Chapter 11
Wild Rose
The Dance of the Damned
I fucked up.
No—scratch that— that was not a fuckup.
A fuck up wouldn’t feel like knives being logged in my eyeballs, to see the catastrophic dismantling that I just did must have been a gruesome sight to witness. I danced like my feet hadn’t known the mere definition of the word. My body was stiff and unruly, but it was my mind that played the biggest treachery. The betrayal of my own body tastes bitter against my tongue.
I led myself into my own calamitous regret. I obscured the lines between reality and mistaken chimera. I let myself get lost, knowingly risking the one chance I had at freedom. The glass room was teeming with Bird Dogs , and yet I tore up my own failing ticket, deciding today, of all days, not only to be late but to wear the guise of unworthiness, as if I didn’t belong in this class.
Being chosen was my escape, the key to leaving this place behind, to inhale brighter days, to taste freer air, to know moments with less pain than the ones that would be promised today. Callum was high on something, his state unsteady, painful to witness. When the frustration inside him could no longer be contained, his hands became violent, and I became his punching bag.
I was early for once and close to unlocking the door and bolting for the bus, when he pulled me by my hair and slapped me to shreds. He was less feral today than usual, his brutality quickly fading before he scurried out of the house, grumbling curses under his breath.
Tears did not swell, only the pain and the bruises that were starting to shade. So I washed my face quickly, masked the pain with makeup, and rushed out of the house, burying the chaos beneath a facade.
My mind was still trying to grasp the threads of lucidity when I got here. Yet, I entitled my torment to imbibe my conscience, I sanctioned it to draw me into a grisly place. And I allowed it to rust my performance materially.
“Are you okay?” creased worry lines and concern-ridden eyes stare at me.
Naseria pulls me into her arms before I can say anything and I let her. It feels nice, it feels warm. I want to tell her, gosh I want to tell her but while she knows everything, she doesn’t know this one little cloth of truth I keep to myself. It would sting her and not knowing how to get me out of it would scrape at her even worse.
“You’re choking –”
She holds me a moment longer, her arms tightening around me, as if afraid I’ll slip through her fingers. Then she lets go, the warmth of her embrace fading too quickly. “I have to rush for that voluntary thing I told you about, but you’re not well. My house tonight—some wine, and we’ll talk, yes?” Her face hardens, a mask of resolve, but her eyes betray her, filling with tears that mirror my own.
I hate crying, but it’s the only thing that feels real anymore.
“Nase—”
“You’re hurting,” her voice breaks, as if the words themselves are too heavy to bear. “I see you—all of you. And when you dissociate like that, when you fall away from yourself, I fall too. I hurt, just as you do.”
I quickly wipe away the single tear that escapes down her face, and pull her back into my arms, as though trying to stitch her together with my touch.
“Forever,” she whispers, her voice fragile.
“And ever,” I reply, the words hollow but true.
“I’ve got to go, but this isn’t over,” she says, her gaze lingering on me like a shadow before she turns and disappears into the cold, her footsteps light yet distant, as if each one is pulling her further away from me.
I stand there, caught in the strangeness of it all, feeling the weight of solitude pressing down, yet something lingers in the space around me—an unsettling presence. It’s as though the shadows themselves are watching, mirroring the sensation I get whenever he’s near. That ache, that pulls in my chest, a magnetic force that’s both suffocating and intoxicating. I’ve long given up trying to tame the disarray within me, the uncontrollable hunger for things I know I should not crave. The battle is lost. The justification, gone. It’s wrong, undeniably wrong, but I find myself embracing it with an almost sadistic satisfaction.
His attention, I crave it. There’s a feverish pulse that rises within me, a heat that courses through my veins whenever his eyes meet mine. It’s dangerous, like a venom seeping into my blood, but I can’t bring myself to push it away.
I look to the glass, a curious tug in my chest, and at that moment, I feel his gaze on me, though I know he’s not there. The thought is unsettling and stirs something I’m not ready to confront. And so I decide to move, to walk away from whatever it is that’s gnawing at me. But then the door opens, a soft creak that cuts through the silence like a knife.
In steps a man clad in a tuxedo, his hair a silver and pepper thread of age that tells stories of time. His eyes sweep the room until they land on me.
Butler Benjamin. The name, though I didn’t know it then, carries an odd thought. It drags me back to a time when Mama and I would sit, curled on the couch, watching an old comedy about a butler leading a double life. The memory hits me like a sudden storm, with rain-soaked nostalgia, but I don’t have the luxury of time to ponder on it.
“A pleasant morning, Miss Fontaine,” his voice is laced with formality, wrapped in a crisp British accent that seems too out of place for this room.
I blink, my lips parted in response, but the words fall empty from my tongue. “Good morning.” The sound of my voice feels wrong, foreign.
“You’ve been requested by the founder. In the gardens.”
The founder . The name sends a cold shiver down my spine. Mama always said, strangers bring danger, and the founder—he’s nothing but a myth, a whispered ghost that never shows his face. No student has ever truly seen him. His name is only spoken in hushed tones, a figure too far out of reach to touch. My gaze hardens, doubt pooling in my chest.
“I think you have the wrong person,” I say, though the words come out with less conviction than I wish .
“Are you Odessa Fontaine?”
My breath catches in my throat. “Yes.”
“Then I have the right person.”
“No, you do not,” I bite back, but my resolve falters as his eyes stay locked on mine, unwavering. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?—”
“He does not take well to being held. I strongly suggest you come with me, Miss Fontaine.” The word ‘suggest’ feels more like an order, and I know without a doubt that resisting him will get me nowhere.
I’ve fucked up, haven’t I? My mind races, spiraling into dark corners I dare not explore. What does the founder want from me? To strip me of whatever small dignity I have left? To cast me aside like a discarded toy? Or worse—does he know the things I’ve done, the things I’ve become? My heart thunders in my chest, a frantic drumbeat that fills my ears, warning me, urging me to run. But I can’t. My body feels stuck, as if I’m already being drawn into something I can’t escape.
“Why does the founder?—”
“That, unfortunately, is not for me to say. We mustn’t keep him waiting.” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it, an unspoken finality that makes my stomach churn.
And so, I follow, unable to find the courage to turn away, trapped by an unseen force, my every step heavy with dread.
After a hesitant pause, I relent, the weight of inevitability pulling me forward.
“I understand,” the words slip past my lips, final, resigned. I grab my bag in a swift motion, fingers trembling as if trying to outrun the wave of dread that rolls through me. I move behind him, footsteps falling in sync with the rhythm of my racing thoughts. A thousand scenarios, dark and uncertain, weave themselves into my mind, each more chaotic and disturbing than the last. I cannot silence the growing cacophony of fears that seems to echo in the very air around me.
The world blurs. I feel detached, as if I’m walking through a fog thick with apprehension. My surroundings become distant, as though they no longer belong to me. And yet, I follow, helpless, toward a fate that feels both inevitable and far too sinister to be real.
We reach the garden after what feels like an eternity, though I’m hardly aware of the path that led us here. The gates, always closed, stand wide open before us, an invitation I never asked for. The space beyond, forbidden and unreachable to students like me, feels different now—like a trap waiting to close around me. It has always been a boundary, an unspoken rule, and yet, now it lies exposed, daring me to cross.
The garden stretches out before us, and the air smells thick with jasmine and dandelions, their scents heavy, lingering in the silence. The colors are unnaturally vibrant, too bright, too rich. The flowers spill over in a chaos of reds, purples, and oranges, their petals trembling as if afraid to touch the earth. The leaves, dark green, seem almost unnatural in their richness, their shadows pooling at the edges of the garden like an encroaching storm.
We walk deeper into the maze of nature, the path winding beneath our feet and leading us further into the unknown. The garden itself seems alive, pressing in on us, as if it is watching. A cold shiver runs down my spine, and my breath catches in my throat. The air feels thick with something—something unseen, something that waits.
And then, there he stands.
Mr. Moretti .
The founder.
He is everything I didn’t expect and everything I feared. A man carved from shadows and light, his presence filling the space around us with a magnetic pull. His eyes lock onto mine, and I feel them, demanding and relentless. The world shifts, tilting slightly, as I find myself drawn into his gaze.
His appearance is nothing like I imagined. He is not old, not frail. His beauty is something dangerous, something that makes my heart stutter in my chest. His features are defined, like they were sculpted from marble—a strong jawline, and a light beard that only adds to his allure. But it is his eyes that hold the candle.
Those eyes.
Icy blue, like the depths of a stormy ocean. They pierce through me, seeping into my thoughts, unraveling everything I thought I knew about control. They see too much, and in their depths, I feel something stirring—something dark and inevitable.
He steps closer, and the air between us crackles with tension. His gaze is unyielding, a predator’s stare. His presence is suffocating and intoxicating all at once.
Oscar steps back, although he stays for just a moment longer, watching us as if he’s waiting for something. But Mr. Moretti’s voice cuts through the air, commanding, like a velvet rope pulling at Oscar’s presence.
“Thank you, Oscar. You’re excused.” The words are smooth, polite, but firm, and Oscar nods and leaves without a word.
And then it is just the two of us.
I stand there, suspended in the gravity of this moment, and everything about him feels so familiar, like the darkest part of me has been waiting for him, for this. The pull between us is undeniable, magnetic, and I cannot look away.
His eyes, so cold yet burning, meet mine, and for the first time, I feel both insignificant and irrevocably tethered to something far beyond me.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” The words slip from my lips before I can stop them, barely audible, but undeniable.
It is him. It has always been him. I see it now, clearer than I ever could before.
His head cocks ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. The way he looks at me, like a person who has already claimed me without saying a word. He doesn’t need to say anything. His presence, his silence, speaks volumes.
However, that doesn’t make it right, does it? Had he been anything less than the beautiful enigma before me, perhaps I would have felt disgust clawing at my throat, forcing me to recoil from the judgment I knew I would make. But no. Instead, the veil of charm pulled tight around his frame, and here I am, mesmerized by the facade that betrays my own sense of propriety. After all, the devil wears cashmere, and he is said to be strikingly handsome.
“Take a walk with me.” His voice is a low, almost melodic command as his hands settle in the pockets of his slacks. His height towers, both commanding and captivating, like a looming shadow pulling me toward him.
“You’re the founder of this academy?” I question him, my voice cutting through the air like a blade, my gaze fixed on him as my legs move.
“No, the founder died.” I find no clarity in his reply. My thoughts fray at the edges, hesitant but persistent.
“So, who are you, then?”
“One could say I wear a thousand skins.” The words spill from him with unsettling ease .
I scoff, heart quickening in a strange mix of curiosity and apprehension.
“Am I supposed to find that flattering?”
“The response or the sobriquet?” His reply lingers in the air, thick with something unspoken.
“Both,” I retort dryly.
“Depends.” He only shrugs, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at his nonchalance, unwilling to let him see my thoughts, though they are as transparent as glass.
“On what?” I press, defiant.
“Appeasing your boss, ” he murmurs, his tone sending a ripple of unease through me.
My steps falter, my body tensing. Did he just?—?
Before I can think any further, he clears his throat, “I did not pardon you to stop walking.”
A brief haze settles over me, my mind swirling. My jaw tightens as I hold back the retort, but the reality of the situation sinks in. I’m no longer playing a game of hide and seek. This man has more power in his presence than I can begin to understand.
Bird Dogs had always been a familiar term—patrons sent to find talent—but this feels different, darker. What could he possibly want with me?
“You must be confused,” I begin, my voice shaking ever so slightly, “My dancing was paralyzing, to say the least, and I doubt any Bird Dogs would?—”
“The words that come out of my mouth will never be short of unequivocal,” he interrupts, and my breath catches in my chest. “While your dancing was abhorrent, it was not you. I’ve seen your flair, Odessa, and I might just want it for myself. ”
We round yet another corner, and my senses are assaulted by the soft scent of jasmine, the blooming dandelions, and the melancholic beauty of the garden that unfolds before me. The space around us is lush, a labyrinth of vibrant flowers, each shade more vivid than the last, their fragrances heavy in the air. The garden stretches out like a secret world, a cocoon of beauty. I barely notice when he pulls out a chair for me to sit, his movements smooth and deliberate.
“Perhaps a name would be a great start, don’t you think?” I say, my voice steady despite the tension in the air.
I take my seat, and his lips brush against my ear, sending a shiver through me, sharp as cold iron. The scent of sandalwood and vetiver surrounds me, intoxicating, and I can’t resist leaning into it, like a moth drawn to flame. My body betrays me as I inch closer, yearning to inhale his scent deeper, to bury myself in it.
“That would be Sebastian,” he whispers, his voice low, as if sharing a secret. His proximity makes my head spin, the warmth of his breath on my skin like fire against ice.
Sebastian. The name settles on my tongue, bitter yet sweet, lingering like poison and honey. For a moment, I consider how strange it would be, if the circumstances were different. If I were not in this tangled mess. A moonlit lake ripples beside us, its surface clear and cold, a perfect reflection of the sky. Swans glide through the water, their elegance a stark contrast to the chaotic knot tightening in my chest. Wild roses bloom nearby, their scent sweet, almost cloying in its perfection. The table between us is set with bread, wine, and delicacies—luxury laid before us like a tempting siren’s call. But none of it matters. Not the view, nor the beauty surrounding us, because my attention is anchored solely on the man across from me .
He catches me staring, and a smirk tugs at his lips, again. I quickly avert my gaze, seeking distraction in the water, in the wild, fragile beauty of the world around me.
“Local legend has it that centuries ago, a gash of stone was scooped away here and replaced by a heap of diamond, clear as day. It was molded into this very spot, hidden behind this convent quiet, drenched in the saccharine sweet nectar of the gods.” His voice wraps around me like a velvet rope, dark and honeyed, and I find myself leaning in, drawn to his words.
His eyes flicker, narrowing slightly. “Why were you late, Odessa?”
“Why am I here, Sebastian?” I challenge, my voice carrying more defiance than I intended. His gaze holds, his eyes darkening with something dangerous, and I swallow, feeling small under his scrutiny. “I missed my alarm,” I lie, but the words taste like ash.
His gaze flickers briefly, skepticism dancing behind his icy eyes. He lifts a hand, the action seamless, as a man suddenly appears from the shadows, dropping a manila folder into his hands before disappearing just as quietly.
“You shall go over this tonight,” Sebastian says, handing the folder to me, his fingers brushing mine. “Tomorrow evening, my driver shall pick you up and we will discuss the terms inside.” His eyes darken some more, his tone blunt as a blade. “I don’t take no for an answer, Odessa, and you should know better than to disrespect me with lies.”
The folder feels heavy in my hands, like a thousand secrets I’m not ready to know. His stare burns into me, unyielding. “I won’t ask again.”
I choke on the words, my throat tight, the lie tasting worse than anything I’ve ever swallowed.
“I had personal matters to attend to,” I murmur, my voice faltering.
Sebastian leans back in his chair, and the disapproval in his eyes is almost palpable. He stands, his voice cold as he speaks once more.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, “Savor the meal my staff has crafted for you and Oscar will escort you out, once you are done.” He stares at me for a moment longer, his gaze searching, as though expecting something from me. But before I can answer, he turns, disappearing behind the floral wall.
I’m left with nothing but the quiet hum of unease crawling up my spine. The garden that had seemed so tranquil now feels like a prison.
I glance at the folder again, my fingers trembling as I clutch it tightly. Something in the pit of my stomach churns, and the unease that settles there grows heavier with each passing second.
What is this? Why does it feel wrong?
Shouldn’t there be a spark of triumph, a quiet sense of achievement, as though I am finally on the threshold of the future I’ve imagined in the quiet corners of my mind? Yet all I feel is the pressure of inevitability, like a suffocating fog. It’s as though I’ve walked willingly into a web, each thread tightening around me, and now, I’m ensnared, unable to escape the very path I once thought would lead me to freedom. The promise of what I sought has become a dark labyrinth, and the walls are closing in.