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)
“No, Georgy can’t suspect anything… Yes…I will think of a way to keep him preoccupied.”
After she hangs up, she stares at the fireplace, hand back on her hip and her fingers balled around the phone.
“Is Aunt Annika all right?” I ask in a low voice.
She turns around abruptly, as if she’s forgotten I was there. I don’t like the spark in her eyes or the slight smirk on her lips. “How could I not think of this? The best way to keep Georgy occupied is you, my little bastard.”
When she slowly approaches me, I stumble, stepping back, not wanting her to hit me again. My legs bump against the coffee table and I end up landing on my butt.
Mom stops in front of me, her shadow falling over me and blocking the light from the fire. “Why are you running away from me?”
She glides her nails over my cheek, then into my hair, but she’s not caressing it like Aunt Annika does when putting me to sleep. Mom’s hand is cold like the look on her face.
It’s like being in Russia during the freezing winter.
Mom grabs my arm and I remain still as a stone, unable to move. She dials a number on her phone and sniffles a little before she puts it to her ear. “Oh, Georgy! What to do about Adrian?”
She pauses and I can hear Dad’s frantic curses in Russian from the other end.
Tears slide down Mom’s cheeks. She always cries when talking to Dad, even though her expression right now is still like the bad guy’s.
“He…he fell down and broke his arm…I don’t know what to do! Please come over, please!”
More curses from my father. More Russian.
“Oh, my baby!!” Mom shrieks and hangs up, sniffling, then just like that, her expression turns to normal. “Now, Adrian, you wouldn’t mind making a little sacrifice for your mother’s happily ever after, would you?”
Before I can say anything, she closes her hand around my arm and twists it in the opposite direction, hard.
An ugly pop echoes in the air and I shriek.
Lia
Age twenty-four
Nothing good ever comes without pain.
Since I was a little girl, that fact has been cemented into my head with bloodstained fingers.
I was born from pain, raised by pain, and eventually embraced it.
However, no matter how much pain I’ve had to endure, I’ve never managed to become numb to it. Not even when I went out of my way to train my body for it.
Pain is real, suffocating, and with the right amount of pressure, it’s bound to break my every last barrier.
My endurance is stronger, though.
Loud cheers fill the hall long after the curtains fall for the finale of The Nutcracker. I remain on pointe, hands poised in my salute even after we’re out of the public eye.
My ankles scream to be put out of their misery, as they have repeatedly over these last couple of months. Long rehearsals and endless tours have dulled my senses, almost bleeding into one another.
I give it a few seconds, catching my breath before I softly land on the soles of my feet. My ballet shoes are inaudible in the midst of the fuss backstage.
Other dancers release relieved breaths as they either pat each other on the back or simply stand there dumbfounded. We might belong to the New York City Ballet, one of the most prestigious dance companies in the world, but that doesn’t lessen the pressure. If anything, it makes it tenfold worse.
We’re expected to be our absolute best whenever we go on stage. When the company handpicked its dancers, the only rule was: no mistakes are allowed.
The roaring applause at the end of our performance isn’t something we hope for, it’s something we’re expected to accomplish.
The director, Philippe, a tall, slim man with a bald head and thick white moustache, walks over, accompanied by our choreography director, Stephanie.
Philippe smiles, his moustache tipping with the movement, and all of us release a collective breath. He’s not the type to smile after a show unless we’ve done a perfect performance.
“You were marvelous. Bravo!” he speaks with a pronounced French accent, and claps. His entire body joins in the motion, his colorful scarf flying and his tight blazer straining against his body.
Everyone else follows his lead, clapping and congratulating each other.
Everyone except me, the lead male dancer, Ryan, and the second female lead, Hannah.
Some dancers attempt to start small talk with Philippe, but he brazenly ignores them as he walks to me and lifts my hand to his mouth, brushing his lips and moustache against my knuckles. “My most beautiful prima ballerina. You were a work of art tonight, Lia chérie.”
“Thank you, Philippe.” I pull my hand back as swiftly as I can and wince when a tendon aches in my left leg. I need to get a pain patch on that as soon as possible.