Chapter Seven
Lena
I feel him long after he’s gone.
The sensation of his mouth against mine. The way his hard body moved fluidly with mine as we danced, and the contrasting gentleness of his eyes…
I close my eyes, letting myself sink into the memories of last night, his kiss, his touch. My lips tingle, my stomach tightening deliciously as pleasure floods me.
Oh God, Lena…
What if you’re just a momentary fling? You can’t possibly think a man like Damien Blackwell will choose you.
Doubt crawls in, causing my stomach to tighten with apprehension, but I ignore it. Whatever happens, I’ll cherish the time I spend with Damien in my heart forever. No man has ever made me feel so seen and cherished…
I don’t regret giving my virginity to him. On the contrary—it feels like it’s always been his to take. To claim.
I sit on the couch, hugging my knees to my chest, smiling like an idiot.
Maybe the world would judge me for sleeping with my ex-boyfriend’s dad, but nothing’s ever felt more right. More beautiful.
I sigh, thinking back to the kiss we shared just before he left. He tasted like smoke and sin. I shiver just remembering it.
But then I recall the phone call. The way his expression had shuttered instantly, hard and cold. He’d left without explanation, muttering about something urgent at the office. It had to be serious.
I wonder if he’s okay. I wonder if I’ll see him tonight.
Before I can spiral too much, my phone starts buzzing from where I left it on the windowsill. I stretch over and grab it, blinking at the name lighting up the screen.
Abby.
“Hey, sis, what’s up?”
She jumps right in. “Lena, have you…seen the news?” Her voice sounds tense. Cautious.
My chest tightens. “What news?”
Abby hesitates, her voice dropping. “There’s a problem. And…you’re involved.”
The line goes silent except for the pounding in my ears. My hand trembles as I fumble for the remote. The TV blinks to life, flooding the room with sound and light.
My stomach dips as I see my face splashed across the screen. Next to Logan on one side, Damien on the other.
“Oh my God.”
The remote slips from my hand, clattering to the floor.
The headline scrolls across the bottom in bold, ugly letters:
Blackwell Academy Scandal: Ballerina at Center of Father-Son Affair.
I can vaguely hear my sister calling for me through the phone, her voice worried, wanting to know if I’m okay, but I can’t get out the words to answer her. My ears are ringing so loudly I can barely make out the voices from the TV, but the words still cut through.
“…rumors of her seducing instructors for roles…”
“…pictures circulating online, raising questions about favoritism…”
“…seen with both Logan Blackwell and Damien Blackwell in compromising situations…”
Pictures flash across the screen. There’s an old photo from my own social media of me with Logan, his arm thrown around my shoulder. It’s from the very beginning of our relationship, before I knew what he was—he’s kissing my cheek as I look at whoever’s holding the camera.
I gasp as the next picture comes into view.
This one’s of me and Damien, from last night when he walked me to his car.
I have no idea who took the photo, but they somehow got close enough to catch the moment we almost kissed, when Damien opened the car door for me.
He’s leaning down toward me, our faces close together, and I’m looking up at him like he’s my whole world.
The room tilts.
No. No, no, no.
My throat closes like I’m being strangled, and I stumble backward until my shoulder hits the wall, clutching at it for support. My heart is slamming too fast, too loud, and I slide down the wall, curling in on myself.
I can feel myself slipping into a dark place, but I’m helpless against the pull.
My sister is my lifeline. I pick up the phone to see that our call hasn’t ended. “Abby?”
“Lena.” She sounds so relieved to hear my voice. “Are you…okay? Where are you?”
Her voice helps me gather my strength.
“I’m alright,” I manage to choke out. “I’m…
I’ll come home later today. It’s twin time, right?
” Today is our weekly sister time—we can’t dance together anymore, so we mostly play Mario Cart and talk.
About our lives, our dreams, anything and everything.
Abby was the first one to know when Logan broke up with me, and why.
She sighs. She can probably tell by my tone that I’m not up for talking about it yet. “Yes. I have my appointment, but I’ll see you after that. We can talk then. I love you, sis.”
“I love you too, Abby,” I say, ending the call.
“Abby.” I whisper my sister’s name like a prayer. If I give up now, I’m not only quitting on myself, I’m quitting on her too. But what can I possibly do to fix this?
Another buzz slices through the haze in my head. A text this time.
I swipe at the screen with shaking fingers.
Instructor Hayes: Come in. ASAP.
My stomach twists. My chest still hurts from the panic, but I force myself to inhale.
I shove to my feet, wipe at my eyes, and hurry to the bedroom, catching the image of myself in the mirror.
I look like a wreck. My eyes are puffy, my skin flushed, but I don’t have time to care.
I pull on a black leotard, tug jeans over it, and twist my hair into a bun with trembling hands.
My bag slams against my hip as I throw it over my shoulder and head out.
The air in the Academy has felt tense ever since the rumors about me started, but now it’s outright hostile.
The moment I step inside, the air becomes heavy, almost stifling.
Every click of my shoes down the corridor echoes louder than usual, punctuated by the sharp sting of whispers that follow me like wildfire.
“There she is…”
“Did you see the pictures?”
“…both father and son, can you imagine?”
I keep my chin high, eyes forward. If I look at them, I’ll fall apart.
After what feels like an eternity, I finally reach Hayes’ office at the end of the hall. I rap my knuckles against the door, my heart hammering loudly in my chest.
“Come in.” His voice is clipped, colder than usual.
I push the door open. Instructor Hayes sits behind his desk, his silver-framed glasses perched low on his sharp nose, graying hair slicked back to perfection.
His suits are always immaculate, like he cares more about looking like a Wall Street broker than a dance instructor. He doesn’t look up as I step inside.
“Sit.”
I do, gripping the edge of the chair. “Sir, I—”
He cuts me off with a flick of his hand. “Spare me, Clarke. I’ve seen the news. The Academy has seen the news. This scandal is unacceptable.”
“It’s not true,” I blurt. My throat is tight, but I push on. “None of it is true. I would never—”
“Clarke.” His voice sharpens, eyes narrowing at me over his glasses.
“You think I care about your excuses? This isn’t about truth.
It’s about perception. About reputation.
The Blackwell name is already involved, and the Academy will not be dragged into the mud with it.
You’ll be stepping down from your role in the upcoming event. ”
“What?” I gasp, sitting forward in the chair. “But I’ve worked so hard for that role—you know that. You said yourself that I earned—”
“Not anymore,” he cuts in curtly. His tone is final, like a judge slamming down the gavel. “Effective immediately, you’re stepping down. You will be on standby. No practices, no performances until further notice.”
It feels like he’s stripped the air from my lungs.
I grip the chair tighter, nails digging into the wood. “Please. This is my shot. My career—”
He removes his glasses, folding them with a deliberate snap. His gaze is flat, pitiless. “If the board decides your scholarship should be revoked, there’s nothing I can do to protect you. Consider this your warning.”
The words hit harder than any slap. My scholarship. The one thing keeping me here, the reason I fight so hard every single day.
My throat burns, but no sound comes out. I can only sit there, feeling the world tilt and shatter around me. I suddenly feel like I’m falling, and there’s nothing to grab on to.