Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
Vaeda
Morning comes with the dull ache of pain and the slow rise of anxiety.
The hotel room is soaked in soft light, the Paris skyline a watercolor blur through the tall windowpanes.
I shift under the crisp sheets, every movement a jolt to my ankle.
The air is cool, perfumed faintly with lavender from the pillow spray provided on the nightstand, which is a little French luxury wrapped around this very complicated trip.
The pain is worse today. I sit up slowly, the sheets rustling against my legs, and reach for the small bottle on the desk across from the bed. The pills inside the container clink together, and for a moment, I hesitate. I just need one. My fingers twist the cap and I swallow a pill dry.
I force myself out of bed, stepping gingerly on my foot and hobbling toward the bathroom. It’s Friday, the first official day of the competition, and my body is protesting as if we’ve been here for days already. I miss my own bed, my favorite coffee, and I miss dancing along the floor of my studio.
The bathroom mirror reflects a pale, tired woman back at me.
I don’t put on much makeup, just enough to blur the fatigue, then twist my hair into a low, sleek bun and pull on a black blazer over a fitted, navy blouse and slacks.
Once I’m all put together, I give myself a quick perusal.
I look commanding, stern, and classy. I may be limping through this trip, but no one else has to know just how badly I’m unraveling.
By the time I make it down to the hotel lobby, the world is fully awake.
The hotel is a restored 19th-century palace in the 8th arrondissement, a stone’s throw from the Seine and just off the Champs-élysées.
The floors are marble, veined and gleaming beneath gold chandeliers, and the scent of espresso from the hotel café winds through the air.
The concierge gives me a polite nod as I slowly descend the final steps.
Greyson is already there, looking far too fresh for someone who went to bed nearly as late as I did. He holds two coffees, offering one to me without a word, and I accept it with a grateful smile.
“You slept?” he asks.
“Enough.”
“You took something?” I nod once, eyes forward. “You really should be on both crutches.” He nods to the single crutch I have tucked under my right arm. I shrug, and he sighs but says nothing more. He knows better than to press.
Moments later, Mateo and Yvonne appear from the elevators. Mateo’s hair is tousled in that effortless way that makes women turn their heads, and Yvonne is draped in a cream trench, laughing at something he just whispered. My stomach clenches, but he doesn’t even look at me.
“Ready to head over?” Greyson asks, motioning for them to follow.
“Absolutely,” Yvonne says, slipping her arm through Mateo’s as if it belongs there.
I glance away, teeth grinding softly, then adjust my posture and fall into step beside Greyson as we exit the hotel and climb into the waiting van.
The drive is less than ten minutes to the Palais des Congrès de Paris, the host venue for the French Open Dance Sport Championships.
The building is modern and sprawling with steel and glass framing, the event banner stretched across the entrance.
Dancers are already filing in, some stretching on the stairs, others wheeling in garment bags like precious cargo.
Inside, the space opens into a grand atrium flooded with natural light from the skylights above.
The ballroom is massive, lined with gold-trimmed balconies and tiered seating.
The floor is being polished by staff in matching uniforms, and the scent of lemon cleaner clings faintly to the air. The energy is electric.
We’re here. We made it, and if Mateo and I weren’t so deeply buried in whatever hell we’ve created between us, I might even let myself feel something like joy.
Instead, I focus on the logistics. Floor time has been arranged for early practice slots.
Greyson confirms with the event coordinator while I take a seat near the floor, clipboard balanced on my knee.
Yvonne and Mateo change quickly and emerge from the dressing room in practice wear.
She’s in a sleek black leotard and a red skirt, and he’s in a fitted black tee and pants.
They look professional and polished. They don’t look like they’re carrying the weight of our studio’s future as they smile brightly and gaze into each other’s eyes.
As they begin their warm-up, I sip the last of my coffee and force my eyes to stay on their footwork.
They look smooth, and thankfully, they appear as though they’ve been dancing together for years.
It’s a testament to incredible chemistry.
My eyes flick from them to the others dancing around them.
Sure, there are technical slips, or too sharp of a turn, but everyone looks great, and it only makes me shift in my seat with worry. We need this win.
Greyson takes a seat beside me, his clipboard angled precariously on his left knee. “They look good, Vae. Real good.”
I nod in agreement as I rotate my ankle, letting the pain center me instead of allowing my mind to focus on Mateo’s hand low on Yvonne’s back, or the way she brushes her fingers along his neck.
The two seats on my right remain empty because I gave Kari and Adam the morning to sightsee. They’ll be joining us in the afternoon. For now, it’s just us. Just them. Just me watching what I let slip away.
I brace my hand against the marble wall of the Palais des Congrès, waiting for the sharp flare of pain in my ankle to dull before I push open the heavy door.
The venue is beautiful, palatial, and buzzing with quiet preparation.
Dancers check into dressing rooms, and event coordinators flit through hallways with clipboards. The air is thick with excitement.
While Mateo and Yvonne continue to warm up before floor time, Greyson is already waiting near the registration table, coordinating badges and floor access bands. He lifts a brow as I limp toward him, though I do my best to hide it.
“You sure you’re good?” he asks under his breath.
“Fine,” I say. The painkiller I took this morning is already losing its grip, but I straighten my spine. I’m not letting this ruin the moment.
Yvonne and Mateo are laughing about something as they step off the practice dance floor.
Their excitement is palpable, a kind of electricity humming around them.
Mateo catches my eye, his grin softening into something more private, but I don’t let it hold.
I look away, motioning for them to follow us toward the grand ballroom.
The room is even more striking than I remember. A vast parquet floor beneath vaulted ceilings, crystal lights glinting off mirrors and velvet drapes. Music plays softly from a speaker in the corner as dancers test the floor, checking for slide and grip.
Greyson claps his hands. “Alright, team Fusion. Let’s stretch and get started. Floor time is tight today. This is where you will be dancing, so get used to the polish on the floor, and check for divots or bumps.”
Yvonne is already pulling her skirt from her bag and tying it at her waist. Mateo slips his fingers through his hair, the black dance tee he wears hugging his form like a second skin.
He’s focused today, but I can tell by the way his eyes flit to me that he’s waiting for acknowledgment.
A nod, a glance, or a sign of whatever we were before we buried it. He won’t get it.
I lean against the back wall, clipboard in hand, and try to tune out the throb in my ankle. They move well together, especially here, where the energy of the competition elevates every step. Mateo’s lead is fluid, and Yvonne matches it with an eagerness that almost looks like love.
Greyson joins me, arms crossed. “They got this. I can feel it.”
“I hope so,” I murmur, eyes still on Mateo. “Let’s just hope they stay this clean tomorrow.”
After about thirty minutes, I step away to find a quieter spot, telling Greyson I need a moment, and he nods. In the hallway, I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts. My finger hovers before I tap the name I saved last night: Grace Sanchez.
Emilio called me the night before, thanking me again for my guidance, but also asking me to keep an eye on his son.
“If you ever see him unraveling, I need to know, Vaeda. He might not call me, but he’ll tell you.
” Then he gave me Grace’s number, telling me she’d softened, and he hoped it was time to rebuild.
I hesitate only a second longer before typing:
Hi, Grace
This is Vaeda Lewis, Mateo’s instructor.
I know we haven’t met, but your father said you were open to talking to your brother again.
Mateo’s in Paris for the French Open Dance Championship and doing really well.
I thought you should know. We’re having a team dinner tonight at 7:00 PM at Le Vieux Bistro near the Seine.
I’d love for you to come. Here’s the address if you’re free.
Le Vieux Bistro 14 Rue du Clo?tre-Notre-Dame
I stare at the message for a beat before pressing send, and a rush of guilt follows because I feel like I’m doing something behind his back, but I didn’t just reach out to be nice. I want someone else in his life to love him too.
When I return to the ballroom, Yvonne is laughing, a light ring of sweat glinting along her collarbone. Mateo is spinning her, then catching her back in a smooth lockstep. They hit the final beat and Yvonne throws her arms around his neck. His hands hover a moment before he lets them fall.
Greyson turns to me. “Are you ready to head out for a bite?” I nod, lips pressed into a thin line.
Just two days to the finals.
MATEO