Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Vaeda
It’s been two weeks of training, sweating, counting beats, and rechoreographing sections that should’ve felt seamless by now.
Two weeks of watching Yvonne and Mateo move in tandem across the studio floor, their rhythm syncing like they were built for this.
For each other. And two weeks of feeling like my chest might cave in.
Greyson stands beside me, clipboard in hand, as he marks something on the notes we’ve compiled.
The Paso Doble track is loud and insistent, an unrelenting rhythm that pulses through the room like a heartbeat.
Mateo’s form is strong, spine straight, and chest forward.
He leads Yvonne across the floor with commanding steps, the drag of his foot against the polished surface sounding with confidence.
Yvonne follows without hesitation, head tossed back, the cape of her practice skirt swirling with every spin. She’s lighter now. Glowing. She feeds off his energy like it belongs to her, and it makes me sick.
“They’re clean,” Greyson says, tilting his head as Mateo catches Yvonne’s wrist, pulling her into the cross-body lunge.
“They’re predictable,” I snap.
Greyson glances at me.
I can feel the heat behind my eyes, the tightness in my jaw as I watch them dance. Their chemistry is real, and it’s nothing like what Mateo and I felt in that hip-hop studio, pressed together, breathless and trembling. No, this is polished, rehearsed, and safe.
Two weeks ago, he kissed me like he couldn’t breathe without it, like I was his next inhale, and since then? Not a glance. Not even a touch outside of perfunctory practices that feel like someone else’s memory. It’s as if that night was an accident he’s spent every day trying to forget.
“Paso is meant to be visceral,” I continue, stepping forward as the music reaches a peak.
“This feels like a stage production, not a battle. Mateo, again. This time with more power in the shoulders. Yvonne, stop dancing like you’re trying to impress him.
This isn’t prom night.” She stiffens at that, but I don’t care. “Let’s go from the top!” I bark.
The music cues again, and Mateo doesn’t look at me.
His jaw is clenched, but he doesn’t speak.
He just nods to Yvonne before they fall back into place.
They start the opening stance again, bold and theatrical.
Mateo’s left arm strikes out, then circles around her waist, pulling her into the bullfighter’s march.
It’s tighter this time, cleaner, but still. ..
“You’re faking the fire,” I growl when the music ends. “I don’t feel anything.”
“Jesus, Vaeda,” Greyson mutters, grabbing his water bottle. “Walk it off.”
I shoot him a glare. “No.”
“Yes.” His tone leaves no room for arguments.
I turn on my heel, storming down the hallway as my blood buzzes with rage and something far worse. Envy.
The way Mateo’s hands fit against Yvonne’s body, how she leaned into him during that final dip, and the smile that flickered across her lips when she thought no one was looking.
She has him. Not completely, not like I did, but enough, and I’ve never been so damn envious in my entire life.
Not only do I want Mateo, but I want to dance in that Paris ballroom.
Enough to make me feel like I’m being hollowed out from the inside.
I find myself in the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink as I splash cold water on my face before staring into the mirror.
This isn’t about the choreography. This is about him.
It always has been, but I’m still his coach, still his judge, and still the woman standing behind the curtain, watching him become everything he was born to be.
Yet I don’t get to celebrate that with him.
I take a deep breath, force my spine to straighten, and walk back into the studio.
They’re both stretching now. Yvonne glances at me with a smugness that could be mistaken for triumph, but Mateo doesn’t look up.
Greyson says nothing, just flips the page on his clipboard and cues the music for the Mambo.
And we go again like none of it matters. Like I’m not breaking from the inside out.
The city continues beneath me as I unlock the door to my penthouse, the metallic click echoing too loudly in the silence.
I step inside and drop my purse and phone on the table, then close the door behind me, leaning against the smooth wood for a moment.
My body aches from the hours in the studio, but the ache inside my chest eclipses everything.
It’s two weeks until Paris. Two weeks of watching the man I crave dance with the girl who gets to touch him in ways that don’t alter her world.
I sigh and toe off my shoes, padding barefoot into the living room.
The sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows bleeds lavender and gold as the sun sets, and the room is cast in that strange, perfect light where everything looks prettier than it really is.
My phone rings and I cross the room slowly, almost not wanting to answer, but when I see Gerardo’s name on the screen, guilt tightens its claws around my rib cage.
“Hey,” I say softly, pressing the phone to my ear.
“Hola, mi amor,” he greets me, voice warm and filled with happiness. “I just spoke to the doctor again. My mother is improving. They think she’ll be released from the hospital next week.”
Relief floods my tone, even though my stomach twists. “That’s wonderful news.”
“I’m going to stay a little longer, help her get settled, but after that...” A pause. “I may be able to meet you in Paris.” The words land like a bucket of cold water.
He means well, he always has, and I should be happy. This is my husband, the man who stood beside me through the highest and lowest moments of my career. The man who never once blamed me when my ankle shattered both our dreams, but I’m not happy.
I force a small laugh. “That would be beautiful. We haven’t been to Paris together in years.”
“Too long. Remember that night under the Eiffel Tower? We were so young, and we danced like we were invincible.”
“We were,” I whisper. But now? Now I’m not sure what we are.
He launches into memories, telling me he wants to recreate that moment. He says he’ll bring the old playlist, the one we used to practice with. That he wants to hold me again like before, and I tell him yes. I let the fantasy unfold because it’s easier than facing the truth. I want him to be happy.
“I’ll pack a sexy lingerie,” I tease lightly, my voice strained.
He chuckles. “Then I’ll definitely find a flight.”
We hang up soon after, and I lower the phone to the counter. The room is too quiet, and the truth is loud in my chest.
I don’t want to think about Paris with Gerardo, or about kissing him beneath the Eiffel Tower, or curling up beside him in a hotel suite with silk sheets.
I haven’t imagined his hands on my body or his mouth on my skin in a long time, but I’ve imagined all of that with someone else, and that someone is off-limits in every way that matters.
I cross to the windows once more and watch the activity below. The sky has deepened, the lights of the city flickering to life like stars. I tell myself to focus. To pack. To be a good wife. But when I close my eyes, I don’t see Gerardo.
I see Mateo.
MATEO
The heavy front door creaks shut behind me, muffling the last murmurs of tonight’s NA meeting.
The scent of burnt coffee and peppermint breath mints still lingers in my nose as I step into the cool night air.
It’s quiet and serene. The kind of stillness that makes you feel your heartbeat in your ears.
I spot Roger’s SUV idling at the curb, headlights illuminating the sidewalk, and I pull open the passenger door to climb in.
“Hey, man,” he greets, glancing at me as I buckle up. “You look a little less weighed down than usual. Meeting go okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer, scrubbing a hand down my face. “It helped. They usually do.”
He nods thoughtfully, pulling out onto the street. The soft vibration of the engine fills the silence until he clears his throat. “How’s that friend of yours?”
I glance sideways at him. “Yvonne?”
“Yeah. You mentioned she crashed at your place a while ago. Everything okay with her?”
I sink a little into the seat, head tipping back against the rest. “Her roommate’s a nightmare. Loud fights, petty arguments, slamming doors. Some nights she doesn’t want to go home, so she crashes on the couch.”
Roger raises an eyebrow, amused. “And that’s all it is?”
“Yeah,” I reply firmly, staring out at the passing blur of streetlights. “That’s all it is.”
He hums. “She’s cute. Seems like she really cares about you.”
“She does,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “But it’s not like that. Yvonne’s family is in New Jersey, and her other friends don’t have space. I do and don’t mind her being around.”
Roger doesn’t push, but I feel his curiosity like a pressure in the SUV. I know what he’s thinking—that it would be good for me to be dating again. To connect and move on from the disaster I caused. Only, I don’t want to move on with Yvonne.
I stare out the window, my reflection in the glass a pale imitation of the man I’m trying to become. It’s been two weeks since I kissed Vaeda like she was my entire world, and it’s been two weeks of silence.
I’ve kept my distance, not because I stopped wanting her—that would’ve been easier—but because she asked me to.
Her boundaries were clear, even if her eyes begged me to stay that night.
So I gave her the space, but it hasn’t made me miss her any less.
Hasn’t made me stop thinking about how her voice drops when she’s tired, or the exact way her fingers curl when she holds a clipboard.
How she smells faintly of rose water and sweat after a long day of dancing.
How her eyes can go from steel to silk in a single blink.
“Mateo?” Roger’s voice draws me back.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?”
I nod. “Just tired.”
“We’re here.” He gives me a sad, knowing smile as I straighten and look out the window. My building is there, the lights of people’s homes illuminating the night sky.
“Damn.”
He doesn’t press for more. He just gives me a nod, and I’m grateful as I get out of the SUV, burying my hands in my jacket pockets.
Once I’m upstairs, I unlock my apartment door and step inside, greeted by the familiar hush of solitude.
The sounds of the city are muted by thick glass, and the weight of the day clings to my shoulders like a second skin.
I toss my keys on the counter and head straight to the fridge, grabbing a water bottle.
My phone buzzes on the kitchen island, and I smile when I see FaceTime from Mami.
I swipe to answer, and within seconds, my parents’ faces fill the screen, side by side, glowing under the soft lighting of their California kitchen. My mother’s expression is warm and searching, while my father’s is stoic but observant.
“Mijo,” Mami greets, her voice instantly soothing. “We caught you at home?”
“Just walked in,” I say, collapsing onto the couch. “Had a meeting tonight.”
Her face softens. “How did it go?”
“Good. I needed it.”
My father nods once, his eyes lingering on me a moment longer before he speaks. “You look tired.”
I manage a smile. “That’s because I am.”
“Practices?” he asks.
I nod, running a hand through my hair. “Gruelling, but worth it. We’re perfecting the Jive, Mambo, and Paso Doble. Long days, sore everything.”
“And school?”
“Midterms are coming up,” I answer. “It’s a lot, but I’m managing.”
Mami’s eyes crinkle with pride. “We’re so proud of you. Just seeing you like this...”
I feel it in my chest, that bittersweet sting of being seen, really seen, by the people who feared I might not make it.
My father leans forward slightly. “Is it becoming too much?”
I blink. “No,” I say, more quickly than I mean to, so I take a breath and soften my tone. “It’s not too much. I promise. I’ve got a handle on it.”
He studies me carefully. “Mateo...”
“I swear, Dad. I’m good. Paris is in two weeks. Once that’s done, I’ll take a break and focus on school. Slow things down.”
His shoulders ease slightly, but his eyes are still full of worry. “You just don’t have to prove anything to anyone anymore. Not even to us.”
“I know,” I murmur. But I do. Maybe not to them, but to myself? Every damn day.
“I’ll let you both rest.” I smile, hoping they don’t see anything deeper than my surface-level exhaustion. “You look tired too.”
“We’re always here, Mateo,” Mami promises. “Any time, day or night.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“Love you both,” I tell them. “Good night.”
The call ends, and I set my phone down, leaning back against the couch cushions. Just two more weeks, and maybe the weight I carry will finally lift. Or maybe it will crush me first.