“But why—” Hannah stops herself from snapping at the last second.
Stephanie motions her head at me. “The producers already picked Lia to be Giselle.”
Hannah’s gaze meets mine with nothing short of malice. I give her a cool one in return. Being in ballet since I was five has taught me to rise above their petty jealousy and catfights. I’m here because I love to dance and play characters that I’m not in real life. Everything else is white noise.
That’s probably why I have no friends. Some kiss my ass for their own benefit, then stab me in the back, and others are malicious about everything.
Everyone here is just a colleague. And as Grandma used to say, it’s lonely at the top.
My tendons start aching again and I hide my wince. I overwork myself during these marathon shows and I need aftercare.
Now.
I tip my head at Philippe and Stephanie. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Quoi? You’re not going to join us for the celebration party?” the director exclaims. “The producers won’t like this.”
“I need aftercare, Philippe.”
“So do it, and then join us, chérie.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. I’m exhausted and need downtime. Please relay my apologies.”
Philippe and Stephanie seem displeased, but they nod. It’s unheard of for a prima ballerina not to attend celebration parties, but they know how much I hate the limelight outside of dancing. Besides, most of those producers are sexist, perverted assholes. I’d rather not meet them unless I absolutely have to.
The dancers slowly trickle into the dressing room, chatting among each other.
Hannah leans over to whisper, “Maybe the producers will finally realize how much of a fucking talentless bitch you actually are.”
I stare at her. Thankfully, she’s not tall enough to look down on me. “If you rehearsed as hard as you run your mouth, you’d probably have a chance at taking some lead roles from me.”
She clicks her tongue and her face contorts, highlighting the bold makeup that gives her a witchy appearance. “How many of the producers did you fuck, Lia? Because we all know you wouldn’t get this many lead roles if it wasn’t for whoring yourself out.”
Her words don’t sting. Not only are they untrue, but I’ve also heard such jabs from the entire ballet troupe over the years. In the beginning, I wanted to prove I’m no whore and that I got this far by torturing myself, but I soon realized it was pointless. People will think what they want to think.
So now I’ve grown accustomed to them, but at the same time, I won’t allow Hannah or anyone else to walk all over me. Squaring my shoulders, I say with mocking calm, “Until then, you’ll have to remain Miss Number Two.”
She raises her hand to slap me, but Ryan clutches her wrist and pulls her against him. “Now, Hannah, don’t get worked up over people who mean nothing.”
He lowers his head and kisses her, open-mouthed, harshly, but his eyes remain fixed on me. The lust in them and in his tight pants is visible from my position.
I turn around and make my way to my private dressing room backstage, but I’m not going to bother with changing. After they put something itchy in my clothes one time, I make sure to check everything before I shower, but I’m in no mood tonight, so I’ll just do it at home.
My feet come to a halt once I’m inside. Countless bouquets from admirers and the producers stuff the room, barely allowing me to move.
I comb through them until I find a bouquet of white roses. My lips curve in the first genuine smile of tonight as I hug them to my chest and lower my head to take a deep inhale. They smell like home and happiness.
They smell like Mom, Dad, and bright memories.
I refuse to associate them with the day when everything ended. I place the roses back on the table and take the card, grinning as I read it.
You’re the most beautiful flower on earth, Duchess. You not only grew on the harsh pavement, but you also flourished. Keep growing. I’m proud of my little Duchess.
Love,
L.
Luca.
We might not see each other often, but my friendship with him will always be there.
My smile pauses when I lift my head to look in the mirror. I’m in a soft pink tutu with a muslin bodice and a tulle skirt. It’s tight around my breasts and waist but is wide at the bottom.
My hair is pulled up and my face is full of glitter and layers of makeup. I don’t have the time to remove it, because if I don’t leave right now, one of the producers will corner me and force me to attend their show-off party. They’ll parade me from one of their associates to the next as if I’m livestock for sale.
I take out the pins and release my hair, then remove my ballet shoes. I wince at the droplets of blood marring my big toe and massage it. It’s nothing to worry about.
Pain means I did my best.
After slipping into my comfy flats, I put on my long cashmere coat and wrap a scarf around my neck and half of my face.
I make sure no one is outside my room before I hug Luca’s flowers to my chest, snatch my bag, and hurry to the parking lot.
A long breath leaves my chest when I’m on the road with the flowers in the passenger seat as my lone companion.
I wish I could call Luca and talk to him right now. But the fact that he didn’t come to meet me backstage means he’s keeping a low profile.
Ever since we met as kids, his entire life has been about being in the shadow of action and dealing with the wrong crowd.
I’m not an idiot. I know that as much as he took care of me, Luca didn’t get his money legally, but as he says, the less I know, the better. He doesn’t want to put me in danger and neither do I.
So we kind of look out for each other from afar.
But I miss him.
I want to tell him all about today’s show and how the pain in my ankle kept me on the edge. I want to tell him about the blood because he’d understand what it means to be in pain.
He’s the only person I can call both family and a friend. And it’s been months since I last saw him. I had hoped he’d make an exception today and come out of the shadows, but apparently, that wasn’t the case.
I arrive at the parking garage of my building in less than thirty minutes. It’s located in a quiet suburban neighborhood in New York City and has excellent security that makes me feel safe at home.
My ankle is throbbing when I exit my car. I lean against the door to catch my breath and a cramp tries to break the surface. After taking a few deep breaths, I beep the locks, then remember my bouquet. I might not get Luca in the flesh, but I can at least feel his presence through the flowers.
I’m about to get them when a loud sound of screeching tires fills the garage. I duck down and remain in place when another screech follows.
Usually, I wouldn’t stop for any commotion, but hearing disturbing noises late at night at an apartment building like mine is rare. In fact, it should be almost impossible.
I stare up at the cameras blinking red in every corner and release a shaking breath.
I’m safe.
But for some reason, I don’t come out of my hiding spot beside my car. It seems vital at this moment, and if I get up, I feel like something disastrous will happen.
The ache in my ankle pulses harder, as if it’s sensing my stress and participating in it.