Through the glass, Joy and Lila mirror each other—sisters made from the same raw material, refined two different ways. Two versions of impossible. Lila is a blade: long lines, iron calves. Precision made human.
Joy is curves, sway, warmth. The sun to Lila’s diamond, and every bit as blinding. A dancer’s body, not a ballerina’s weapon.
Twenty girls spin around them, trying to copy their lines. Joy’s in a black cropped tank, navel ring catching the light, charcoal joggers clinging to muscle, bare feet slick with rosin dust. Her hair’s up, but a few pieces have escaped, curling damp against her neck.
The bracelet I gave her flashes at her wrist when she corrects a kid’s arm. She’s still wearing it. After everything. My chest pulls tight.
She moves, and every muscle of mine remembers her. My mouth goes dry, my pulse goes sideways. This isn’t the heiress or the media girl. This is Joy stripped to rhythm and heat—the real thing.
“Cold Heart” thrums through the door, rattling my ribs. Joy turns, that wicked smile breaking open—the one that tipped my life off its axis and left it there.
Lila’s the one who spots me first. She narrows her gaze as she clocks me, then softens with a sigh that saysfinally.While Joy’s correcting a girl’s arm, Lila mouths,come in.
Next thing I know, I’m slipping off my sneakers, stepping barefoot onto the warm floor. The girls don’t notice me—too focused on the count—but I feel every nerve light up.
Joy doesn’t spot me until the bridge hits—hips, rhythm, danger. She looks up, and freezes.
Electric. Right through the chest.
Then she smirks—that slow, sinful curve that wrecks me. Relief hits hard. So she’s not icing me out. She’s not walking.She’s doing what she does well: sliding me back where she says I belong.
“Looks like we’ve got a guest student,” she calls.
Classic Joy. Shatter me Tuesday, walk in steady Wednesday. Take the hit, smooth the edge, keep the count. Preston training—chin up, smile, never show the flinch.
The girls squeal. Lila’s grin is pure devil.
“Up, Mr. Wesley,” Joy taunts. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
A voice from the front row pipes up, “That’s the Defenders guy!”
Another adds, “My dad goes to all your games!”
I wave at the girls, then scratch the back of my neck. “I don’t know the moves.”
Joy laughs—open, effortless, that sound I’ve missed in my bones. “That’s what the class is for. Right, girls? Let’s teach Mr. Wesley the steps.”
Chaos. Giggles. Someone claps. Lila restarts the track.
I try the footwork. Fail immediately. Whatever these girls are doing with their hips defies physics.
Her fingers skim my neck, trace my spine. Palm settles between my shoulder blades, heat arrowing straight to my heart.
“Breathe,” she murmurs. “There. Better.”
If my pulse doesn’t combust through her touch, it’ll be a miracle. She smells of citrus and sweat, making me stupid.
Her hair brushes my arm as she steps away, giving the girls a count. I try to follow again, but she’s moving, and I’m gone. The way her body rolls through the beat, how she smiles when one of the kids nails it—it’s lethal.
She glances over her shoulder, meets our reflection, and I swear the floor tilts.
The girls cheer when I finally manage a hinge that barely qualifies as decent. Lila claps. Joy grins, shaking her head.
“Natural talent,” she deadpans. “But he might need a few private lessons.”
Giggles erupt around us. I grin, because hell, I’ll take that offer. For the first time in weeks, the noise in my head goes quiet. It’s just Joy—barefoot, radiant, messy perfection—and me, trying to keep up.
When the chorus fades, Lila claps her hands. “Water break!”
