Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 103852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
This is real.
I’m not dreaming or hallucinating. I’m not waking up from this nightmare in a cold sweat. This is the actual world.
A few rows ahead, the stranger who held a gun to my head a week ago is sitting with the producers. He’s wearing a gray cashmere coat over his black shirt and his hair is styled, neat, looking like a CEO who’s just been to a meeting. His demeanor is composed—normal, even.
But there’s nothing normal about him.
Even from this distance, I can feel the danger emanating off him in waves and aiming daggers straight at my chest. His expression is neutral, but it wouldn’t be more terrifying if he were scowling. Because I know what that façade hides, what actually lurks beneath the surface.
A killer.
A lethal, cold-hearted one at that, who wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.
Did he change his mind and come to kill me after all?
Is this my last dance before I meet the fate of the men from that night?
My legs tremble and I’m a second away from collapsing on my face or vomiting the salad I had for lunch.
“Lia!” Philippe’s impatient voice echoes through the air, yanking me back to the present. In my stupor, I forgot that I stopped mid-movement.
What the hell? That’s a first and it doesn’t go unnoticed. The other dancers scowl at me as if I personally hurt them. Philippe and Stephanie watch me, puzzled, because they know I’m not the type to lose focus or get distracted.
Not when it comes to ballet.
“I’m sorry.” I release a long breath. “Let’s go again, please.”
I don’t trust myself to not break down here and now if I keep staring at him or imagining his gun pointed at my head. So I take refuge in the one thing that gives me joy—dancing.
My movements aren’t as fluid as I like, but it’s impossible to force myself into that headspace. Not when dread and fear like I’ve never felt before continue to shoot at me from every direction.
When I was trapped in that black box, I believed I knew what fear felt like. It was dark and tight and made me wet myself.
But that was far from what I’m experiencing right now. Fear has evolved into a tall, dark-haired stranger with terrifying gray eyes and a lethal weapon.
I try my hardest to ignore the spectators, like I always have, but it’s damn near impossible when I know he’s there, watching, contemplating, biding his time until he decides to pounce on me.
I never pay attention to the audience, because they interfere with my performance and my interpretation of the character’s emotions. The only time I look at them is once I’m done and everything is finished.
Now is different.
Now, I can feel his intense cold eyes piercing into me and peering inside my head. In a way, it feels like everyone else has disappeared and he’s the only presence I can sense. The only person who’s watching me. Just like Albrecht was watching Giselle that day and became infatuated with her.
That thought sends a chill to my bones, but my feet don’t falter. I don’t lose my footing again. If anything, I become one with the music, and as Stephanie said, I let Giselle take over me. I let her be a naive fool who’s dancing in the forest. The lone difference is that I’m well aware of who’s watching me—more than aware. I know his eyes are taking in my every movement.
Instead of deterring me, the thought allows me to completely let go. I’m free-falling like a feather, boneless and suspended from my body’s physical reality.
I stand on pointe more than specified in the choreography and give my performance of the year. I don’t even know what’s come over me. Is it the fact that this could be my last dance? Or do I want to show him my passion for what I do, hoping that he’ll have mercy and let me go?
Either way, I don’t stop or hold back. I give it my all, pushing my muscles to their limit.
When I’m finished, I stand in place in fourth position, catching my breath. A round of applause comes from Philippe and I’m immediately wrenched to the present. The spell breaks, the world and people filtering back in with a symphony of sounds and chatter. For some strange reason, I miss the state where it was only me. I turn around to find the director ready for a hug.
“Bravo, chérie! This is my Lia.” He points at his forearm. “You give me chills.”
“Thanks,” I murmur.
Stephanie rubs my arm. “You became one with her, didn’t you?”
“I think so.” I keep talking in a low tone, not wanting a certain someone from the audience to hear.
I chance a glance around the theater and find the stranger’s seat beside our producer, Matt, empty. I search for him in case he’s changed places, but he’s nowhere to be seen.