feels tight. Gerardo deserves all of me, and yet tonight, my thoughts are fractured, caught somewhere they shouldn’t be.
This isn’t about Mateo, I tell myself again. It’s about the competition. It’s about pushing him to be better, about helping the studio land on the map. My connection to him is professional and nothing more.
So why does it feel like a lie?
“Here’s to you,” Gerardo says, raising his glass in a toast.
“To me,” I echo softly, clinking my glass against his, but as the wine slides down my throat, the remorse remains a quiet, relentless ache.