“Good! Let me show you one more time with the music.”
I move to the center of the room, cue up the track on my phone. The music starts and I begin the combination, muscle memory taking over.
Chassé, pas de bourrée, prep for the turn?—
The moment I go up for the pirouette, my right ankle gives out completely.
One second I’m mid-turn, the next I’m on the floor—white-hot pain exploding through my ankle so fast it knocks the air out of me. The kids gasp. Someone yelps my name. I clutch my ankle and fight not to scream.
And the only thought in my head is:
My body is done.
Not twisted. Not sprained. Done pretending. Done performing. Done being punished into beauty.
I’ve pushed through pain for years—told myself it was normal, necessary, the cost of greatness. Ignore your instincts. Smile through it. Be perfect or be nothing.
But my body finally called bullshit.
“Miss Emma?” Tiny voices hover around me, trembling.
“I’m OK,” I lie, because this pain isn’t the familiar dull ache I’ve been ignoring for months. It’s sharp. Wrong. Final. “Can someone get Ms. Patricia?”
And beneath the panic, something settles.
Truth.
When I got kidnapped at Christmas, I thought Stoneheart was the danger. That New York was the safe place. The smart place.
But New York didn’t care if I healed, only when I’d perform again. They wanted productivity, not recovery. A tuned-up machine, not a person.
Here? Kids care more about me than a recital. Patricia’s already calling Bones. And when he gets here, he’ll help me because I matter—not because I’m useful.
If this happened in New York, they’d tape me up and shove me back on stage. Here, they’ll actually let me stop. Let me breathe. Let me choose myself.
My ankle didn’t betray me.
It saved me.
I don’t know what comes next—surgery, rehab, a life that isn’t ballet-shaped. It’s terrifying.
But at least I’m not facing it alone.
At least I listened before I broke beyond repair.
At least I’m home.
16
BONES
I’m halfway through framing a wall when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Unknown number.I almost let it go to voicemail—probably spam, or someone asking about construction estimates—but something makes me pull off my gloves and answer.
“Yeah?”
“Is this Bones?” A woman’s voice, unfamiliar, with an edge of urgency that immediately puts me on alert.
