“Which is exactly why I’m telling you about it,” he counters, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “You deserve to celebrate, Vaeda. Thirty-three is a milestone.”
Every word he says is meant to make me feel cherished, yet it only enhances the discomfort I’ve been carrying since I left the studio. I force myself to nod, even as my mind betrays me, flashing back to the warmth of Mateo’s hand on my back and how his amber eyes held mine just a second too long. I shake the thought away, but it lingers, unwelcome and stubborn. There are ten years stretching a gaping hole between us.
“Every year is a milestone,” I mutter, hoping the comment sounds lighthearted. Gerardo’s enthusiasm is hard to resist, even when it’s directed at something as unnecessary as a party.
“Trust me,” he stresses, stepping closer and placing his hands on my shoulders. His touch is comforting and familiar. “It’ll be perfect. Just let me handle everything.”
I nod again, grateful for the support he offers, but the guilt only grows heavier. He’s always been this way: loving, patient, and unshakable in his devotion to me. Yet no amount of his kindness can erase the memory of the studio today. The way Mateo’s fingers had pressed against mine, his grip firm. The subtle smell of his sweat and cologne mixed with the music as we moved together.
It wasn’t just a dance, my mind whispers, and I immediately shut it down. It was just a dance. That’s all it was.
“Fine,” I concede, relenting. “But keep it small. And no ridiculous themes.”
“Of course,” Gerardo vows, his grin widening. “Small and tasteful, just like you.”
His words are playful, affectionate, and they should comfort me, but I feel a strange hollowness instead. I force a slight smile, letting him think he’s won.
As Gerardo moves back to the kitchen, humming softly to himself, I sink onto the couch and stare out at the city lights beyond the windowpanes. My mind is a battlefield, fighting to stay in the here and now with my husband, where I belong.
Only I can’t seem to stop replaying the way Mateo looked at me when I corrected his steps. The way his touch felt so strong, deliberate, and yet deferential. The way his gaze lingered when I stepped back, as if he didn’t want to let me go.
“Vaeda?” Gerardo’s voice pulls me back, and I look up to see him holding out a glass of wine, his expression warm and expectant.
I take it with a small smile, muttering a quiet, “Thank you,” but my chest feels tight. Gerardo deserves all of me, and yet tonight, my thoughts are fractured, caught somewhere they shouldn’t be.
This isn’t about Mateo,I tell myself again. It’s about the competition. It’s about pushing him to be better, about helping the studio land on the map. My connection to him is professional and nothing more.
So why does it feel like a lie?
“Here’s to you,” Gerardo says, raising his glass in a toast.
“To me,” I echo softly, clinking my glass against his, but as the wine slides down my throat, the remorse remains a quiet, relentless ache.
EIGHT
Vaeda
The morning sun casts soft reflections onto the mirrors as I sit cross-legged at the edge of the floor, clipboard in hand, while Greyson paces in front of the mirrors like a restless lion. The air is filled with the scent of wood polish, and the faint whir of the heating system serves as a background to our conversation.
“Mateo and Yvonne have undeniable chemistry,” Greyson says, his voice brimming with certainty. “Their movements are romantic, precise, and dynamic. They’re exactly what we need to make an impact in Paris.”
I shake my head, jotting notes on the clipboard. “Yvonne is strong, but Mateo still lacks polish. He’s improving, but he’s inconsistent. Kari and Adam are reliable and steady. They’re a safer choice.”
Greyson halts mid-stride and turns to face me, his hands on his hips. “Safe isn’t going to win us a spot on the international stage, Vae. You know that.”
I glance up at him, my pen hovering over the paper. “But they’re dependable. They’ve been training more as a team. That counts for something.”
“Dependable is a good word for a plumber, not a competitive dancer,” he snarks, resuming his pacing. “Mateo has school and meetings to attend to, and still, he’s accelerated past Adam and Kari, in my opinion. We need a spark, something that makes the judges sit up and take notice.”
Before I can retort, the studio door opens and Kari and Adam walk in. Their faces light up when they see us, and they head straight for the center of the room, their energy buoyant. Kari’s blonde hair is tied in a sleek bun, and Adam’s posture is straight, his steps confident.
“Morning,” Adam greets, his smile wide and eager.
“Good timing,” I say, rising to my feet. “We were just discussing you two. Let’s see how you’re progressing. Show us the routine you’ve been working on.”
Kari nods eagerly, her exuberance shining through, and Adam matches her enthusiasm with a determined expression. They move into position, their bodies aligning with practiced ease. Greyson and I step back, giving them the floor.
The music starts, a lively Cha-Cha rhythm filling the studio. Their movements are clean, their timing impeccable. Adam’s frame is solid, his footwork true, and Kari’s lines are graceful, her extensions beautiful. Yet, as I watch them glide through the routine, a nagging feeling settles over me. It’s all there on the surface, the technique, the synchronization, the polish, but there’s no fire. No spark that elevates the performance from good to unforgettable.
