“Trust me, Greyson III, I know how much we need the money.” I feel myself give in as I rest my chin on my hand. “He’s your responsibility, and whatever happens, you will be the one at risk.”
Despite my groan, he gathers me in for another hug, his squeal of excitement skating along every nerve. Mateo Sanchez better be reformed, or else I’ll fucking ruin him for good this time.
“Gerardo!” I call out as I step into our penthouse, dropping the keys into the dish by the door. “I’m home!”
Following the sounds of music, I enter through the kitchen to find him swaying at the stove while he stirs a spoon in a large pot. My heart clenches as he raises his other hand, flicking it out in a perfect flamenco motion.
When my career ended abruptly six years ago, at the age of twenty-seven, so did Gerardo’s, but he’s never held that against me. He made the decision to quit, and a year later, we were married in a lavish wedding in Barcelona.
We were always best friends, from the age of fifteen, but we only became lovers after my injury. Sometimes I wonder if he married me because he felt pity, or if he truly did have romantic feelings for me the entire time.
“Amor,” I singsong as his hips do one final swirl before he turns at the sound of my voice, his luscious mouth curving upward. “It smells divine in here.”
“I’m making soup,” he says as he drops his hand and sets the spoon on the counter. “You weren’t well this morning, and I wanted to make you something warm.”
Gerardo makes me feel like I am the most important thing in his world, and I know I hit the jackpot the day we became dancing partners. He’s always been by my side, ready to support me in everything I endeavor, but it isn’t passion that binds us, it’s understanding. Gerardo knows me better than anyone else ever has, and we’ve built a life on that foundation. One of trust and unwavering loyalty. As I sit on a barstool, watching him stir the pot with his characteristic flair, I’m reminded of how lucky I am to have someone who accepts me as I am.
“How was the studio?” he asks, sliding a steaming bowl of soup across the counter toward me. His tone is light, but the subtle crease in his brows tells me he’s worried.
“Greyson is taking risks again,” I admit, picking up my spoon and letting the rich aroma fill my senses. “He invited Mateo Sanchez to join the program.”
Gerardo’s movements pause for a fraction of a second before he recovers, grabbing the ladle to serve himself. “TheMateo Sanchez? The one with the uh... colorful history?”
“The very same.” I sigh, swirling my spoon in the broth. “Grey thinks he can turn him into our studio’s saving grace.”
“And you don’t?”
“It’s not that simple.” I meet Gerardo’s soothing, rich-brown gaze. “I can’t afford to let my guard down and accept aformerjunkie, not with everything we’ve worked for hanging by a thread.” The studio is struggling, and we’ve failed to recruit champion-material dancers to put us back on the map.
He leans on the counter, his expression soft. “Vaeda, you’ve always had an eye for potential. If you didn’t see something in him, you’d have fought harder to keep him out.” He’s hit the mark.
When Greyson chased Mateo down to offer him a spot, I could’ve followed, fought it, but I didn’t. I remember Mateo Sanchez, and I can never deny his talent. It was a shock to see him standing here in New York, in our studio, searching for his comeback story, and as much as I hated that he was using us to do it, we were also using him for ours.
I smile faintly, appreciating Gerardo’s faith in me even when I’m not sure I deserve it. “Maybe, or maybe I’m just too tired to fight Greyson when he gets this determined.” There’s been some tension between Grey and me lately, and it boils down to the monthly rent, electricity, and expenses piling up. It’s the lack of interest in ballroom dancing these days, as kids would ratherlearn thirty-second-long TikTok dances instead, which means we’re becoming obsolete.
“Either way,” Gerardo says, lifting his bowl and gesturing for me to join him at the small table by the window. “You’ll make it work. You always do.”
I follow him to the table, the bowl of soup warming my hands as I release the stress I’m feeling with a sigh. Sitting across from him, I feel a rare moment of peace settle over me. Gerardo has a way of settling the fire inside of me, of dousing my flames in cooling water and bringing me back from the edge of a complete meltdown.
“There’s something clawing inside my stomach,”—I grip the silk material of my blouse in my fist—“and it’s hard to ignore.” I release my blouse and pick up the spoon, bringing the soup up to my mouth and taking a long inhale. I’ve always followed my intuition, and even though I know Mateo could catapult us back into the scene, I have a feeling the decision to keep him will change the trajectory of my life.
“Taking a chance on anyone is a risk, and unfortunately, Mateo Sanchez is a larger risk than most. That’s why you’re feeling this. I’m sure Greyson has considered all the threats, and if he’s still confident, I say give it a go. Mateo did have a stunning future ahead of him at one time.” He shrugs and slurps his soup, a habit that’s always bothered me, but I’ve chosen to ignore it.
“He ruined that future for himself,” I retort and drop the spoon back into the bowl with aclang. “How do I know he won’t do it again? And with my name connected to it?”
“You don’t,amor.” Gerardo shakes his head and gives me a sympathetic sigh. Or maybe it’s pity. “But imagine if he brings you glory… with your name connected to it?”
MATEO
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly as I sit in the cold plastic chair, my hands folded tightly in my lap. The room smells of stale coffee and disinfectant, and everyone looks overburdened with guilt for mistakes they made that can never be erased. My Narcotics Anonymous meeting begins as it always does. Marissa, our leader, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a soft voice, calls for introductions.
“Welcome, everyone,” Marissa says, her smile reassuring as everyone sits down. Her presence is like a steady pendulum, grounding us when all we want to do is disappear. “Let’s go around and share something about how the week has gone. Mateo, would you like to start?”
I stiffen under her gaze, heat creeping up my neck as all eyes turn to me. My mouth feels dry, and my pulse quickens. After a moment, I manage a tight nod. “Hi, I’m Mateo, and I’m an addict.”
The chorus of “Hi, Mateo” follows, the sounds both comforting and intimidating. I glance down at my hands as my fingers fidget with the hem of my sleeve.
“This week was… challenging,” I admit, my admission lifting a weight off my chest. Holding in fears, doubts, and guilt only feeds the poison gripping your soul. “I’m trying to rebuild something I lost when I overdosed last year. I was a ballroom dancer and competed internationally when it happened. My future was bright, but I celebrated my many wins with drugs, and now I’m here. It’s been hard because every step feels like a reminder of how I almost threw it all away.”
