The alarm hasn’t gone off yet, but I’m awake.
Have been for a while.
The sky outside my window is still a muted shade of gray, midway between dawn and night. My sheets are damp with sweat. My hands are clenched, like I’ve been holding onto the mattress to keep from falling through it.
I blink at the ceiling, the dull pre-dawn noise of New York the only sound. It could be any other morning where I wake up early to stretch before heading to the theater.
It’s not.
Because today, I wake up to jagged fragments of memory. Nightmares that wrap around my chest and squeeze until I forget how to breathe.
I rub my face, digging my knuckles into my eye sockets, hoping pressure will erase the memories.
The bed.
The cold.
The nurse’s voice.
“You were digitally penetrated, Mia.”
Mia. I gave them a fake name. I sat in that clinic with trembling hands and a queasy stomach, lying about who I was because for some truly fucked up reason, I was worried about my dad’s political aspirations, especially with his upcoming nomination to a Cabinet position.
I’d just been raped, or assaulted, or whatever you want to call it, and I gave the nurse a fake name. Because even after waking up in that studio, naked and used and sick with myself, part of me was still thinking about Leonard’s career. His future.
God, am I fucked up.
I hate that part of me.
I push the covers off and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The coldness of the floor grounds me for a moment.
I walk to the bathroom, shed the oversized t-shirt I slept in, and get into the shower.
Again.
I did this three hours ago. I got up around 2 a.m., trembling, and stood under the water until my skin was shriveled. But now I do it again anyway. The feeling didn’t go away before—maybe this time, it will.
I don’t cry. There’s no energy for that. Only the sound of the water and the slick slide of soap against my skin as I scrub my body raw.
When I get out, I don’t bother with makeup. I throw on black leggings and a black leotard with a hoodie over it. My ballet bag is already packed. I haven’t touched my phone in three days.
The only texts I’ve answered were on that first night, and they were short, flat lies: “Just a bug. I’m okay.”
I’m not okay.
But I’m going to class.
If not, I’ll fall apart.
If I don’t dance, I won’t know who I am anymore.
I throw my hair into a quick bun, zip up my hoodie, and walk out into the pale morning.
The cold wind bites at my skin as I walk to the subway. I try to forget his hands. Try to forget the sticky residue on my stomach, the panic climbing up my throat when I opened my eyes and realized I was naked and alone.
The bed was stripped. The lights were off. The camera was gone. Actually, everything was gone from the studio, except the bare boxspring I was lying on.
Naked. Sore between my legs.
Cum on my fucking belly.
Those first few numb hours are a blur. I remember throwing up on the floor, and then finding my bag riffled through, with some cash, my iPad, and a pair of my fucking underwear missing from it.
My mother’s libretto of Swan Lake was also gone.
After that, I threw up again, yanked on my clothes, and ran out.
The nurse who saw me at the nearby clinic was kind. She’s the one who examined me and told me there was no evidence anyone had had sex with me. They’d used their fingers on me, though.
In me.
That’s when I vomited yet again, somehow.
She also told me they’d run the semen sample from my skin through their database, but nothing had popped up. Her face had twisted when she told me she legally had to report this as a crime, and that when I was ready, she was going to need my real name.
I just nodded when she smiled again and walked out of the room to get the paperwork and the in-house therapist.
The second she left, I ran.
Today, I’m going back to the one place I’ve always felt safe, the only place that still feels like it belongs to me.
The ballet studio.
The back door of the Zakharova Theater is traditionally where all the dancers meet up at the start of the day to shoot the shit, bitch and moan, or smoke before we go inside to destroy ourselves at the barre. Usually, I love standing out here with my friends.
Today, it feels foreign.
Lyra, Milena, Brooklyn, and Evelina are already there, huddled together. Lyra looks like a wreck—eyes puffy, hair hastily pinned, terrible body language.
Then they spot me.
‘Naomi!’ Milena says, breaking from the group to rush toward me. The other three follow. “How are you feeling?”
Horrible.
Disgusting.
Violated.
I shrug tiredly. “I’m…okay. It was just a stomach bug.”
Milena’s brows knit. “You were MIA for almost three days, solnishka.”
Her gaze lingers on me for another second before the others crowd around.
“So… What’s going on?” I say, forcing a smile even though it feels totally hollow. Empty.
Lyra lowers her puffy eyes, shaking her head. “It’s just…a lot to process. It’s been a weird few days, you know?”
The rest of them nod solemnly in agreement.
Okayyy, I’m definitely missing something.
“Have you gone to see her yet?” Evelina asks me. “I mean, I know you were sick, but I’m sure she’d love to see you.”
I blink. “I…” My head shakes. “What’s going on?”
They all fall silent.
Milena’s face softens.
‘Wait… You don’t know?’
My stomach clenches. “I’ve…had my phone off for three days. What is it?”
Lyra squeezes her eyes shut, hugging herself. “Someone set off a car bomb outside the Barone house at Vito’s birthday party. Bianca almost walked right into it. Kratos pulled her back. She’s still in hospital.”
The words hit like a punch to the face.
‘What?!” I scream. Vaughn catches my horrified expression and jogs over from the group of male dancers he’s been smoking with.
“You disappeared on us,” he says with a frown.
“She didn’t know about Bianca,” Brooklyn says quickly and quietly before he can launch into any of his usual innuendo.
“Fuck, are you serious?”
I ignore him and focus on Lyra. “So Bianca—”
‘She’s fine,’ Lyra says quickly. ‘She’s on bed rest now, but she’s okay.’
I stare blankly at her.
‘She’s pregnant,’ Milena says gently.
Something sparks in me.
Warmth. Joy. The first happiness I’ve felt in days.
‘The baby’s fine,’ Lyra continues. ‘They’re monitoring her, keeping her off her feet for a while, but…” Her mouth twists. “She might have to quit the company. I think she was planning on staying at least into her second trimester, but now… I don’t know.”
The words hang there, heavy and looming.
The idea of Bianca quitting ballet doesn’t quite compute.
‘She’ll be okay,’ Evelina says again, her voice hushed.
It’s time. The crowd of dancers begins to trail inside. Vaughn hangs back a second, studying me carefully.
“You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah, just…this stomach thing.”
His brow furrows as he shoves his fingers through his dark hair, the tattoos on his forearms rippling. “Shoulda called me, dude.”
I shrug. “It’s…fine. I just needed some rest. I’m totally fine now.”
“So… You’re saying you’re fine.”
I feel my lips curl slightly as he grins his roguishly charming grin at me.
“Yeah, I’m—”
“Fine,” he finishes. “Well, in that case—let’s go get worked over by Madame K.”
He turns to follow the rest of the company inside. Before I can do the same, Milena pulls me slightly aside, her brow furrowed.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she asks worriedly.
I nod, too quickly.
‘You look like you’ve been through hell.’
My mouth opens. I want to tell her. Want to spill everything. But the words shrivel on my tongue.
‘It’s just a bug,’ I lie. My voice barely registers.
Milena doesn’t press, but the concern in her eyes cuts deep.
‘Okay,’ she says softly. ‘Just… Don’t disappear on us again. Please.’
I nod.
Inside, after I emerge from the changing room, the studio mirrors reflect a version of me I don’t recognize. Pale, hollow-eyed, brittle. Weak.
I realize that I’ve actively been avoiding looking into mirrors since…it…happened.
A black, curdling sensation writhes inside me as I forcibly pull my gaze from my reflection.
“Odette’s first entrance, please!” Madame Kuzmina, in her usual black shawls and glittering rings, is already shouting instructions at the rehearsal pianist, her voice slicing through the space like a blade.
Then, the pianist starts to play, and I take my first steps.
The role of Odette/Odile is grueling enough on a good day.
Today, it feels impossible.
I’m rusty from the three days away, and it feels like there’s a dead weight clinging to my back and throwing me off. When I try to hit that first arabesque, it’s like I suddenly have no balance at all.
With a grimace, I wobble, ankle shaking a little before I lose my balance entirely.
Embarrassment floods my face as I feel the eyes of everyone on me.
The piano stops abruptly.
“Again,” Madame Kuzmina says sharply. The music starts again, and I launch into the steps that—frankly—I could do in my sleep at this point.
Except, again, my body fails me. It doesn’t follow directions, and my mind even forgets what comes next.
It’s a simple enough section. A sequence I’ve nailed a thousand times. But today, I can’t seem to remember where my feet go, how to turn my head, what my arms do.
I manage to get through it without falling the next time. But when I start dancing with the prince, I crash and burn three times in a row. Kuzmina finally claps her hands.
‘Stop,” she says tightly in her Russian accent. “Everyone, take five. Naomi, over here, please.’
I follow her to the front corner by the rosin box, my heart pounding.
‘You’re not present today,’ she says bluntly. ‘Your body is here, but your mind is elsewhere.’
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
“Where are you, Naomi? A Swan Lake without a Swan Queen goes nowhere, yes?”
I nod stiffly.
“So?”
“I…” I shake my head, feeling anxiety clawing at my insides. “I’m just…distracted, Madame. I’m having an off day.”
“Dancers don’t get to have off days,” she murmurs quietly. Then she sighs, looking piercingly at me. ‘Naomi, do you still feel capable of this role?’
It’s like a dagger to the chest.
‘Yes!” I blurt, more terror than I would have liked in my tone before I manage to rein it in. “Yes,” I say again, more calmly. “I’m fine. I just… I had a stomach bug.’
Kuzmina’s gaze narrows slightly. ‘Dove is more than capable. We could let her take over for a few more days. Just until you recover.’
For the record, I have nothing against our newest company member with the white-pink hair, subtle tattoos, and a somewhat aloof and mysterious demeanor. She’s a beautiful dancer. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been having almost near-constant anxiety ever since she joined the Zakharova a few months ago and was immediately cast as my understudy—especially since she’s played it before.
I shake my head frantically. ‘No. Please. I can do it.’
Madame holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she nods once, curtly. ‘Let’s do it again, then.”
It’s only through sheer willpower that I make it through rehearsal. It’s not my best work, and I feel pure shame and mortification every time I barely get through a simple section. But I do make it.
When the others filter out at the end of the day, I stay.
I can’t go home. I can’t go sit and stare at my four walls.
Besides that, I do need to practice. I need to fight through whatever darkness is trying to take this part of me.
I will not let that happen.
Plus, even if it was a disaster, today’s rehearsal made me realize that dancing might be the only way I can feel anything at all right now.
I make my way to the main stage. It’s dim now, and the house lights are off, casting the theater into shadows that stretch wide and deep. I flick the switch to turn on a couple of work lights.
Then I take my place, without music.
And I start to dance.
It’s slow going at first. But I force myself to take the choreography step by step, pausing when I have to. Sweat clings to my skin and dampens my hair. My muscles ache and my feet scream for mercy. But I keep going, growing more and more confident as my muscles begins to remember what my mind momentarily forgot.
I finish my variation, breathless and lungs burning, finally nailing the bit that tripped me up earlier. For a moment, something close to pride surges through my chest, pulling my lips into a pleased little smile.
Then, something jarring sucks all the air from my lungs as the icy cold sharpness of it has me whirling, my smile shattering.
It’s the sound of clapping.
Slow. Mocking. Coming from the darkened, empty seats.
My heart stutters and I freeze, eyes straining toward the shadowed rows.
Slowly, a shape begins to emerge from the darkness, dressed all in black.
Nico.
He materializes like smoke, a wraith pulling itself from the gloom. His frame unfolds from the shadows, his black leather jacket and icy blue eyes glinting under the work lights as he slowly ascends the stage stairs.
Still applauding, slowly.
He doesn’t smile at first, just watches me with that same expression that he had on the rooftop before he licked my blood off his finger.
‘Beautiful,’ he says softly, flicking open a lighter and sparking the cigarette I’ve just noticed is perched between his lips. The cherry glows when he inhales, casting an eerie orange light across the sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw. “You really are something on stage.’
He exhales a plume of smoke, stepping closer.
‘What are you doing here?’ I whisper.
He tilts his head. “Well, Naomi, I came to collect.’
My dread only escalates, cutting through me like blades.
“Collect…what?’ I choke.
Nico stops just in front of me. I can smell the smoke curling off him, smell the leather of his jacket, feel his heat radiating through the space between us.
His smile is lazy. Dangerous.
Malicious.
‘You.’
My pulse skips.
“I—I don’t know what—”
“I’m talking about your sex tape that happens to be in my possession right now.”
My brows knit. I’m about to genuinely ask him what he even means, before it suddenly hits me like a cannonball to the chest, so hard I almost physically stagger back as nausea flares up inside me.
No.
In flashes, it all comes back. Drinking the sparkling water. Starting to feel hot. The silly feeling. The inability to move. Gus and Seb carrying me over, taking my clothes off…
The camera facing the bed on a tripod.
Oh, my fucking God.
I want to throw up. I’m going to throw up. But all I can do is gasp and choke, a fish flailing on the dock, desperately trying to get back into the water.
“The darling ballerina of the Zakharova. The doting, perfect daughter of Congressman Kim…or, should I say, Secretary Kim now.”
My mouth goes dry as he takes another drag of his cigarette.
‘Nico—’ I choke.
‘No.’ His voice sharpens. ‘From now on, you only talk when I say you can.’
I blink at him. ‘Please—’
He steps closer. “What the fuck did I just say?”
Before, on that rooftop, he had an edge to him. But even then, even after I’d watched him kill someone, he wasn’t like this.
Now, he doesn’t just look angry.
He looks like he fucking hates me.
“What. A. Fucking. Scandal,” he hisses viciously through his teeth. “So, here’s how this is going to work. You belong to me now, Naomi. Entirely.’
My brain short-circuits, the walls of my reality closing in from every side.
“I—” My lips move, but no sound comes out. I take a shaky breath, trying again. “Why… Why are you doing this?” I finally croak.
Something ripples in Nico’s eyes, turning them from icy blue to an almost amethyst, vengeful darkness.
“Someone tried to hurt my family the other night.”
I nod weakly. “I—I heard. How’s Bianca—”
“That person was your father.”
No.
The world tilts and shifts under my feet. A roaring sensation fills my senses, clanging in my ears and pounding through my body to the point where I almost double over as the breath rushes out of my lungs.
“That…” I shake my head side to side, dazed. “That’s—”
“I’m not sure I can convey exactly how little interest I have in hearing the word impossible right now.”
My lower lip trembles before I capture it with my teeth, my pulse jumping madly under my skin.
“If you truly think that’s an impossibility, I’d say you might not know Daddy Dearest as well as you think you do. If at all.”
The cold sensation I feel dragging down my spine speaks volumes. And loudest, it speaks one thing:
What he’s saying doesn’t sound impossible.
Horrible? Yes. Appalling? Absolutely. Nearly impossible for me to wrap my head around.
Not completely, though.
A chill ripples over my skin as I hug myself protectively.
“But Daddy Dearest just got himself Secret Service protection, which makes going after him personally more than a touch difficult for me.”
Nico steps closer, blowing smoke out of the corners of his lips as his eyes, still purply-blue, eviscerate me.
“So I’m not going to go after Leonard. Instead, Naomi, I’m going to ruin you.”
He pulls a small card from his pocket and hands it to me. I barely even feel it when it slips into my hand. Then I glance down to it and see an address scrawled in tight black letters.
‘Tomorrow. Eight a.m. sharp. Wear something pretty.’
He leans in, his mouth near my ear.
‘And remember,’ he whispers, ‘you’re mine now. My property. Am I clear?”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
He must take my silence as acknowledgement.
“Until tomorrow, then.”
Without another word, he turns and walks off stage, disappearing into the shadows he came from, trailing smoke and the singed smell of my soul.
I stand frozen for a long, drawn-out moment.
Then my legs give out and I collapse to the floor.
