She believed in him. No…she trusted him.
He hadn’t responded to her the way he had only to turn around and kiss another woman. That wasn’t who he was.
That certainty scared her.
The last time she’d trusted like this, she’d been wrong.
Darrow’s polished admiration had turned out to be projection and control wrapped in a pressed uniform. She had mistaken intensity for devotion. Mistaken attention for truth.
But Kelly Gatlin had tried to warn her away. He’d drawn lines. He’d hesitated. He’d refused to take advantage when she’d been plastered to him. He’d covered her hand in the dark like she was something precious and fierce all at once.
She hadn’t imagined that.
Still, when she’d seen him with Ayla, something had flickered. Not doubt in him. Doubt in herself. A sharp flash of fear that maybe she was slipping again. Wanting too much. Ignoring red flags she was too hopeful to see.
That was the old pattern, and she wasn’t going back there.
She hauled her bag off the carousel and squared her shoulders.
He would have her trust until he proved he didn’t deserve it, and when she got back, she would talk to him.
She was here for her sister, Emily, with the long legs and perfect feet and the kind of turnout that coaches used to salivate over. Emily, who’d survived the same pressure Blair had, but somehow danced lighter beneath it.
Your dad is outside at the curb. The text from her mother popped up, and she wheeled her bag toward the exit to the pickup area. She would soon be home, in the room she had when she’d been a girl.
Her dad got out and helped with the bag.
“Hi, Daddy. It’s good to see you.”
“You too, honey.” The drive was short, and she was soon at her parents’ palatial mansion, the house she’d grown up in. She braced herself as she stepped inside the foyer.
“Blair,” her mother said, smiling with practiced warmth. “You look…softer.”
The words sliced with precision. A microaggression dressed as a compliment.
Blair just nodded. “Hi, Mom.”
“Your hair’s grown out.” Her mother’s eyes flicked over her. “Less severe than when you were in law enforcement.”
Still am, Blair thought, but didn’t say. There was no point. Her mother didn’t ask about her work. Never had. Never would.
To her, Blair would always be the failure. The disappointment in pointe shoes. The one who’d had to be carried offstage and never walked back.
She hugged her sister, Allison, next, stiff but polite, and ignored the familiar sense of being simultaneously seen and erased. Ally had been the dutiful daughter and joined their dad in his law firm. They didn’t ask where she’d come from. They didn’t ask about Kamloops or deployments or compound raids. They didn’t ask about anything at all.
Emily ran into the foyer. “I’m so glad you’re here! Come on, you have to help me pick out the outfit I’ll wear to the performance,” she said with bright-eyed enthusiasm.
“Is there a boy?” Blair said with a teasing smile.
“No…maybe…he should be so lucky.” Emily grinned and hugged her like she meant it.
Up in her room, she closed the door and sighed. Nothing had changed. It was like her room had been frozen in time. All the awards, the performance pictures and programs, her toe shoes hanging off the edge of her canopy bed. She wasn’t this girl anymore, or the woman who had joined the RCMP. She was no longer the woman Darrow had groomed and betrayed. She was no longer under his thumb. She had moved past all that. What she wanted to be was whole. Free in her own skin, embracing all the authenticity that was buried for so long.
She didn’t have to be perfect to be worthy. Control wasn’t safety. Authenticity was strength. She could want and still remain herself.
She looked into the gilt mirror at her face, her eyes assessing and shrewd. What she wanted was Breakneck, regardless of what she’d seen. It was all about how she felt about him, and that was too strong to ignore.
Two hours later, the backstage area smelled like rosin and nerves. Familiar and exciting. She missed this so much, but it was something she’d had to let go. Curtains whispered with movement, pointe shoes tapped lightly on the floor, and whispered instructions floated between dancers like old ghosts rehearsing their lines.
