Chapter 18 #2
"Everything would be paid," she continues, and now she's the one who sounds slightly breathless, caught up in the possibility of it.
"Tuition, housing, supplies, everything.
The International Alliance of Contemporary Dance Excellence handles the financial arrangements. And with the approval of your pack—"
She pauses.
Lets the weight of that phrase settle.
"—you'll be able to leave Ruthless Academy."
Leave.
The word echoes in the sudden silence of the office.
Leave Ruthless Academy.
I've been dreaming about this since I was twelve years old.
Since the night my parents died and I was thrown into this system like refuse someone forgot to properly dispose of. Since I realized that the walls around me weren't protection but prison, and the education I was receiving wasn't preparation for life but training for death.
Leave.
Escape.
Freedom.
The concepts are so foreign, so impossible, so thoroughly beaten out of me by three years of survival that I almost can't process them.
I could be free.
Actually free.
In less than a week.
My hands are shaking worse now.
The papers rattle, the sound too loud in the quiet office.
One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
My fingers flex against the documents—open, close, open, close—four times each, trying to ground myself in sensation when my brain wants to float away into hope.
Don't hope.
Hope is dangerous.
Hope will break you when it doesn't work out.
But Ms. Chen is reaching across the desk.
Her hands—warm, steady, certain—find mine and hold them still.
The contact is startling.
I can't remember the last time someone touched me with gentleness that wasn't followed by violence. Even Sage's touches, even the tender moments we've shared, have been tinged with desperation, with the knowledge that everything could fall apart at any moment.
This is different.
This is simple.
This is a woman who cares about her students, reaching out to comfort one who's clearly falling apart.
"Change is frightening as an Omega," Ms. Chen says softly. "I know that. We're taught from the moment we present that our lives are not our own—that we exist at the pleasure of others, that our worth is determined by who claims us and what they allow us to be."
She squeezes my hands.
The pressure is grounding.
Real.
"I'm not sure about these Alphas in terms of their backgrounds.
" Her voice drops, taking on the conspiratorial tone of someone sharing secrets.
"Lawson is a name that carries weight—and not all of it good.
There are rumors, stories, the kind of things that make you wonder what darkness hides behind expensive suits and perfect smiles. "
I almost laugh.
If only you knew.
If only you knew that the darkness isn't hiding at all—it's right there on the surface, wearing dark hair and pool skills and the exhausted resignation of someone who's just learned their father wants them dead.
"But," Ms. Chen continues, and her eyes are locked on mine now, intense and sincere, "if they can take you out of this ruthless hell and provide you freedom into a world where you can find acceptance and fall in love with your passion once more—"
She pauses.
Breathes.
"I approve of it."
The tears come before I can stop them.
Not sobbing—I'm too practiced at suppressing that, too trained in the art of swallowing grief before it can show—but silent streams that track down my cheeks and drip onto our joined hands.
She approves.
Someone approves.
Someone thinks I deserve to escape.
It's such a small thing.
Such a simple thing.
But I've spent so long being told I'm not worth the air I breathe, not worth the space I occupy, not worth the dream I've been chasing—
And here's this woman, this teacher, this unexpected ally in a world full of enemies, telling me I deserve more.
"Thank you," I whisper, and my voice cracks on the words. "Thank you for... for everything. For believing in me. For telling me about the audition in the first place. For—"
I have to stop.
Have to breathe.
Have to count—one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four—before I can continue.
"Is there anything else I need to do? Any other paperwork? Any requirements I should know about?"
Ms. Chen releases my hands.
Reaches instead for a tissue from the box on her desk, pressing it into my trembling fingers with the casual efficiency of someone who's comforted crying students before.
"Keep practicing," she says. "Your technique is already exceptional, but Martinez will be looking for something special—that spark of artistry that separates good dancers from great ones. Make sure your piece tells a story. Make sure it comes from somewhere real."
Somewhere real.
I almost giggle again at that.
My whole life is somewhere real.
Tragedy and violence and the desperate need to feel something other than pain.
I have enough "real" to fuel a hundred performances.
"The audition is Saturday," Ms. Chen continues. "One week from today. You'll have access to the studio for personal practice—I've already arranged the schedule. Your pack members will need to be present for the performance as witnesses, but that's a formality."
One week.
Seven days.
168 hours until everything changes.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Ms. Chen stands, circling the desk to place a hand on my shoulder.
The weight is warm.
Maternal.
Almost like—
No.
Don't go there.
Don't compare her to Mom.
That way lies breakdown and I can't afford to break.
"The world has been cruel to you, Seraphine.
" Her voice is soft now, gentle in a way that makes my heart ache.
"Crueler than most. You've lost things that no one should have to lose, survived things that no one should have to survive.
And you've done it alone, without pack, without support, without anyone to catch you when you fall. "
Her hand squeezes my shoulder.
"But you're not alone anymore. Whatever these Alphas are—whatever their reasons for claiming you—they've given you an opportunity. Use it. Take everything they're offering and use it to escape. To find the life you were always meant to have."
The life I was always meant to have.
I close my eyes.
Behind my lids, I see it—fragments of a future I've never let myself imagine.
Stages bathed in spotlight. Audiences gasping at extensions and pirouettes.
The feel of satin ribbons wrapped around calves that move with purpose instead of survival.
Morning coffee in a kitchen that's mine, in a home that won't burn, in a world where my designation doesn't determine my worth.
Is it possible?
Can I really have that?
Or is this just another golden ticket that will turn to ash in my hands?
I open my eyes.
Ms. Chen is watching me with an expression I can't quite name.
Pride, maybe.
Hope.
The particular look of someone who's invested in your success and genuinely believes you can achieve it.
"I'll survive," I tell her, and my voice comes out steadier than I expect. "I've been doing it this long. A few more days won't kill me."
Probably.
Maybe.
Unless Kai's father sends more assassins.
Unless the poison has lingering effects I don't know about.
Unless the universe decides it hasn't kicked me enough yet.
But I don't say any of that.
Just fold the papers carefully—two folds, not three, never three—and tuck them into the bag at my feet. My bag. Still here, still intact, still containing the few possessions I managed to grab before everything burned.
Ro.
Some clothes.
The fragments of a life I'm apparently supposed to rebuild.
"Thank you," I say again, standing. "For everything. For telling me. For arranging the studio time. For—"
For caring.
For being one of the only people at this academy who's ever looked at me and seen something other than crazy.
Ms. Chen smiles.
It's a warm smile.
A real one.
"If there's anything else you need," she says, moving to open the door for me, "anything at all—advice, support, someone to talk to—my door is always open. You've made it this far through sheer determination. Don't lose that now, when you're so close to the finish line."
I nod.
Step toward the door.
Pause.
"Ms. Chen?"
"Yes?"
"If I make it—if I get the scholarship, if I leave—" The words catch in my throat. "Will you remember me? Not as the crazy Omega with the body count, but as... as someone who danced? Someone who tried?"
Her eyes soften.
Something that might be tears glistens at the edges.
"I'll remember you as one of the most remarkable young women I've ever had the privilege of teaching," she says quietly. "And when I see your name in lights someday—because I will see it, Seraphine, I have no doubt—I'll tell everyone who will listen that I knew you when."
The sob that escapes is small.
Contained.
But it's real.
I cross the threshold.
Turn back one last time.
"Any last advice?"
Ms. Chen's smile turns into something fiercer.
Prouder.
"Survive like you have been, Seraphine."