Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Vaeda
Mateo and his father left over an hour ago, and though the speakers still vibrate with music and the floor still echoes with steps from the remaining dancers, the absence of his energy is deafening.
The space always feels a little off without him, like a beat is missing from the rhythm we’re all supposed to be moving to, and it isn’t just today.
It’s been happening since he’s been putting distance between us.
Missed rehearsals. Empty stretches in class where he should be. I tell myself it’s fine, that he’s just under a lot of pressure. He has school, recovery, and family, but Paris is less than three weeks away, and this routine isn’t going to perfect itself.
I crouch to zip my bag, heart heavy and aching with worry. Mateo is good, brilliant even, but brilliance means nothing if he’s not showing up, and worse, I don’t know if it’s because he’s slipping away from the studio… or from me.
Footsteps approach from behind. Light, purposeful.
I don’t have to look up to know it’s Yvonne.
She steps beside me, radiating sunshine, but it’s only surface-level because I can see her dark intentions underneath.
Her hair’s pulled back into a tight bun, wisps escaping around her temples.
I zip the last tooth of my bag and stand.
“Don’t worry,” she says lightly, tone smooth as satin. “I’ll practice with him what we learned today.” I glance over at her. She’s already watching me with too-bright eyes and that saccharine smile. “I’m having him and his father over for dinner.”
The words land like broken glass at my feet, the shards cutting deep into my flesh. I arch a brow. “Dinner?”
She nods, lips twitching. “Just something casual. My roommate’s out tonight, so it’ll be quiet.”
I know what she’s doing. I know exactly what this is. She’s baiting me, and the worst part is it’s working. My blood is already warming, my fists already aching to clench, but I won’t give her the satisfaction.
So I smile politely, my expression empty. A perfect mask. “That’s thoughtful of you,” I reply coolly. “He could use the extra practice.”
Her lashes flutter with exaggerated kindness. “Anything to help the team.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder and meet her gaze squarely. “Of course.”
She offers one last glittering smile before turning and walking away, her hips swaying just a little more than necessary. The door clicks softly behind her, and I stay where I am, unmoving, until the silence swells again. Then I let out a long, slow breath and sit back on the edge of the bench.
If I’m being honest, I don’t know what worries me more, that she’s winning his time… or that I was never supposed to want it in the first place.
I should go home.
The sky outside the studio windows has dimmed to dusk, making pink shadows dance across the floorboards.
The overhead lights flicker, but the space feels hollow, like it’s holding its breath.
I stand at the edge of the floor, bag still slung over one shoulder, watching the mirrored wall in front of me like it might give me an answer.
I don’t want to go back to my empty penthouse. I don’t want to sit on the couch with my legs tucked under me and silence thick, pretending I’m not wondering if Mateo is laughing at Yvonne’s table, sipping something warm and letting someone else see him unguarded.
So I stay and drop my bag gently onto the bench, then walk toward the speaker, my fingers hovering over the dial. I need to move and sweat, and the sting of exhaustion to distract me, but before I can cue the music, my phone vibrates against the bench behind me.
I glance at the screen, and guilt punches me straight through the chest when I see Gerardo’s face looking back at me.
I stare at his name for a beat too long, my stomach tightening.
I haven’t called him in days. Just hurried texts and check-ins.
My excuses range from rehearsal chaos to fatigue, but the truth is simpler and far more damning. I haven’t wanted to.
With a sigh, I bend down and pick up the phone, answering on the third ring and forcing warmth into my voice. “Hey.”
“Vaeda, amor,” Gerardo says, his voice crackling slightly with the international connection. “It’s been a few days. Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” I reply, but it’s too quick. I glance at my reflection, the lie shimmering there like a veil. “Just… busy. The Paris competition’s coming fast, and we’ve been living in the studio.”
“I figured,” he mutters. “I just miss you.”
The words land softly, familiar and filled with love, and yet… they don’t settle where they used to. “I miss you too,” I whisper, though the words taste like ash on my tongue.
He updates me on his mother’s condition. She’s stable but tired. He might need to extend his stay. I nod along, even though he can’t see me, as guilt threads through me like barbed wire. When did the space between us become so vast?
I turn away from the mirror, phone tucked to my ear, heart beginning to thud with unease, and then I hear it. The soft creak of the studio door behind me. My gaze flicks back to the mirror, and my breath stops in my throat.
Mateo steps inside quietly, the door easing shut behind him. He’s still in street clothes, dark jeans and a fitted shirt that hugs his frame, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. His hair is a little messy, and his eyes are locked on me. I turn slowly, heartbeat kicking into a gallop.
“Amor?” Gerardo’s voice crackles again in my ear. “Are you still there?”
I swallow, forcing my voice to be calm. “Yes. I’m here.”
But my eyes are still on Mateo, who’s walking toward me now, each step more certain than the last. He doesn’t say a word, just watches me with a blank expression, but his eyes betray him. They burn like he’s walking into the fiery depths of hell carrying a burden he doesn’t know what to do with.
I shift the phone slightly, voice hushed. “Gerardo… can I call you back? Someone just came into the studio.”
There’s a pause, then, “Of course. I love you.”
I close my eyes as a fresh wave of guilt crashes over me. “I love you too.” Then I hang up.
When I open my eyes again, Mateo is only a few feet away, and suddenly, the silence between us feels louder than the music ever could.
MATEO
She’s still holding the phone when I step into the studio, her back to me, her silhouette prominent in the mirror’s dim reflection. Her voice is soft, too low to hear clearly, but when I catch the hushed, I love you too, it slams into my chest like a fist.
It’s her husband. Of course.
Even after everything, he still lives inside those quiet words.
I swallow hard, forcing the bile down, shoving the jealousy into the same box where I’ve been keeping every inappropriate thought about her since the moment we danced together.
I’m not here to cause damage or make things worse, but one look at her smooth skin, hair in disarray, and her body caught between tension and exhaustion, has every rational reason for being here dissolving.
I came to thank her. That’s what I tell myself.
My father spoke to her, and something shifted after that.
He’s more open now. He even mentioned looking forward to Paris, and that’s because of her.
I should just say it. Just thank her and walk away, but I can’t.
There’s something about her standing here, vulnerable and alone in this room we’ve both filled with so many sins and silences, that makes it impossible to leave.
She lowers the phone, breathes, and I move. Before she can even turn fully, I close the distance and slide my hand to her waist, turning her gently but firmly until she’s facing me. Her eyes widen as I bring my mouth to hers.
The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s not soft or patient or anything close to restraint. It’s a war breaking inside both of us, all teeth and desperation, the kind of kiss you regret even as you’re still inside it.
She gasps, lips parting just enough to let me in, her fingers fisting the front of my shirt like she wants to pull me closer or push me away. Maybe both.
I crowd her backward until her spine brushes the mirror, and the reflection of us nearly steals my breath. We look reckless. Utterly ruined with her face tilted up to mine, her mouth swollen from my desperate kisses. My hands are already shaking with the need to touch more. To have more.
“Mateo,” she whispers against my lips, breaking the kiss just enough to speak, but her breath is ragged and her eyes betray her. There’s no hesitation in them. Only ache.
“Tell me to go,” I rasp, voice gravelly, thick with want.
She doesn’t. Instead, she pulls me back to her, her mouth crashing against mine with the fury of a storm that’s been brewing for so long.
Our bodies fit together like fate as my hands slide beneath her shirt, skin to skin, the moment nearly tipping into something irreversible. Until she pushes me away.
Her palms press against my chest with enough force to halt everything.
I freeze, letting her create the distance she needs, though every part of me screams to pull her back.
Our breathing fills the silence, harsh and uneven, then slowly, she gives a small shake of her head, and that single gesture breaks me all over again.
I take a step back, dragging a hand through my hair. I don’t say I’m sorry, because I’m not, but I am wrecked.
“I didn’t come here to make things worse,” I manage. “I came to thank you. For what you said to my father. He’s… different now. He’s giving me space. Forgiveness even.”
Her gaze flickers, but her arms remain tightly crossed. The guard is back up. “Still doesn’t mean you should’ve kissed me,” she spits, her words like razors, sharp and wounding.
“No,” I agree quietly. “But I wanted to.”
She lets out a short, cruel laugh, and it cuts deeper than I expect. “Why didn’t you ask Yvonne to thank me for you?” she sneers. “I’m sure you two had a lovely dinner.”
I blink. “Dinner?”
Her brows rise. “Yes. The one at her place? With your father?”
I stare at her, bewildered. “I didn’t go to any dinner. She didn’t invite us.”
The fire behind her eyes dims just slightly, and Vaeda looks at me for a long, quiet moment, as if reassessing everything. “She said—”
“She lied, or you misheard her,” I interrupt. “I’m having dinner with him alone in a bit before he has to leave.” She swallows hard, retreating a step. “Vaeda,” I rasp, “don’t push me toward someone else just because it’s easier to pretend this doesn’t mean anything.”
She doesn’t answer, and I don’t push. Instead, I leave her there with the truth of her feelings echoing in the swell of her lips and flushed cheeks.