Casey
I love to dance. There’s not a form that doesn’t speak to me. It fills me with a sense of joy that I can’t find anywhere else. The way the music flows through my body, bleeding into my soul, pulling my limbs in delicate precision with movements that let me get lost—escape the agony and pain that grips my mind and heart.
And ballet is where my heart lies. It’s the discipline that feels like it’s part of who I am. It’s why I can’t walk away even when my insecurities tell me I should. Since I know I’ll never be a prima ballerina, I do the next best thing… teach the future of the thing that’s saved me.
That’s what I’m doing today, and I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face as I watch the roomful of five-year-olds practice their positions in front of the mirror. The tiny tutus plie and releve so adorably, my heart is practically goo on the floor. They’re animated in everything they do, wanting to succeed and please with bright eyes of excitement.
“Miss , can we spin?” one little girl, Chloe, asks me as her arms come over her head.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes before class dismisses. They know I always give them free dance time at the end of class. “Go ahead,” I tell them, turning the music to something more upbeat and fun for them.
Chloe and another little girl grab my hands and pull me to the middle of the floor with them. I twist and turn, dancing with their hands in mine. Giggles of bliss bounce off the white walls and mirrors. My head falls back in a laugh as they shake their little tutus to the beat.
Five minutes after the last child is collected, Lucinda Devereux appears in her ugly as-sin Valentino denim jumpsuit, but it costs her more than most people’s mortgage, so it must be cute, right? Her attention zeroes in on me as her stilettos click across the parquet floor. Green eyes, the color of poison, glare at the little girl at my side. “Well, what did you learn today, Chloe?”
I glance down at the tiny girl at my side. Her mouth twists as she tries to remember. My lips tuck between my teeth, not interrupting because I know she wants to answer for herself. “We learned to pay Dave.”
My hand comes up to cover my grin, but my amusement is short-lived. I should’ve known better, but I let myself forget the awful woman standing in front of me. “I’m not paying you to teach her to stand with her arms over her head. I’m paying you to make her a ballerina!” She grabs Chloe, tugging her to her side as she points a freshly manicured finger at me. The jingling of the gold bracelets adorning her arm echo with every twist of her wrist.
I keep my head up and with a polite smile on my face. No trace of intimidation to be found. Just like Dad and Uncle H taught me, I try my best to explain again why we don’t teach five-year-olds en pointe.
On the inside, my stomach twists so painfully that staying upright is difficult. My chest constricts so tightly I can’t breathe. Sweat beads at my temples and trickles down my spine. Tingles start in my nose and lips.
Calm down, . Calm. Down.
But I can’t get my heart to slow or my mind to settle as she continues her beratement, calling me everything from unqualified to a fraud.
Fire erupts behind my eyes, burning down to my sinuses. Ringing fills my ears, sharp and loud.
If this doesn’t end soon, I won’t be able to hold the tears back.
This is every time she picks up her daughter. And every time, I end up in tears because I stand there and take it. There’s not much else I can do.
“I demand another teacher. One that knows what she’s doing. Not some juvenile, inexperienced teenager they pulled off the street.”
Shit! Shit! Shit! Do. Not. Freaking. Cry.
I hate that I’m not stronger.
“What’s the problem here?” My eyes pop open at the deep, familiar voice. His chocolate depths pierce mine, a silent command passing between us. I release a breath. My heart skips and slows to a more manageable pace.
I hate how his voice cut through my panic—how a single, wordless demand calmed my hammering heart and racing mind, but he’s always had this effect.
It’s embarrassing how he appears when someone is tearing me apart, humiliating me to the brink of tears. He’s always my savior. The knight ready to fight my battles because I’m too weak and damaged to fight them on my own.
Lucinda turns her attention from me to the tall, dark, commanding man at her side, taking in his perfectly tailored Kiton suit, Berluti shoes, and a gold Patek Philippe watch that could probably feed a few third-world countries for months. Her tongue darts between her teeth and slides over her red lips. There’s no disguising her interest. The recently divorced single mom has been on the prowl since before the ink dried.
She angles her body toward Graham, extending her hand as if she’s royalty. “Lucinda Devereux of the Westchester Devereuxs.” Her lips spread, revealing her well-practiced pageant smile.
My brows dip, and I wonder how she doesn’t recognize him. Lucinda must keep up with the business pages. Graham’s face has appeared in multiple articles over the last few years for his incredible business prowess, taking crumbling businesses and rebuilding them into bigger, better versions of themselves. He’s exactly the type she’s on the hunt for.
He looks at her hand, but he doesn’t accept it. His expression gives nothing away as he lifts his dark espresso eyes back to her face. “Graham.”
If his rejection of her extended pleasantry offends her, she doesn’t show it. Her smile stays firmly in place as she bats her lashes, the outreached hand moving from the empty air to his arm. My stomach dips and knots as she wraps those painted nails around his thick bicep. Irrational jealousy that she’s touching him, quickly followed by crushing resignation, flit through me.
There’s no point in being jealous, . She’s more his type than you are.
“Oh, I’ve always loved that name. It’s so dignified and masculine. Is it a family name?”
“More like a family business name.”
“Oh! As in the Washington Post Grahams?”
The first sign of emotion flickers in his dark eyes with an annoyed eye roll and a snort. “As in Lou Gramm.”
I cough, disguising a laugh as her face pinches, having no clue who he’s talking about. I knew the story well. Maxwell told them what to put on his birth certificate, but the nurse who filled out the paperwork didn’t realize he wanted it spelled like the famous rocker. Lucinda quickly masks her confusion and gestures to the girl at her side. “This is my daughter, Chloe.” She strokes Chloe’s strawberry blond hair. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her show the little girl any affection, and my heart stings because I know it’s only for appearances. “Are you here for your daughter?”
I try to step back from them, deciding to use their conversation as my escape, but his gaze flits to mine, the warning not to move clear. And like the puppet I am, I freeze. “I’m here to get my girl, yes.”
My lips curl between my teeth as fire erupts across my cheeks until the tips of my ears burn.
Why did he say that?
I’ve struggled since he left my apartment Saturday with what transpired. Making sense of it has been impossible. Even my logic of chasing the forbidden seems ridiculous because… why now?
“Ah, wonderful. Who’s your daughter’s instructor because Chloe’s is…” She looks at me with disdain, her nose curling. “Lacking. She refuses to teach anything beyond the basic steps any idiot could learn from videos on their phone. She should be en pointe, not twirling around like an imbecile.”
My eyes drop to the floor. What can I do except reiterate for the umpteenth time that it doesn’t work that way? Even if I were confrontational, I can’t be. I’m just an instructor. Even Miss Dumond has tried to explain. Short of refusing Chloe and the woman’s money, there’s not much else she can do, and I begged Miss Dumond to please let Chloe stay.
“I pay a lot of money for Chloe to be here, and if this girl can’t teach her, she should be placed with a teacher who can. We pay for excellence, and this,” she gestures to me, making me want to disappear, “is what I’ve been given.”
Sticks and stones may break me, but words slice deeper, spilling more blood than any double-edged sword.
And I hate it. I hate the effect they have on me. The way they dig beneath my skin and torment my brain. I want so desperately to brush them aside, but they burrow so deeply, I can’t cut them out.
Disgruntled parents are inevitable. I thought I accepted this when Miss Dumond asked me to teach a class. Dealing with them is an emotional drain, leaving me worn and exhausted, but Lucinda makes me question if I can do this. For nearly a year, her ridicule and demands have chipped away at my psyche and self-confidence, and there wasn’t much to begin with.
Once again, I try to back away from the conversation when strong fingers wrap around my wrist in a firm, yet soothing grip, preventing me from moving. A jolt shoots through my arm, straightening my spine. The effects of her words still sting, but his touch brings a… not confidence, but awareness and strength, knowing I’m not alone. I’ve missed this—the way he believes in me—how he’s always had my back.
He pulls me closer, shifting me to pull my arm behind me, and then entwining his fingers with mine behind my back. Lucinda watches through narrowed eyes. “I’m no expert, so you’ll have to excuse my ignorance, but I believe what you are demanding is only taught once they’re older. The basics must be mastered before moving on, don’t you agree?” Her mouth flops open like a fish, but he doesn’t give her a chance to respond. “I also believe that en pointe is only taught once they’re older for safety reasons. Am I correct?” He looks at me, his head tilted.
And now my mouth is plopped open. He knows this? Remembers?
His throat clears as he squeezes my hand. I blink a few times, realizing he’s waiting for me to respond. “Y-yes,” I nod. “Miss Dumond won’t allow instruction for en pointe until eleven or twelve and not without X-rays. Every studio is different, but a reputable, responsible one will have similar rules.”
“I see. If that had been explained, I would not have argued.”
Graham hums. There’s a shift in the air. Indifference gives way to imperiousness and becomes palpable. “I doubt that, Ms. Devereux. I’m certain you were given documents to sign, informing you of all this when you enrolled your daughter. Given your sense of privilege and self-importance, I’m sure you’ve been told multiple times because, I doubt this is the first time you’ve thrown a temper tantrum, demanding things simply because you think your name, bank account, or whatever it is you think makes you special gives you the right. Now, why don’t you apologize so we can all continue with our evening?”
I recognize how her face reddens. How the tiny vein at her temple throbs. The woman is about to have a meltdown. “Why should I apologize?”
“To provide an example for your daughter of grace and class instead of tasteless arrogance and entitlement.” He leans in close, his voice loud enough to carry to my ears, but lowered, I assume, hoping Chloe doesn’t hear. “And because if you don’t when you wake up in the morning, the precious name you seem to think means something won’t be worth the gum on the bottom of my shoe, and you’ll have to explain to Daddy how you cost him everything because you insulted my girl .”
Her eyes turn to saucers as her head jerks toward me, and mine does the same as my attention turns to him. Shock drops our mouths. She splutters while I’m rendered immobile.
“Th-this is your daughter?” Her statement is ludicrous, but it’s the only way she can make sense of what he just said because no one would believe Graham could want me in a more intimate sense.
“Did all the Botox kill your brain cells? Do I look old enough to be her father?”
“Well, no, but you said…”
“I said I was here to get my girl. Now I have, and I’m waiting for that apology.”
If she was indignant before, now she’s livid. She grips Chloe tightly, spins on her heels, and stomps out of the room.
I turn to Graham, a hand pressed against my forehead. “What did you do? Do you realize she’ll probably withdraw her daughter now?”
“She won’t.”
Frustration winds its way through me, and I barely suppress the urge to scream. I’m begrudgingly grateful he appeared, but his declaration about me being his girl , combined with the threat to her, was uncalled for. “What was that?”
“Necessary.”
One word tells me everything. Graham is a man used to getting his way whether by willing or by force. He doesn’t stop until he does which doesn’t bode well for me or my heart.
But it doesn’t mean I can stop fighting.