She offers a small, weary smile. “Thanks, Mateo.”
“Yeah, of course.”
As I head to my room to grab her a blanket and a pillow, I can’t help but feel the walls shifting again. Pressing closer. The last twenty-four hours have been an emotional land mine, and I’m not sure I’ve made it out unscathed. Yvonne is here in my apartment, my father is trying, and Grace might be willing to speak to me.
And I’m still standing even though I feel like I’m falling.
One day at a time.
TWENTY-FOUR
Vaeda
It’s been two weeks of training, sweating, counting beats, and rechoreographing sections that should’ve felt seamless by now. Two weeks of watching Yvonne and Mateo move in tandem across the studio floor, their rhythm syncing like they were built for this. For each other. And two weeks of feeling like my chest might cave in.
Greyson stands beside me, clipboard in hand, as he marks something on the notes we’ve compiled. The Paso Doble track is loud and insistent, an unrelenting rhythm that pulses through the room like a heartbeat. Mateo’s form is strong, spine straight, and chest forward. He leads Yvonne across the floor with commanding steps, the drag of his foot against the polished surface sounding with confidence.
Yvonne follows without hesitation, head tossed back, the cape of her practice skirt swirling with every spin. She’s lighter now. Glowing. She feeds off his energy like it belongs to her, and it makes me sick.
“They’re clean,” Greyson says, tilting his head as Mateo catches Yvonne’s wrist, pulling her into the cross-body lunge.
“They’re predictable,” I snap.
Greyson glances at me.
I can feel the heat behind my eyes, the tightness in my jaw as I watch them dance. Their chemistry is real, and it’s nothing like what Mateo and I felt in that hip-hop studio, pressed together, breathless and trembling. No, this is polished, rehearsed, and safe.
Two weeks ago, he kissed me like he couldn’t breathe without it, like I was his next inhale, and since then? Not a glance. Not even a touch outside of perfunctory practices that feel like someone else’s memory. It’s as if that night was an accident he’s spent every day trying to forget.
“Paso is meant to be visceral,” I continue, stepping forward as the music reaches a peak. “This feels like a stage production, not a battle. Mateo, again. This time with more power in the shoulders. Yvonne, stop dancing like you’re trying to impress him. This isn’t prom night.” She stiffens at that, but I don’t care. “Let’s go from the top!” I bark.
The music cues again, and Mateo doesn’t look at me. His jaw is clenched, but he doesn’t speak. He just nods to Yvonne before they fall back into place. They start the opening stance again, bold and theatrical. Mateo’s left arm strikes out, then circles around her waist, pulling her into the bullfighter’s march. It’s tighter this time, cleaner, but still...
“You’re faking the fire,” I growl when the music ends. “I don’t feel anything.”
“Jesus, Vaeda,” Greyson mutters, grabbing his water bottle. “Walk it off.”
I shoot him a glare. “No.”
“Yes.” His tone leaves no room for arguments.
I turn on my heel, storming down the hallway as my blood buzzes with rage and something far worse. Envy.
The way Mateo’s hands fit against Yvonne’s body, how she leaned into him during that final dip, and the smile that flickered across her lips when she thought no one was looking. She has him. Not completely, not like I did, but enough, and I’ve never been so damn envious in my entire life. Not only do I want Mateo, but I want to dance in that Paris ballroom. Enough to make me feel like I’m being hollowed out from the inside.
I find myself in the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink as I splash cold water on my face before staring into the mirror. This isn’t about the choreography. This is about him. It always has been, but I’m still his coach, still his judge, and still the woman standing behind the curtain, watching him become everything he was born to be. Yet I don’t get to celebrate that with him.
I take a deep breath, force my spine to straighten, and walk back into the studio. They’re both stretching now. Yvonne glances at me with a smugness that could be mistaken for triumph, but Mateo doesn’t look up. Greyson says nothing, just flips the page on his clipboard and cues the music for the Mambo.
And we go again like none of it matters. Like I’m not breaking from the inside out.
The city continues beneath me as I unlock the door to my penthouse, the metallic click echoing too loudly in the silence. I step inside and drop my purse and phone on the table, then close the door behind me, leaning against the smooth wood for a moment. My body aches from the hours in the studio, but the ache inside my chest eclipses everything.
It’s two weeks until Paris. Two weeks of watching the man I crave dance with the girl who gets to touch him in ways that don’t alter her world. I sigh and toe off my shoes, padding barefoot into the living room. The sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows bleeds lavender and gold as the sun sets, and the room is cast in that strange, perfect light where everything looks prettier than it really is.
My phone rings and I cross the room slowly, almost not wanting to answer, but when I see Gerardo’s name on the screen, guilt tightens its claws around my rib cage.
“Hey,” I say softly, pressing the phone to my ear.
