The thought steals my breath, and I stumble. My foot lands wrong and pain flares white-hot, sharp enough to finally force a gasp from my throat. Hands catch me before I fall. Voices rush in. Concern, irritation, pity. I barely hear them.
All I can feel is the sudden absence. The awareness is gone like a door slamming shut. The loss of it hits harder than the pain.
I sit on the bench while the director talks in clipped tones about rest and recovery and “being realistic.” His words slide over me without landing. My ankle is wrapped again, tighter this time, but it doesn’t matter.
Something has shifted and I know I can’t shift it back, no matter how hard I try.
When I leave the studio early, the city feels too loud, too fast. I walk carefully, scanning reflections without meaning to, heart jumping every time I think I see movement that isn’t there. By the time I reach my building, my nerves are stretched thin andexhaustion from a poor nights sleep is threatening to drag me under.
I unlock my door and step inside, leaning back against it once it’s closed. My chest rises and falls too quickly, heat curling through me again in a way that’s becoming all too familiar.
I whisper into the empty room, “I know you’re there.”
The words hang in the air, unanswered.
Closing my eyes, I take a few deep breaths and focus on my body. There’s the constant stabbing grind in my ankle, obviously, but it’s the prickle at the base of my spine that I’m looking for. The one that tells me he is near.
I know he is close. I justknowit.
I spin quickly and yank open the door.
Avros
She opens the door like she’s daring fate to finally show its face.
I watch the feed via my phone while I sit in my car, the camera catching it perfectly. The sudden movement, the way her breath is already too fast, the heat still riding her skin from whatever she was expecting to find on the other side. For half a second, her body leans forward, before suddenly snapping back in surprise.
Then I see him, and everything inside me goes very still.
He’s smiling when the door opens. Easy. Familiar. A smile he’s practised in mirrors and meetings, the kind men like him use when they believe themselves untouchable. He’s dressed well, of course. Pressed suit, confident posture, eyes already moving over her space like it belongs to him by proximity alone.
Her boss. John Chesham.
I know the type, but I’ve been unable to get to him in any manner that would benefit Emma, so I kept back, accumulating evidence just in case it was ever needed. He is a slippery bastard.
Emma freezes.
I see it in the way her shoulders pull back, the dancer’s discipline snapping into place. Polite but guarded. The anticipation drains from her face, replaced with something tight and brittle that makes my jaw lock.
“Hey,” he says, leaning into the doorway like he’s a welcome visitor. “I was nearby. Thought I’d check in on you.”
His gaze drops slowly over her. Lower and lower, tracing the shape of her despite her hiding it beneath baggy clothes.
My hand curls slowly around the steering wheel, my knuckles whitening.
She doesn’t step aside, and she doesn’t invite him in.
“I’m fine,” she says. Her voice is steady, but I see the flex of her fingers at her side, the subtle shift of her weight away from her injured ankle. “You didn’t—”
“I did,” he cuts in smoothly, already stepping forward despite her not giving any sign of invitation into her space. “You left rehearsal early. People noticed.”
People.
The word lands exactly where he intends it to. A reminder. A warning. A leash disguised as concern. She hesitates, just for a heartbeat, and he takes it as permission.
He steps into her apartment fully now, glancing around like he’s assessing a space he plans to occupy. His presence fills the room in the wrong way. The camera angle catches her reflection in the mirror behind him, eyes sharp now, body rigid at this invasion.
She’s trapped herself without realising it.
