Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Vaeda
“Again,” I say, my voice sharp but breathless as the Paso Doble echoes through the studio. “From the chassé turn.”
Mateo and Yvonne reset, their movements fluid, driven by the relentless rhythm. My heart pounds in time with the drums, adrenaline pushing me past the ache already burning in my ankle. I’ve been favoring it for days, hiding the pain beneath a layer of willpower and grit.
This dance needs to be perfect because Paris is just over a week away.
“More aggression,” I call out, stepping forward, demonstrating the pivot I want with the snap of my shoulders. “You’re not painting the story with your bodies. You’re performing a pattern. There’s a difference.”
They move again. This time it’s better. Stronger.
“That’s it,” I say, and before I can stop myself, I take a step forward to correct Mateo’s posture. I don’t even realize how hard I’m planting my foot until a hot, white surge of pain rips through me.
It happens in an instant. A sickening pop and my leg gives out as I hit the ground.
“Vaeda!” Mateo and Greyson yell in unison. Mateo drops beside me, his hand hovering over my shoulder. I try to speak but only a strangled sound comes out as pain steals the breath from my lungs, tears springing to my eyes as I clutch my ankle.
“Don’t touch it,” Greyson barks, already pulling out his phone. “We need an ambulance. Now.”
Mateo backs away, his face ghost white as Yvonne stands frozen, a hand over her mouth.
The sirens arrive faster than I expect, and soon I’m being lifted onto a stretcher, the ceiling of Fusion Core spinning above me as the EMTs secure my leg.
“Achilles’ heel?” one of them asks me softly, recognizing the injury.
I manage a nod through gritted teeth. The last time I was wheeled out like this was six years ago when it ended my career. I can barely swallow the scream that wants to rip out of me.
At the hospital, everything is a blur of tests, questions, and ice packs. Then I’m transferred to an MRI. When the orthopedic specialist finally returns, her face is calm and professional.
“You didn’t rupture the tendon,” she explains, flipping the chart in her hands. “But it’s a severe flare-up. A combination of tendinitis and strain. You’re lucky. If you’d pushed further, it could’ve torn completely.”
“Surgery?” I croak out the question, my throat tight with fear.
“Not necessary, but you need to stay off it. Crutches are a must. You’ll need rest, ice, compression, and elevation.
And then physical therapy.” I close my eyes in relief.
“We’ll start you on a short course of pain management,” she continues.
“Hydrocodone-Acetaminophen. Twenty tablets. Use only if the pain becomes unbearable.”
My stomach twists, but I nod. It’s common with this sort of injury, but I hate taking them. They make me tired and out of it.
“When can I begin therapy?”
“After a week of rest. So when you get back from Paris, you’ll begin but, Vaeda,” she adds gently, “you cannot dance on this foot until then. Not even lightly.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
The elevator ride to my penthouse feels longer than usual, the sterile hospital scent still clinging to my clothes.
I grip the crutches under my arms, my knuckles white with tension.
Greyson stands at my side, silent but watchful, holding the hospital-issued tote with my X-rays and prescriptions tucked neatly inside.
The pain hasn’t fully settled in yet, but I know it will. What scares me more is what comes after. What lingers. The depression will hit when I least expect it, and when Gerardo finds out, it’ll only be another reminder of what killed our ambitions. I never wanted to relive this again.
We step into the soft glow of my apartment hallway after the elevator dings, and the moment I cross the threshold into my house, my phone vibrates again.
It’s already been going off the entire ride back, buried at the bottom of my purse.
Greyson fishes it out and hands it to me.
Ten missed calls from Gerardo. I sigh, my stomach twisting.
“I told him,” Greyson says softly, guilt woven into the words. “He needed to know.”
“I get it,” I say, though my throat tightens. “I just… I didn’t want him to panic.”
Greyson watches me for a moment before setting my things down on the counter. “You should call him.”
I nod, sinking onto the edge of the couch, carefully maneuvering the crutches to rest against the arm. My ankle is elevated on a stack of pillows, the swelling starting to throb beneath the compression wrap as I put the phone to my ear.
He answers on the first ring. “Vaeda? Dios mío, are you okay? Why haven’t you called me?” His voice is strained, urgent.
“I’m okay,” I say quickly. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Too late for that,” he snaps, then softens. “Greyson said you were hurt. At practice?”
“Paso Doble. I pushed too hard. It’s not a rupture, but it’s serious. No weight-bearing for a week. Physical therapy after Paris.”
“Paris?” His voice rises. “Vaeda, you shouldn’t even be thinking about traveling right now. Do you need me to come home? I can be on a flight tomorrow.”
My chest constricts, and I look over at Greyson, who’s pretending not to listen as he walks into the kitchen.
“No,” I whisper. “No, stay with your mother. She needs you more. I’ll be fine. Greyson’s here.” I refuse to argue with him about Paris because he knows I’m going, no matter what.
“But he’s not your husband,” Gerardo murmurs, hurt and fear mingling in every syllable. “You shouldn’t be alone like this.”
“I won’t be.”
A silence falls between us.
“What did the doctors say? Is it going to affect you long-term?”
“Not if I follow orders. Rest, therapy, and no dancing. I’m on crutches for now.”
He groans. “This should never have happened.”
“It was an accident, Ger.”
There’s another pause before he exhales. “I’ll call again tomorrow. Let me know if anything changes. And Vaeda… please be careful.”
“I will.”
“I love you.”
I end the call and set the phone aside, heart thudding like I just lied. This was the first time I haven’t told my husband I love him back, and it feels like an umbilical cord has been severed.
Greyson walks back into the living room, eyes scanning me as if checking for fractures he can’t see. “Are you sure you want to do this competition?”
I nod, even though I’m not sure of anything, because while the pain in my ankle is manageable, it’s the pain in my chest that terrifies me the most.
MATEO
The buzz of the airport surrounds us as luggage wheels drag against tile, the echo of announcements sounds from overhead, and the intermittent laughter of travelers mingle in. I stand near our gate with my carry-on slung over my shoulder, watching as our team slowly gathers in the seating area.
Adam and Kari are already there, heads bowed together over something on Adam’s phone, laughing softly like this is a vacation and not the single most important competition of our lives.
Yvonne breezes in a few minutes later, her pink hoodie tucked under one arm, a coffee in the other.
She beams when she sees me, looping an arm around mine.
“Ready for Paris?” she asks, her voice warm.
I nod, managing a smile I don’t fully feel. “Been ready.” But my eyes aren’t on her.
They’re scanning the terminal for the person who gives me life, who makes my heart swell and bleed at the same time.
Then I see her. Vaeda moves through the sliding security doors with Greyson beside her, her face composed in that icy, unreadable way that’s become her default lately.
She’s leaning heavily on the crutches, her face simmering with anger at needing any type of support.
She’s favoring the injured leg, but she walks with pride.
She always does. Even hurt, she makes heads turn and commands the room.
It’s been a week since I’ve really spoken to her.
A week of radio silence. I texted. I called.
I stopped by the studio more times than I should’ve just to catch her alone.
She always had someone else in the room, always had her eyes on anyone but me.
Greyson, Yvonne, the floor, or the goddamn mirrors, and I’ve played along.
I’ve been polite and professional, just like she wanted, but it’s been eating me alive.
Now, here we are, preparing to board a flight to Paris, and I don’t even know if she’ll be my instructor after this.
Vaeda nods at everyone in greeting, her gaze flitting over me like I’m nothing more than another student in her lineup. Then she lowers herself carefully into a chair, propping her injured foot on her suitcase.
“How’s it feeling?” Greyson asks, crouching beside her.
“Tight,” she grinds out, “but manageable.”
Manageable. Like pain is just a thing you carry without complaint. Like silence is strength.
Yvonne pulls out her earbuds and offers me one. I take it without thinking, even as my attention remains fixed on Vaeda. She avoids my stare, flipping open her passport and reviewing the boarding documents like she hasn’t already memorized every step of this process.
She hasn’t been the same with me since that night when I nearly made her mine and asked her to choose.
“I’m going to find a bathroom,” I murmur to Yvonne, who nods and slides into my seat the second I get up.
I don’t go far. Just enough to lean against a column and breathe. I watch her from a distance now, the way she shifts in her seat to adjust her leg, the furrow in her brows as Greyson says something that makes her nod slowly.
I wish she would just talk to me and tell me it meant nothing so I can truly move on, but she’s choosing silence, and maybe that’s her answer.
The flight is boarding in staggered groups, but our team was early enough that we all move on together.
I hoist my bag into the overhead bin and glance over my shoulder just as Vaeda settles into her seat in a row next to me, beside Greyson.
She places her crutches carefully along the window wall, then slips her sunglasses down over her eyes like a shield.
I drop into the seat next to Yvonne and buckle my belt. “Paris.” She grins, elbowing me. “Are you ready for this?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, forcing my tone to be conversational.
I lean back in my seat, stretch my legs out, and glance toward the aisle.
Vaeda’s not looking at me, so I decide to push.
“You always get this excited when you’re on a plane, or is it just ‘cause you’re sitting next to me?
” I tease Yvonne, pitching my voice just loud enough.
Yvonne laughs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Oh, you know it’s you. You’re the reason I packed three different bras.”
“Good,” I rasp, letting a lazy grin stretch across my face.
“Maybe I’ll help you pick one.” She giggles again, curling closer, her shoulder brushing mine as she shifts in her seat.
I shouldn’t be flirting with her, especially knowing her true feelings, but I need to put a crack in the armor Vaeda has herself locked into.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Vaeda shift just a fraction, a subtle turn of her head.
Good. I rest my hand casually on the armrest between me and Yvonne, fingers relaxed.
Close, but not quite touching hers. I know exactly what I’m doing.
I want Vaeda to feel even a fraction of the torment she’s put me through this week.
“This is your first time in Paris?” I ask Yvonne.
“Mhmm. I’ve been dreaming about it since I was a kid. I mean, romance, fashion, croissants... all the good stuff.”
“I’ll make sure you don’t miss any of it,” I murmur. She beams, and I nod like it means something. Like I mean it, but all I can think about is Vaeda’s mouth parting when I kissed her, her fingers curling in my shirt, and the breathy gasp she made when my hands slid beneath her sweater.
Then I think about the soft, sad tremble in her voice when she said she couldn’t choose me, and she still hasn’t, because maybe that reminder will make me stop waiting.
The cabin lights dim as the flight attendants prepare for takeoff, and Yvonne adjusts her neck pillow before resting her head lightly on my shoulder. I let her. I even tilt my head against hers, but I keep my eyes forward, and I hope to God Vaeda’s are on me.