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And ballet is where my heart lies. It’s the discipline that feels like it’s part of who I am. It’s why I can’t walk away even when my insecurities tell me I should. Since I know I’ll never be a prima ballerina, I do the next best thing… teach the future of the thing that’s saved me.
That’s what I’m doing today, and I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face as I watch the roomful of five-year-olds practice their positions in front of the mirror. The tiny tutus plie and releve so adorably, my heart is practically goo on the floor. They’re animated in everything they do, wanting to succeed and please with bright eyes of excitement.
“Miss Casey, can we spin?” one little girl, Chloe, asks me as her arms come over her head.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes before class dismisses. They know I always give them free dance time at the end of class. “Go ahead,” I tell them, turning the music to something more upbeat and fun for them.
Chloe and another little girl grab my hands and pull me to themiddle of the floor with them. I twist and turn, dancing with their hands in mine. Giggles of bliss bounce off the white walls and mirrors. My head falls back in a laugh as they shake their little tutus to the beat.
Five minutes after the last child is collected, Lucinda Devereux appears in her ugly as-sin Valentino denim jumpsuit, but it costs her more than most people’s mortgage, so it must be cute, right? Her attention zeroes in on me as her stilettos click across the parquet floor. Green eyes, the color of poison, glare at the little girl at my side. “Well, what did you learn today, Chloe?”
I glance down at the tiny girl at my side. Her mouth twists as she tries to remember. My lips tuck between my teeth, not interrupting because I know she wants to answer for herself. “We learned to pay Dave.”
My hand comes up to cover my grin, but my amusement is short-lived. I should’ve known better, but I let myself forget the awful woman standing in front of me. “I’m not paying you to teach her to stand with her arms over her head. I’m paying you to make her a ballerina!” She grabs Chloe, tugging her to her side as she points a freshly manicured finger at me. The jingling of the gold bracelets adorning her arm echo with every twist of her wrist.
I keep my head up and with a polite smile on my face. No trace of intimidation to be found. Just like Dad and Uncle H taught me, I try my best to explainagainwhy we don’t teach five-year-olds en pointe.
On the inside, my stomach twists so painfully that staying upright is difficult. My chest constricts so tightly I can’t breathe. Sweat beads at my temples and trickles down my spine. Tingles start in my nose and lips.
Calm down, Casey. Calm. Down.
But I can’t get my heart to slow or my mind to settleas she continues her beratement, calling me everything from unqualified to a fraud.
Fire erupts behind my eyes, burning down to my sinuses. Ringing fills my ears, sharp and loud.
If this doesn’t end soon, I won’t be able to hold the tears back.
This iseverytime she picks up her daughter. And every time, I end up in tears because I stand there and take it. There’s not much else I can do.
“I demand another teacher. One that knows what she’s doing. Not some juvenile, inexperienced teenager they pulled off the street.”
Shit! Shit! Shit! Do. Not. Freaking. Cry.
I hate that I’m not stronger.
“What’s the problem here?” My eyes pop open at the deep, familiar voice. His chocolate depths pierce mine, a silent command passing between us. I release a breath. My heart skips and slows to a more manageable pace.
I hate how his voice cut through my panic—how a single, wordless demand calmed my hammering heart and racing mind, but he’s always had this effect.
It’s embarrassing how he appears when someone is tearing me apart, humiliating me to the brink of tears. He’s always my savior. The knight ready to fight my battles because I’m too weak and damaged to fight them on my own.
Lucinda turns her attention from me to the tall, dark, commanding man at her side, taking in his perfectly tailored Kiton suit, Berluti shoes, and a gold Patek Philippe watch that could probably feed a few third-world countries for months. Her tongue darts between her teeth and slides over her red lips. There’s no disguising her interest. The recently divorced singlemom has been on the prowl since before the ink dried.
She angles her body toward Graham, extending her hand as if she’s royalty. “Lucinda Devereux of the Westchester Devereuxs.” Her lips spread, revealing her well-practiced pageant smile.
My brows dip, and I wonder how she doesn’t recognize him. Lucinda must keep up with the business pages. Graham’s face has appeared in multiple articles over the last few years for his incredible business prowess, taking crumbling businesses and rebuilding them into bigger, better versions of themselves. He’s exactly the type she’s on the hunt for.
He looks at her hand, but he doesn’t accept it. His expression gives nothing away as he lifts his dark espresso eyes back to her face. “Graham.”
If his rejection of her extended pleasantry offends her, she doesn’t show it. Her smile stays firmly in place as she bats her lashes, the outreached hand moving from the empty air to his arm. My stomach dips and knots as she wraps those painted nails around his thick bicep. Irrational jealousy that she’s touching him, quickly followed by crushing resignation, flit through me.
There’s no point in being jealous, Casey. She’s more his type than you are.
“Oh, I’ve always loved that name. It’s so dignified and masculine. Is it a family name?”
“More like a family business name.”
“Oh! As in the Washington Post Grahams?”
