Chapter 9 Holly
Holly
Mrs. Kingston's hand on my elbow is the only reason I don't walk into the Christmas tree backdrop.
“Your mark, dear,” she whispers, steering me three steps stage left.
Right. My mark. The spot I hit just fine last night. Except this time, I'm too busy watching Evan across the stage to remember where my feet are supposed to go.
The tailcoat should be illegal. The precise cut of the shoulders. The way he moves—effortless.
Evan catches my eye. That smile. The real one.
I miss the next cue. Mrs. Kingston guides me to my mark with her gentle hand on my elbow. Again.
Backstage after the party scene ends, Emma intercepts me.
“Okay, what was that?”
“What was what?” I'm adjusting props that don't need adjusting.
“You missed two blocking cues. I watched you stop moving and stare.”
“I was—”
“Holly.” Emma's grinning. “I'm happy for you. Truly. But maybe save the heart-eyes for after the show?”
Heat floods my face. “I don't have heart-eyes.”
“Sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
She disappears before I can respond.
EVAN
Intermission hits, and the backstage area floods with people. Parents checking on kids, dancers heading for water, Mrs. Kowalski calling out reminders for Act II.
Josh appears. “Can you show us now? The tap thing?”
“Show you what?”
“You said you used to tap dance. Can you teach us?”
“I don't know if—”
“Please? Mrs. Kowalski said it's fine.”
Mrs. Kowalski nods from across the backstage area.
“Well, okay then. Find some space.”
Josh scrambles to clear an area. A few other kids drift over, curious.
“The most basic step is called a time step,” I begin. “It's rhythm. You're making music with your feet.”
I demonstrate—stomp, step, step, stomp—and the movement comes back. Muscle memory.
The kids try to follow. Josh gets it almost immediately.
“That's it. Feel the beat.”
I show them a slight variation—adding a heel drop, showing them how to accent different beats.
“Room for one more?”
Holly's standing at the edge of the group.
“Yeah. Of course.”
HOLLY
He taps the rhythm—stomp, step, step, stomp—and my brain short-circuits.
It's a basic step. Nothing fancy. But watching him move with that grace, that ease, in a tuxedo tailcoat.
I’m aware I’m supposed to breathe at some point but it seems optional. Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly had a baby, and the baby grew up to be six-feet-something of devastating competence smiling at children like he's never been happier in his life.
I need to sit down. Or lie down. Or leave the building.
“Show me?” I manage.
He demonstrates the pattern. I watch his feet, try to mirror it. Get the first two beats, lose the third.
“The trick is feeling it,” he says. “Here—may I?”
I nod.
He steps closer. He takes my hands, turns them palm up like he's about to read my fortune.
Instead, his fingertips press the rhythm into my skin. Tap-tap-pause-tap. Each touch sends a small current up my arms, my shoulders, down my spine. His fingers are warm and certain against my palms, the connection so direct it's almost unbearable.
“Feel that?” he asks, his voice lower than before.
“I think so.”
He taps it again, slower. “Stomp, step, step, stomp.”
“Stomp, step, step, stomp,” I repeat.
The rhythm makes sense now, clicking into place.
“Now try it,” he says.
I step back and attempt the step. Get it perfect.
“I did it!”
“Natural.” His voice is rough.
“Because you're a good teacher.”
“Because you're a good student.”
Marie clears her throat. Loudly. “So are we doing more steps or are you guys going to stare at each other?”
Several parents laugh. My face goes scarlet.
“Right,” I say. “More steps. Everyone pay attention to Evan.”
EVAN
“Five minutes to Act II!” Mrs. Kowalski calls.
The kids scatter. Josh waves goodbye, practicing the step as he runs off. Marie hugs Holly before heading backstage.
“Want to watch Act II with me?” Holly asks. “Best seat in the house.”
“I'd like that.”
We stand side by side in the wings. Her sleeve touches mine. The Act II music fills the theater, and when Marie appears in the finale, she's radiant.
Holly's watching her niece with such pride.
I shift closer, my hand touching hers. Not an accident.
She doesn't pull away.
I hook my fingers around hers.
She threads her fingers through mine.
The music swells. The final scene plays out beautifully.
Holly squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.
HOLLY
The show ends. Curtain call happens. Backstage erupts into chaos again—parents congratulating kids, Mrs. Kowalski giving notes, everyone starting to pack up.
Evan lets go of my hand as we step back into the lights.
I miss his touch immediately.
“I should help pack up,” I say.
“What do you need me to do?”
“You don't have to—”
“Holly. What needs doing?”
I look at him. “Props need to go back to storage. Party-scene stuff?”
“Show me.”
Emma and Marie skip over, both flushed from the performance high.
“You're both coming to dinner, right?” Marie asks.
“If that's okay,” Evan says.
“It's mandatory,” Emma corrects. “Mom already set places.”
They disappear, and Evan and I are alone again.
“So,” I say. “Dinner.”
“If you'd rather I didn't—”
“No. I want you there.” I look at him. “Do you want to be there?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
EVAN
The Bennett apartment smells like roasted chicken and rosemary. The table's set for seven, food being pulled from the oven, everyone talking over each other.
“Alright, everyone,” Rebecca calls from the kitchen doorway, dish towel in hand. “I hope you're hungry.”
“Starving.”
Dinner starts with the familiar bustle. Marie's recounting the performance, Tom and Michael are debating something about sports, Emma's adding commentary to everything.
I'm sitting across from Holly.
“So Evan,” Michael says, “what do you do when you're not helping with dance recitals?”
“I run the Bellamy Foundation. We fund scholarships, after-school programs, community development projects.”
“Holly mentioned that,” Rebecca says, passing me a second helping without asking. “Wonderful work. Your father started it?”
“He did. I took over five years ago.”
“And you enjoy it?”
“I do. Especially recently. Holly's been helping restructure our winter gala—focusing on stories instead of statistics. Showing donors the impact.”
“That sounds like Holly,” Rebecca says. “You've always been that way. Even as a little girl, you'd come home from school worrying about the kids who sat alone at lunch.”
Holly's face goes pink. “Mom—”
“What? It's true.”
Everyone chuckles. Tom reaches for more potatoes.
Then: “What's a bijillionaire?”
Holly nearly chokes on her wine.
The table goes silent.
“Marie, honey, why are you asking that?” Holly manages.
“Josh's mom said Evan is a bijillionaire. Is that a bad word?”
Emma's staring at Holly like her hair is on fire. Michael and Rebecca exchange glances.
Rebecca recovers first. “Marie, that's not polite dinner conversation—”
“I thought you ran a non-profit?” Tom says.
“I do,” I say. “The Bellamy Foundation is a non-profit.
It's separate from the business holdings—my family has interests in multiple industries.
Each cousin manages different sectors, but we all share ownership in the overall conglomerate.
I chose the foundation. The others think I'm wasting my MBA, but I'd rather change lives than maximize quarterly earnings.”
The silence stretches.
“But yes, my family has significant resources,” I add.
“How significant?” Michael asks—direct, not unkind.
I meet his eyes. “Significant enough that ‘billionaire’ is accurate.”
Rebecca's eyes widen as she sets her wine glass down.
“Huh,” Tom says, looking at Holly like she's grown a second head.
Michael's expression doesn't change, but his posture shifts—straightening almost imperceptibly—the way it does when an important client walks into the bakery.
Marie looks around the table, confused. “So it IS a bad word?”
“No, sweetheart,” Holly says. “It's not a bad word. Just ... a lot of money.”
“Oh.” Marie considers this. “Does that mean you're rich?”
“Marie,” Emma warns.
“It's okay,” I say. “Yes. My family is wealthy.”
“Cool,” Marie says, and goes back to her chicken like this is settled.
The adults are still processing.
"Okay," Holly says. "This is weird, I know. I should have told you all before bringing him—"
“I should have said something earlier,” I say, looking at Michael and Rebecca. “I wasn't trying to hide anything. It's not usually the first thing I lead with.”
“I can understand that,” Michael says slowly.
The conversation restarts, but it's different now. More careful. Rebecca asks polite questions about the foundation. Tom mentions reading about tech philanthropy.
They're being kind.
Holly catches my eye across the table. She doesn't look embarrassed. If anything, she looks relieved. Like she's glad the secret is out.
I'm helping clear plates when Michael pulls me aside in the kitchen.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Holly's worked hard to build her business. Everything she has, she earned.” He's choosing his words carefully. “I need to know—is this arrangement with you going to help her career, or hurt it?”
“I'm sorry?”
“The fake dating thing.” He says it matter-of-fact. “Emma told us. We're not blind—you two are clearly fond of each other. But underneath that, there was a deal. You help each other professionally.”
My face must show my surprise because he adds, “She told Emma about needing introductions in certain social circles, the Durst Group and whatnot. Emma told Rebecca. Rebecca told me.”
“So I'm asking,” Michael continues. “Is being associated with you—with your wealth, your world—going to help her business or make people think she’s only succeeding because she's dating a billionaire?”
The question stings, but it’s fair.
“I don't know,” I admit. “I hope it helps. I'm trying to make introductions that matter, to people who'll see her talent. But you're right—there's risk. Some people might assume she's using me for access.”
“And if that happens?”