I quickly hang up and open the message, my heart dropping to the soles of my feet as I immediately recognize the face staring back at me. A face Gia and I just walked past a few minutes ago. I even greeted the fucker and shook his hand. A face Gia must’ve smiled at every morning as she walked into the building.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
I’m running before my brain can catch up, praying, as I rarely do, that Gia doesn't open that door for anyone before I can get to her.
Please.
Gia!
Chapter Eight
Gia
The first time I stepped on the stage, I was seven. The lights were blinding, but I could still see the faces in the audience. I searched desperately for familiar ones, but none of them belonged to a Marino. Later, I would learn that Sofia had tried everything to get there—she was only twelve but had begged the nanny, even offered to pay from her allowance—but our parents had forbidden it. They hadn’t even told my sisters about my recital. Sofia had overheard them talking.
I remember the smell of hairspray, thick and cloying, the dance teacher fussing with a costume that felt heavy and starched against my skin.
I was supposed to be a bird, graceful and serene, but I felt like a clumsy, terrified girl. One who was heartbroken that no one from her family had shown up for her first show. At seven years old, I didn’t understand why. I just knew I was alone. Still, at the moment, it was heartbreaking that no one was there.
And when the music started playing, I moved. My limbs were stiff and uncoordinated. Each step, each pirouette was a struggle. The other little girls around me were all so effortless,their movements fluid and elegant. But I was fighting the costume, the lights, and the fear.
I blacked out.
I remember the feeling of utter loneliness. The spotlight was isolating me and highlighting every mistake I made on stage. I longed for a friendly face, a reassuring glance, but I met only the critical gazes of the audience. I wished my parents were there, but to them, this wasn’t a performance worthy of their time.
That night almost discouraged me from dancing ballet, but I stuck it out through the favoritism allegations and the jealous looks from the other girls. I knew the effort would pay off if I stuck with it, and eventually, my parents would come to see how talented I was and finally love me.
Perhaps that's what I was most upset about when Dante followed me to my European tour and decided to hide in the crowd. I could have used a familiar, friendly face to get me through the jealousy from the other dancers for having the lead role.
Knowing he was there but beyond reach…maybe that’s what hurts the most.
Thinking he was the stalker nearly broke me, and now, I have to worry about someone coming after me. It sucks that I don’t know who I can and cannot trust around me. Now I have to look at my colleagues with suspicion, worry about work, and wonder what I mean to Dante.
Christ, what are we?
Sure, we had sex, and it was the most amazing feeling in the world, but I still don’t understand what we are. Is this whatpeople call friends with benefits…no, maybe roommates with benefits. Are we a couple?
“Ugh, I can’t deal with this right now,” I hiss, running a hand through my hair. I decide to push it off until the show is over and the stalker has been caught. Maybe then, Dante and I will finally have a proper conversation about what we are.
The door opens behind me, and I turn around to see Sarah, my understudy, enter the room, swinging her keys around her fingers. She's only a couple of years younger than me, and the only other person with a key to my dressing room. A skilled ballerina, she has always struggled to emote while dancing and is often criticized for coming across as emotionless and robotic, which is why she hasn't been able to secure a position beyond understudy.
Still, the upcoming show is as important to her as it is to me. Being the understudy to the prima ballerina is the highest position she has reached so far, and I can tell she's under as much pressure as I am. So I don't take it personally when she barely even acknowledges me. The show has everyone a nervous wreck.
I continue changing as she moves to her station when I hear another voice outside the door before it’s pushed open, and Eric, my dance partner and love interest inSwan Lake, steps in.
“Hello, Gia.”
“Hey, Eric,” I say, offering the man a small smile. Despite Dante's wild jealousy, I find it amusing that he'd compare himself to Eric. They are nothing alike. Where Dante has this dark, dangerous Italian look about him, Eric has an all-American boyish look with blond hair and a dimpled smile that has most of the dancers swooning at his feet. As bright andhandsome as he is, I find I prefer Dante’s darker looks. “I’ll be out in a minute, Eric. I just need to finish up here.”
"Is something the matter? You look…stressed."
Stressed?
I pat my cheeks, horrified. Christ, I can’t look stressed. I have a show coming up, and I need to look perfect.
"I'm fine," I say hurriedly, and I must not be a good liar like Dante claimed the other night, as Eric's perfectly trimmed brows lift in disbelief. So I try a different answer. “I’m just tired. I’ve been practicing hard for the show. I believe everyone has.”
Eric steps fully into the room and turns to Sarah. "You don't mind if I chat with Gia alone, do you?"
