Sometimes, I feel that I was born into the wrong life.
And by “sometimes”, I mean all the time.
The situation I currently find myself in is a prime example.
I’m standing in a ballroom so gilded in excess it makes my teeth ache. Crystal chandeliers glitter overhead. The walls are lined with gold filigree and centuries-old paintings meant to impress people with too much money and not enough taste. The clink of champagne glasses fills the air, mixed with the dull, polite murmur of political conversation.
It’s the sort of event I loathe.
But I’m not here for me. I’m here because this is the kind of event my father thrives in.
Leonard Kim, U.S. Congressman and career politician, is In. His. Element. Parties like this are a drug to him—shaking hands, making promises, spinning current events. And tonight, I’m part of his carefully crafted performance.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be anywhere near a fundraiser for my father’s campaign coffers, especially not when it’s being hosted by the “Daughters of the Gilded Era”: a cartoonishly WASPy, stuck-up and snobbish collection of upturned noses and dynastic trust funds.
But then there’s the unfortunate reality of my life as a ballet dancer, which is that ballet isn’t just art—it’s war on the body for those who practice it. And my body is taking a beating these days.
Since being cast as Odette and Odile in the production of Swan Lake that the Zakharova Ballet is mounting in a few months, I’ve been pushing myself even harder. I have to. Personally I think that Madame Kuzmina, our Artistic Director, is insane to have cast me in the role of the Swan Queen, which involves playing both the White and the Black Swan, but that’s what she’s done. So I’ve been putting in tons of grueling overtime with extra practice on top of the hours and hours of rehearsals to make damn sure I live up to her expectations.
And all that extra work is destroying my body. Shin splints, tendonitis, stress fractures… You name it.
On the plus side, one of the best dance physios in the country happens to be right here in New York.
On the not-so-plus side, she’s out of network and costs a small freaking fortune every visit. And it’s a lot of visits.
Normally I pay my own way, even when my father offers to refill my measly bank account. Dad and I don’t exactly see eye-to-eye, and I’ll be damned if I take his money.
Is that pride biting me in the nose to spite my face?
Yup.
That said, there are extenuating circumstances.
Like Dr. Miravalles draining my meager bank account to zero, and my rent being due soon.
So when Leonard offered me money to accompany him tonight, I said yes. I had to. A single evening of playing his perfect daughter, and I can survive for another month.
And Dad is currently making damn sure he gets his money’s worth.
“Of course, Naomi is an accomplished dancer,” Leonard says smoothly to the couple he’s been schmoozing for the past ten minutes, a billionaire philanthropist and his wife who look at me like I’m a particularly well-trained pet. “She’s with the Zakharova Ballet.”
He keeps his hand lightly on my back, a constant reminder that I’m on display, that I have a role to play—his daughter, his little success story and future protégée.
This isn’t him praising me. It’s him showing me off like a trophy.
“I’m sure you’re very proud of her,” the wife says, offering me a kind smile. “The Zakharova is a fine company.”
Leonard chuckles, as if the idea of my dancing being a point of pride is adorable. “Yes, it’s a wonderful little hobby. Fantastic way to keep fit. But one day, she’ll join me in Washington.” He turns to flash a nauseatingly fake smile my way. “She has far too sharp a mind to waste it dancing forever.”
A hobby. A way to keep fit.
The words feel like a slap, though they don’t surprise me. I’ve been dancing since I was four, and not once has Leonard treated it as anything but a phase I’ll eventually grow out of. He doesn’t see the blood, the exhaustion, the years of my life I’ve sacrificed on the altar of ballet.
This isn’t something I do—it’s who I am. He doesn’t, and won’t ever, seem to understand that.
I force a smile, curling my fingers around the stem of my champagne glass, trying to keep from snapping the delicate crystal.
“I’ve actually been dancing professionally since I was seventeen,” I smile, tilting my head in faux amusement. “So—not really a hobby,” I try to add as lightly as humanly possible.
Leonard’s grip on my back tightens, a subtle warning.
Play along.
“Of course, sweetheart,” he says. His voice is smooth as silk, but there’s a weight beneath it. “But one day, you’ll want something real.”
Something real.
I want to hurl my champagne in his face.
Instead, I do what I always do. Swallow my anger. Let him talk, weaving the narrative that makes him look good and makes me look like a silly little girl who will eventually grow up and step into the role Daddy has carved out for me.
Not that I ever will.
“Wasn’t your mother a dancer too?”
This question comes from an older woman who’s just joined the small group.
“Yes,” I say stiffly. “She—”
“Oh, she was a lovely dancer,” Leonard interrupts, ever the polished statesman. He says it with a dismissive wave, as if my mother’s entire career was a passing fancy. “But of course, she left all that behind when we married. A natural transition. A real career is far more fulfilling.”
I glance at the guests around us with their polite smiles, all nodding in agreement.
Before I can stop myself, the words come out sharply. “She wasn’t just a lovely dancer. She was a professional who danced with the Joffrey.” I turn to level a defiant look at the woman who asked the question. “Personally, I think it’s a tragedy that she quit at all.”
A beat of silence follows, the kind of awkward pause when someone goes off script.
Leonard’s jaw tenses almost imperceptibly before his oily smile returns. “Of course, sweetheart. She was very…graceful.”
He swiftly redirects the conversation toward safer waters. I stand there, seething, a child in a room full of adults who have decided my opinion doesn’t matter.
A few minutes later, Leonard pulls me aside, his expression neutral but his tone laced with quiet reproach. “Naomi, please. The Daughters of the Gilded Era are always very generous to my campaign. That was Delores Cunningham you just mouthed off to, for crying out loud.”
My brows knit in confusion. ‘Who?’
“The Vice President of the society,” my father mutters through clenched teeth. He exhales through his nose sharply. “Politics is an art too, Naomi. It takes skill to dance through conversations at these sorts of events.”
A slow smile tugs at my lips. “Then I guess I should go practice my steps.”
Before he can reply, I turn and slip away.
I need to get out, just for a moment.
I weave my way through the crowd, offering tight smiles and murmured apologies as I nudge past women draped in designer gowns and men in tailored suits. Leonard is busy schmoozing, securing whatever future he envisions for himself.
It takes me less than a minute to find the hallway. It’s quieter here, and the ornate excess of the ballroom fades, replaced by cold marble and sleek, modern architecture. A door marked STAIRS is at the far end, unguarded. I hesitate for only a moment before pushing through.
I start climbing, my heels clicking too loudly against the concrete steps in the silence. At the top, I push open a door to the roof of the building, and the cool night air finally swallows me whole.
New York stretches out glittering before me, and I slowly inhale and exhale as if to purge my lungs of the stuffy gala downstairs. There’s not much up here: a few plastic milk crates, a metal bucket of sand stuffed with cigarette butts, a couple of empty beer bottles. But the view is incredible.
I grin as I walk over to the edge of the roof. I lean over, daring myself to look down at the cars easily thirty stories beneath me as the wind rushes over my face.
I pull back, and when I glance to the side, my brows perk up in interest. There’s a divider wall next to me, as if sectioning off another part of the rooftop, with flowers, leaves, and trailing vines poking out from the other side. When I lean out again, I smile.
It’s a whole private garden oasis, walled off on both sides, and it looks incredible.
I lean out over the edge again, craning my neck to peek around the wall. There’s no lights or anything, and the only way I can see someone would get to it is through another plain, steel, windowless door like the one I just walked out of.
But it just looks so peaceful and charming…
Something inside me rebels at the idea of having to slink my way back to that ridiculous party downstairs. I gulp as I eye the narrow ledge that wraps around the edge of the wall. Then I glance down at the city lights twinkling thirty stories below.
This is a supremely stupid idea.
But screw it.
I slip off my heels, my dress swirling around my legs as I step onto the ledge.
My heart instantly climbs up into my throat as I try not to look down. The wind tugs at my hair as I move carefully and deliberately, holding onto the flat edge of the wall, one foot in front of the other. The stone beneath me is cool and solid, but the drop below is endless. My heart pounds, but I keep going.
Finally, I’m on the other side of the divider, and I step down onto solid ground.
I exhale, a slow, steady, triumphant breath.
Made it.
The little garden is quiet, secluded, and seriously stunning. Flowers tumble from planters, the air thick with the scent of jasmine. The little lanterns surrounding it are switched off, but a small pond filled with lily pads and flowering plants gurgles quietly as the little fountain in the middle sprinkles over the surface.
After suffering the last hour downstairs at that gala, it’s like pure, peaceful heaven up here. And for a moment, it’s mine.
I move to the edge, looking out over the city, an endless sea of lights, movement and energy. I could honestly stay here all night, just disappear and let the party below continue without me.
But then I hear voices.
Low, rough, and coming from the other side of the ivy-covered wall opposite the one I just climbed around.
I freeze.
Something about their tones of voice—one sharp with fear, the other smooth but cutting—keeps me rooted to the spot.
I shift silently, slipping closer to the wall. The one I snuck around was solid metal. But this one looks to be older wrought iron, almost entirely choked by ivy. I lean closer, my pulse racing as I press my fingertips against the ironwork and peer through the foliage.
Holy shit.
I know the man standing on the other side, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the orange ember casting dramatic shadows across his chiseled face.
Nico Barone, younger brother of Carmine, the new don of the Barone mafia family. But more to the point, Bianca’s—who dances in the Zakharova with me—older brother.
Who happens to be devastatingly gorgeous in a downright dangerous, bad decision kind of way.
And who I will only privately—very privately—admit, blushingly, shamefully, that I’ve always had a tiny bit of a crush on.
I mean, come on. The man is danger and temptation incarnate. Dark hair, tousled just enough to look effortless. Striking, razor-sharp blue eyes, and tattoos that snake down his arms and creep sensually up his neck all the way to his chiseled jawline.
To top it all off, he carries himself with an easy, smug confidence, an almost lazy dominance that makes it impossible to look away.
I have zero freaking clue what he’s doing up on this roof. But I watch anyway as he and the other man…whom I don’t recognize…argue. Well, the other guy is arguing, his face scrunched up and angry. Nico is just casually watching him, taking slow drags on his cigarette.
A chill runs down my spine at the seemingly effortless way Nico seems to hold all the power in this exchange, all while looking completely relaxed.
The other man bares his teeth, his voice angry.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he snarls.
Nico exhales smoke, tilting his head. “Then I’ll say it again, slower. Who. The. Fuck. Is. Paying. You.”
My fingers clench the ivy and iron as the other man bristles.
“Who I do business with is none of your goddamn concern. We had a deal—”
“I don’t do deals with little fuckers who are more interested in spying on me and my family than they are in actually completing said deal. So why don’t we cut the bullshit, and we can skip to the part where you just tell me what I want to—”
“You don’t scare me, Barone,” the other man spits. I can see his throat muscles working, his hands twitching at his sides. “I don’t give a fuck. I know you’re involved in that fucking club,” he whispers, his voice fraying at the edges.
Nico stills.
Something shifts in the air. It’s subtle, but even I can feel it as surely as if the temperature had dropped.
The man facing Nico definitely feels it, too. He stiffens, chest heaving with the effort of trying to hide his fear. But it’s useless. You can see it in the way his fingers twitch, in the way his breath quickens.
“What club?” Nico asks, his voice silken, but with a sharp edge underneath it that makes my skin prickle. A slow, predatory smile curves his lips.
The man hesitates, clearly regretting opening his mouth.
“The Black Court,” he finally grits out, jaw clenched like he’s bracing for impact.
Nico takes a slow step toward him.
The man’s courage falters, his attempt at defiance crumbling under the sheer weight of Nico’s presence.
Nico keeps advancing.
“And what is that?” His voice is calm, unhurried.
The man stumbles over his words. “N-nothing,” he mumbles. “It’s just a rumor.”
“Well, I’d very much like to hear this rumor.”
The smoothness is gone now, his voice dropping deeper and more dangerous.
The man caves, shrinking into himself, his back pressed up against the roof ledge behind him as if he’s painfully aware that there’s nowhere to run.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe.
“Tell me what exactly you heard about this…rumor.”
The man shakes his head, as if that will somehow make Nico back off.
Slowly, Nico takes a final drag of his cigarette, plucks it from his lips, then deftly flicks it over the edge, sending it into the cool night air.
He moves quickly, and the man is instantly choking as Nico’s fingers wrap around his throat.
I slap a hand over my mouth, stifling a gasp. My heart slams against my ribs.
“Tell me what you heard,” Nico murmurs, his tone disturbingly quiet, like he’s done this a thousand times before.
The man chokes, his hands clawing frantically at Nico’s wrist.
“The—The Black Court,” he bleats, his voice strangled. “Everyone knows it’s out there!”
Nico doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink.
“And?”
The man’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “And…” His voice is barely more than a rasping whisper now. “And you’re part of it.”
There’s a beat.
Then Nico exhales a quiet sigh, glancing past the man and over the edge of the building. His fingers tighten just slightly, and the man lets out a strangled wheeze.
“Such a shame,” Nico says thoughtfully, dragging his gaze back to the man.
“Wh—what is?” the man gasps.
Nico’s lips curl slightly. “That you don’t have wings.”
Then, without hesitation, he shoves the man over the ledge.
I bite back a scream, my entire body going rigid as I hear the faint, fading sound of a strangled cry and the sickening silence that follows.
I whirl, heart hammering wildly against my chest.
I have to get out of here.
I lurch up onto the narrow ledge and start to cat-walk back around to the other side of the metal wall. My bare feet grip the cool stone beneath them, every muscle in my body trembling as I rapidly inch my way around.
Suddenly, my foot slips.
My brain short-circuits.
The world lurches.
Pure, blind terror rips through me as gravity wraps me in its grip and yanks me sideways off the ledge.
I drop, my stomach bottoming out, my pulse screaming in my ears.
…And then suddenly, I come to a jarring stop.
My breath chokes raggedly from my throat, my eyes wide as my gaze snaps to a strong, tattooed hand wrapped firmly around my wrist.
My body jerks violently, my heart stuttering in my chest as I dangle in mid-air.
My gaze drags higher, over the tattooed hand, the muscled, rippling, inked forearm…
…Right up into Nico’s steely eyes—blue, piercing, and amused—as he holds me dangling thirty stories above New York.
His fingers tighten around my wrist, strong and unyielding, and for a second, I honestly don’t know if he’s going to pull me up, or let me fall.
A slow, knowing smirk curves his lips.
“Well, well, little ballerina,” he growls quietly. “It looks like you don’t have wings either.”
