Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Mateo
Ishouldn’t have touched her.
The door of the studio clicks shut behind me as I step into the piercing light of late morning, the sun sitting low but still fierce above the skyline, fighting the chilly January day.
It feels as though the sun can’t fully reach me here at ground level as the buildings block it from view most of the time, but in those breaks, when the sun kisses my cheeks, it feels a lot like hope.
I shouldn’t have danced with her, but the second I saw Vaeda in that studio, her silhouette lit in the mirror, eyes locking with mine like a fuse, I forgot every rule I’ve been clinging to. I’d been building distance. I told myself I was done letting her pull me back under, but then she showed up.
She’s never come back to that studio since our first time there. I’ve been going for weeks. It became my sanctuary. It was uncomplicated and all mine, but the second she stepped into the room, that illusion fractured.
I move fast down the street, my sneakers hitting pavement harder than necessary, trying to outrun the heat still buzzing in my veins.
I can still feel the brush of her back against my chest, the way her breath hitched when I touched her hips.
Every step of that dance felt like falling again, and I’m not sure I have anything left to catch myself with.
I don’t want to want her. Not like this.
Not in this endless agony of almost being mine and then never going to happen.
My building comes into view, the sun reflecting off the large glass panes like a beacon directing me home, but it no longer feels like home.
I don’t know if it ever did. I’ve been here since late August, in preparation for the new school year, which puts me at six months.
I’ve been in New York for six months and it still hasn’t really sunk in that this is home.
The doorman straightens as I approach. “Afternoon, Mr. Sanchez.”
I nod silently, pulse still racing. He’ll call my father, like always.
Maybe he’ll say nothing, or maybe he’ll tell him I looked distracted, tight-jawed, like I was about to spin out.
Or maybe he’ll say I was quiet. Controlled.
Back home before lunch on a Saturday. Either way, it’s a report I didn’t ask for.
I head to the elevator and press the button, and the glow of the floor numbers blinking back at me feels hollow. By the time the doors open and I step inside, I already know the afternoon is shot. There will be no studying. No rest. Just the echo of her.
When I get to my apartment, I drop my keys and bag, then freeze in the center of the room.
Light pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, draping gold over everything.
It should feel warm and safe, but it doesn’t.
All I feel is the emptiness where she should be, and if Vaeda’s the only thing making me feel whole, then I’ve already relapsed in the worst way.
The textbook is open in my lap, pages lined with notes, highlighter strokes, and scribbled margin questions, but I haven’t absorbed a single word in the past hour. My mind keeps drifting to the studio, to the heat of Vaeda’s body when we moved together and the way she didn’t stop me.
I shift on the couch, trying to force focus, but I’m fooling myself. Closing my eyes, I try to breathe through it, grounding myself with the familiar texture of the throw blanket under my palm and the low buzz of traffic outside.
My phone rings and I look down at the screen, my father’s name stabbing through me. I hesitate, my hand hovering over the phone. It’s always like this, me wondering which version of him I’m going to get.
I swipe to answer. “Hey.”
“Mateo.” His voice is brisk, deep, and all business. “We need to talk.”
I sit up straighter. “Is everything okay?”
“I got your mother’s message,” he states perfunctorily. “About Paris.”
My stomach knots instantly. “Okay…”
“She said you’re competing again. At an international level.”
“I am.” Silence stretches across the line. I don’t fill it. I know better.
“I’ve booked a flight,” he informs me. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”
The textbook slides off my lap and onto the floor. “You—you’re flying in?”
“I want to see all of it for myself. The studio, the instructors, and the environment.”
I run a hand down my face. “Dad, I’m fine. You don’t need—”
“I do need to.” His voice sharpens. “You know why.”
I swallow hard, throat tightening. “It’s not like before. I’m not the same—”
“Don’t lie to yourself,” he snaps, then catches himself. A pause. “I’m not saying you’ve done anything wrong, but I have to make sure. Your mother says you’re stable and you’re happy, but happiness doesn’t protect you from temptation.”
I press my fingertips to my temples. “So what, you’re coming to the studio to interrogate everyone?”
“I’m coming to speak with your instructors. I want them to know what they’re dealing with. You may not like it, but if they’re responsible for you, then they should understand what relapse looks like. What stress does to you.”
My heart drops into my stomach. “They already know about what happened, and I’m not a kid anymore.”
“You’re not invincible either,” he says, quieter now. “You’re my son, and I almost lost you once.” That makes something fracture inside me.
He doesn’t say it often, about what my overdose did to him, how close he came to losing me. Usually he buries it in anger or silence, but I hear it now—the fear buried beneath the control.
“There’s something else,” he continues. “Roger may be going to Paris with you, depending on how I feel about these instructors.”
“What?”
“You’ll need someone there. You’ll be too far from your family. You’ll be under pressure, in a foreign country, surrounded by God knows what. Roger can keep an eye on you.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him he’s overreacting, but deep down, a part of me is grateful. The part that’s still scared of who I was. The part that knows how easy it would be to fall again.
“Alright,” I agree quietly. “Okay.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Be ready to take me to the studio.” He hangs up before I can say anything else.
I stare at the phone in my hand, the silence in my apartment pressing in like a vise. Tomorrow, my father will walk into the only part of my life that’s felt like just mine in a long time, and I don’t know if that will burst the comfortable bubble I’ve built around it.
VAEDA
The Paso Doble rhythm pounds through the studio, each beat snapping like a whip across the floor. My footwork is exact and confident, every sweep of my arm calculated. My back is arched, chin high, chest forward, exactly as it should be, but nothing about this feels right.
Yvonne mirrors my every movement, her eyes locked on mine through the mirror’s reflection.
There’s tension in her posture, not just the usual sharp, deliberate style of the Paso, but something more venomous beneath it.
Her jaw clenches as she steps into me with the next pass, our shoulders nearly brushing, her arm cutting a fraction closer than necessary. She’s trying to dominate the space.
I match her intensity, refusing to be overshadowed in my own studio.
Sweat slides along my spine, heat licking down my neck, and my ankle—God, my ankle—is screaming.
Every pivot feels like it might snap something, but I press forward because I refuse to stop.
Not with her watching me like that. Not with whatever unspoken battle she’s waging.
Did Mateo tell her about what happened between us?
That’s the question burning in my mind. Did he confess? Did he explain what we were, or what we became in between the moments and the lies we never meant to tell?
Her movements are like weapons, filled with a feral energy.
She’s not dancing beside me, she’s honing her blade and planning the next strike.
Only she doesn’t realize I won’t lose the damn war.
Her hair clings to her temple, breath ragged as she lunges into the final paso line, our bodies angling toward the mirror in dramatic stillness.
We hold it. One breath. Two.
I try to soften my stance without letting the pain show, and that’s when I notice Mateo standing in the doorway, frozen.
His gaze is locked not on Yvonne, but on me, and beside him, stiff-backed and keen-eyed, is a man who looks like time carved him from the same stone.
He’s older, broader, and gray at the temples. This must be his father.
My breath stutters and the pain in my ankle flares again, this time cutting deep enough to steal my balance. I break formation, stepping back slightly and lowering my arms. Yvonne doesn’t budge, her chin lifting a notch higher as she catches the same view in the mirror I just did.
I wipe my brows with the back of my hand and straighten, heat rising from my chest all the way to my hairline. Greyson, who’d been off to the side adjusting the speaker levels, turns and follows my line of sight.
“Ah,” he mutters under his breath. “Guess the cavalry’s arrived.”
Mateo still hasn’t moved. His expression is unreadable, but his presence burns like wildfire under my skin. I tear my eyes away, lifting a brow to Greyson, who immediately walks over to greet the man beside Mateo.
Yvonne finally lowers her arms, but not before leaning in just enough to whisper, “Didn’t he tell you his father was coming today?”
I blink at her, stunned, and then I realize what she’s trying to do. She saw the look on my face and knew Mateo didn’t tell me shit, which means he and I aren’t speaking. She has him now. My silence is enough of an answer as Yvonne smiles arrogantly, like a cat who’s been lapping up the cream.
I turn away from her, bracing myself to meet the man who now holds the power to unravel everything we’ve been working hard for.
Wiping my palms on the sides of my leggings, I cross the studio floor as my heart beats steadily but too loudly in my ears.
Mateo stands beside his father like he’s waiting for a verdict he already expects to go badly, his expression stoic but his eyes flickering with worry.
I stop in front of them and extend my hand. “Mr. Sanchez,” I say evenly, “I’m Vaeda Lewis. Co-owner and lead instructor here at Fusion Core.”
He takes my hand in his own, the grip firm but not overly so. “Emilio Sanchez. Thank you for taking the time.”
“Of course,” I reply. “Would you like to speak in my office?”
He nods, releasing my hand, and I gesture toward the side hallway.
I glance at Mateo briefly. His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second before dropping to the floor.
He doesn’t follow as Emilio steps ahead and I walk beside him, painfully aware of every echoing footfall as we move down the corridor.
Once we reach the door, I push it open and allow him to step in first.
He does a quick survey of the space, and I internally thank Greyson for his cleanliness. It’s neat, the walls lined with competition photos and event posters. The desk between us feels too big, too official for what’s coming, but I motion for him to sit. He does, and I follow.
There’s a pause, heavy and awkward, then he begins, “My son nearly died over a year ago.”
I blink but remain composed. “I know,” I say gently. “Mateo mentioned it to us. He’s been very open about the fact he’s in recovery.”
Emilio’s brows lift slightly. “Has he also told you that the lifestyle he lived, the one that almost killed him, was enabled by people in your world?” I still, the words hitting like cold water.
“He was young and extremely gifted. There were people who saw potential and used it. Coaches, competitors, older dancers, and so-called friends.” His jaw clenches.
“They fed him pills to calm his nerves, gave him drinks to ‘loosen up.’ When his performance slipped, they blamed him. When he overdosed, they vanished.”
I nod slowly, heart sinking as I picture Mateo in that world alone, spinning and needing approval so badly he drowned in it. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “Truly. That should never happen to anyone, especially not someone so young.”
“I didn’t come here to make you feel guilty, Ms. Lewis,” he continues, his voice slightly softer now. “But I needed to know where he was. I need to know if this place is part of his healing or if it’s one more place full of people who’ll look the other way.”
My spine straightens. “Fusion Core doesn’t look the other way.
” He watches me carefully. “I’m not na?ve,” I go on.
“The industry has dark corners, but Greyson and I built this studio to be different. We don’t tolerate substances.
We don’t tolerate abuse, pressure, or favoritism.
If Mateo is here, it’s because he chooses to be, and while he’s here, he’s safe. ”
Emilio’s fingers drum once against his knee. “Is he happy?”
The question catches me off guard, but my answer comes without thought. “Yes.”
Emilio’s expression softens just slightly at that, like he’s been holding his breath and doesn’t quite know how to let it out. “He doesn’t smile much anymore. He was a bright kid, always dancing, always in motion. After what happened… it’s like the light got knocked out of him.”
I nod, unsure if I can speak around the tightness in my throat. “He’s worked hard,” I reveal finally. “Mateo has earned his place here. He’s talented, yes, but more than that, he’s resilient. I think… I think dancing makes him feel whole again.”
Emilio leans back in the chair, taking a slow breath. “I appreciate your honesty. I needed to look the people responsible for him in the eyes. I’m not trying to control him, Ms. Lewis. I’m just trying to keep him alive.”
I meet his gaze, steady and calm. “We want the same thing.”
A moment of silence passes between us, and I feel its weight settle into something mutual. Respect. Maybe even understanding. When we stand, he offers his hand again, and this time, the grip feels less formal. More human.
“Thank you,” he says.
I walk him back to the studio floor, the sound of music rising again as Greyson cues up the next routine. Mateo looks up the second we appear, and searches his father’s face, his eyes flicking to me with question.
I give him a small nod.