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Hanging from the center ceiling are dozens of pairs of satin pink pointe shoes, their ribbons swaying slightly in the draft. They look like tiny, elegant nooses. The familiar, suffocating scent of rosin and stale hairspray hits my nose, and a wave of nausea rolls through my stomach.

I don’t have time to ponder awful times; I feel a push against my back. I don't hear Lana enter the room. The force rattles my spine, and I tumble into the center of the room. The women were bait.

I turn around and put on a brave face. Lana is terrifying as she grins at me. “You are going to give me what I want.”

“I am not giving you shit.” Lana circles me and sits on a chair, a couple of meters from me. Satisfied that she has already won. I am praying that Noa has heard enough so he can find me.

“I want you to tell Noa that I broke you.”

Chapter fourteen

Hana

“What are you going to accomplish with that?”

“If, and I will, break you, it’s going to break him. That’s the goal. Now,” She throws a pair of ballet shoes at me, “Dance.” I look at the shoes in front of me, and my toes automatically curl inside my shoes.

My gaze is on her again. “I vowed I would never dance for anybody ever again.”

“Fine. But remember, actions have consequences.” Lana grabs her phone and shows me a feed. It’s Oliver in the gym.

No. No. No.

“Don’t hurt him! It will break Josh and me!” Tears are forming in my eyes when I think about what can happen. Oliver is his usual preppy self, smiling, probably thinking about Josh. I can’t lose him.

I grab the ballet shoes and shoot Lana a death glare. “Do you promise to leave him alone if I dance?”

“Good girl. You also have some clothes on the table beside you.” Lana is fucking evil. I put on the shoes, and when I grab the clothes, I motion for her to turn around.

“I deserve some privacy.”

“Fair enough. I am not a pervert.” Lana still has some moral decorum left. Every piece of clothing I put on sends me back to years of sleep deprivation and agonizing training. Once I am done gearing up, I cough. Lana turns around, and she clasps her hands together.

"First position," Lana murmurs, her voice a soft, velvet purr. The words trigger an immediate, sickening muscle memory. Before I can think, before my pride can scream no, my heels snap together and my toes flare outward. My body obeys out of pure survival.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a sleek, silver stopwatch. The metallic click of the button echoes through the room.

"Five minutes," she whispers, her eyes dark with a twisted satisfaction. "That is exactly how long my father suffered. If you stop before the timer rings, we start from the beginning."

“This is cruel even for you.” My words don’t deter her from torturing me. I begin to move, my limbs heavy and trembling. Every leap feels like jumping into a void; every turn makes the room spin with nausea. The beauty of the art is entirely gone, replaced by the suffocating realization that my passion has been weaponized against me. I remain entirely silent, choking back my terror because crying out would ruin my breath, and ruining my breath means dropping my form.

One minute passes. My damp clothes cling to me like a second skin, weighing down my arms as I force them into a flawless arabesque. My lungs burn, but I don't dare slow down. I am dancing a tribute to a tragedy, my muscles screaming in tandem with the memory of what I've lost.

By minute four, my technique is unraveling, blurred by tears and blinding exhaustion. My ankles wobble on the slick floor, nearly buckling with every spin. She sits on that fucking chair, completely unmoving, tracking me like a hawk watching a dying bird.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The internal metronome in my head counts down the final agonizing moments. With one final, desperate leap, my feet hit the ground just as the silver stopwatch lets out a sharp, piercing chime.

This nightmare is over. Or the dancing is at least. I fall onto the floor and start crying. Lana stands in front of me and caresses my damp hair.

“You did so good. I hope you don’t take this personally; I needed to hurt Noa.” She is fucking insane, but I can also hear the tiniest twinge of sadness.

I keep my eyes focused on the floor. “You are hurting.” Lana stops stroking my hair, and that silence confirms to me that I can stand up. I go to my clothes, while crying, and change into the wet clothes I had on before. Not giving a shit if I’m standing naked before her.

“I’m not hurting.” Her teeth are gritted, and I think I finally hit a nerve. I’m fully changed into my clothes and regular shoes, cursing the ballerina outfit and focusing my attention on her again.

“Noa didn’t kill your dad; I am sure of it. He tells me everything.”