Chapter 4
Ivy
The morning after the party felt less like a sunrise and more like a crime scene investigation.
I woke up in the storage closet—my room, I corrected myself, though the distinction was becoming blurrier by the hour—with a headache that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with the man who slept two floors above me.
I hadn’t drunk a drop of tequila last night. I had consumed exactly one half-cup of lukewarm tap water and a lifetime’s supply of sexual frustration.
I rolled onto my back, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked suspiciously like a grimacing face. My body felt heavy, wired, vibrating with a phantom energy that refused to dissipate.
“I think about ruining you, Ivy.”
The memory of Ben’s voice—that low, gravelly rasp that sounded like rocks tumbling in a dryer—played on a loop in my brain.
I could still feel the ghost of his hand on the nape of my neck.
I could feel the heat radiating from his chest, the solid, unyielding wall of muscle that had caged me in the pantry.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing the heels of my hands into them until stars exploded behind my eyelids.
"Stupid," I whispered to the empty room. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."
I was Ivy St. James. I was a classically trained ballerina. I was the daughter of a media tycoon. I was poised. I was disciplined. I did not hyperventilate in pantries over sweaty hockey players who treated me like a fungal infection.
But God, I wanted him to kiss me.
I had wanted it so badly that my knees had buckled.
I had wanted him to take that giant hand and wrap it around my throat and just...
take over. For five minutes. Just five minutes where I didn't have to be perfect, didn't have to be the golden girl, didn't have to hold the weight of my father’s expectations on my shoulders.
I threw the covers off, the cold air of the house biting at my bare legs.
I needed a distraction. I needed endorphins. I needed to hurt in a way that I could control.
I grabbed my phone from the floor. 10:15 AM.
There was a notification from my bank app. I opened it, bracing myself.
Balance: $42.18.
I stared at the number. Forty-two dollars. That was... two salads and a coffee in Manhattan. That was less than the cost of the moisturizer sitting in my bag.
A second notification popped up. An email from the Registrar at Blackstone.
Subject: TUITION REMINDER - SPRING SEMESTER
Dear Ms. St. James,
This is an automated reminder that the remaining balance for your Spring Semester tuition and the "Senior Showcase" fee is due by Friday. Please ensure your payment method is updated, as the previous transaction was declined.
The air left my lungs in a sharp whoosh.
The Showcase.
It was everything. It was the culmination of four years of bleeding feet and skipped meals.
Scouts from the American Ballet Theatre and the Paris Opera Ballet were coming.
It was my exit strategy. My only chance to get a job, to make my own money, to finally escape my father’s financial stranglehold.
If I didn't pay the fee, I couldn't dance. If I couldn't dance, I had no future.
My father knew that. Of course he knew that. He was squeezing the one thing that mattered to me until I choked.
I tossed the phone onto the mattress like it was a live grenade.
"Okay," I said, my voice trembling. "Panic later. Dance now."
I needed to move. I needed to feel the burn in my muscles to remind myself that I was still real, that I was still capable.
I dug through my suitcase, bypassing the cute lounge sets and grabbing my practice gear. Black leotard. Pink tights. Leg warmers. And my pointe shoes—battered, satin-stripped instruments of torture that I loved more than anything.
I marched out of the room. The house was silent. The party detritus was everywhere—crushed red cups, sticky puddles, a random sneaker in the hallway—but the bodies were gone. The boys were likely in comas.
I needed space. The living room was a disaster zone, but the basement...
I had seen a door under the stairs.
I crept down, opening the door. It smelled like damp concrete and old equipment. I flicked the light switch.
It was perfect.
It was an unfinished basement, mostly used for hockey gear storage.
But in the center, there was a large, clear square of concrete.
And against the far wall, reflecting the harsh overhead bulb, was a long, rectangular mirror—probably salvaged from a gym renovation and propped up for the guys to check their form.
Or check their abs. Knowing Jax, definitely the abs.
It was freezing down here, but that was fine. I would warm up.
I pushed a rack of hockey sticks out of the way, clearing the floor. I didn't have music—my phone was dead to me right now—but I didn't need it. The music was in my head. Tchaikovsky. Swan Lake. The Black Swan variation.
I sat on the cold floor and began the ritual. Taping my toes. Lambswool. The shoes. Tying the ribbons with efficient, brutal movements.
I stood up. I took a breath. And I began.
One Hour Later
Pain was a language I spoke fluently.
Most people thought ballet was about beauty.
About tutus and grace and floating across the stage.
They were wrong. Ballet was about physics and brutality.
It was about forcing the human body into shapes it was never designed to make, and holding it there until your muscles screamed and your bones ground together.
I was ninety minutes into a session that should have lasted forty-five.
I was dripping sweat. My leotard was soaked through, clinging to my back. My breath came in ragged, tearing gasps that echoed off the concrete walls.
But I couldn't stop.
Every time I stopped, the number $42.18 flashed in my mind. Every time I paused, I saw Ben’s eyes in the pantry, judging me, dismissing me.
“You’re nothing but noise.”
I launched myself into a series of fouettés. Spin. Whip. Spin. Whip.
Spot the wall. Spot the wall.
My leg was heavy. My core was shaking. My form was sloppy.
"Higher!" I screamed at myself, the sound raw in the empty basement. "Get it up!"
I pushed harder, driving my toe into the concrete. The friction was bad. The floor wasn't sprung wood; it was unforgiving stone. I could feel the impact jarring my knees, rattling my teeth.
I went for a grand jeté, a massive leap that required explosive power.
I launched. I hit the apex.
And then my ankle gave out.
It wasn't a snap—thank god—but a roll. A weakness. My landing foot buckled upon impact.
I crashed.
I hit the concrete hard, my hip taking the brunt of the blow, my shoulder slamming into the floor. A cry of pain ripped from my throat before I could bite it back.
I lay there, crumpled in a heap of black lycra and pink satin, gasping for air. The pain in my ankle was a hot, throbbing pulse. The pain in my hip was a dull ache.
But the pain in my chest? That was the worst.
I squeezed my eyes shut, and the dam broke. I didn't sob. I just leaked. Hot, angry tears slid down my temples, mixing with the sweat and the grime of the basement floor.
I was pathetic. I was broke. I was injured. And I was lying on the floor of a hockey frat house basement while a blizzard buried the world outside.
"What the hell are you doing?"
The voice came from the stairs.
I froze.
I didn't open my eyes. Maybe if I played dead, he would go away. Maybe he would think I was a pile of laundry.
Heavy footsteps descended the wooden stairs. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Then silence.
I could feel him standing over me. I could feel the heat radiating off him, displacing the damp chill of the basement.
"Ivy."
It wasn't a growl this time. It wasn't a command. It sounded... confused. And maybe a little alarmed.
I wiped my face aggressively with the back of my hand and pushed myself up into a sitting position. I refused to look at him. I stared at my pointe shoes. The pink satin of the right toe was shredded, stained dark with something that wasn't just sweat.
"Practicing," I croaked. My voice was wrecked. "Go away."
Ben didn't go away. He crouched down.
I saw him in my peripheral vision. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt. He was holding a bag of frozen peas. Of course he was.
"On concrete?" he asked. "Are you trying to shatter your knees, or is this some kind of avant-garde self-destruction?"
"It's the only space big enough," I muttered, reaching down to untie my ribbons. My fingers were shaking so badly I couldn't get the knot loose.
"Let me see."
"No." I batted his hand away. "I'm fine. I just slipped."
"You didn't slip. I heard you hit the floor from the kitchen. It sounded like a body drop."
He reached out again, and this time, he didn't ask. He batted my hands away and took hold of my ankle.
His grip was massive. His hand wrapped completely around my calf. But it wasn't rough. It was surprisingly, shockingly gentle.
I flinched, sucking in a breath through my teeth.
"Does that hurt?" he asked, his voice low.
"It’s fine," I lied.
"Liar." He started working the knot of the ribbon. His fingers were dexterous, efficient. He undid the double knot in seconds.
He peeled the ribbon away, then carefully, slowly, pulled the shoe off my foot.
I couldn't look. I knew what it looked like.
"Jesus Christ, Ivy."
I risked a glance.
My foot was a mess. The toes were taped, but the tape was soaked through with blood. A blister on my heel had burst. My ankle was already starting to swell, a majestic shade of violet blooming under the pale skin.
Ben stared at it. He looked horrified.
"You did this... dancing?" he asked, looking up at me. His gray eyes were wide. The annoyance was gone, replaced by a raw, unmasked shock.
"It’s normal," I said defensively, pulling my knee to my chest. "It’s the price of admission. You wouldn't understand."
"I take pucks to the chest for a living," he said flatly. "I understand pain. But this..." He gestured to my bloody foot. "This is torture. Why didn't you stop?"