Page 30 of The Perfect Mistake

I don’t fit in here, either. Not in Connie’s glittering world… and not anywhere else. The only world I’ve ever loved shut its door on me. Locked it.

Threw away the key.

“There you are! Thought I saw you slipping away.”

Dread rises inside me, and I turn to see the too-complimentary man standing a few feet away. “I needed some fresh air.”

“I get it,” he says and takes a step closer. “Heard you’re a dancer. That true, baby?”

My lip curls. Who uses “baby” with someone they’ve just met? My little sister would give him her middle finger right about now.

I try to channel some of her energy. “Sorry, but I’m not interested.”

His eyebrows drop with irritation. “Interested in what? A little conversation? Don’t be—”

The door opens behind him and Alec steps out. His face is set in lines of cold anger. They make him look older than he is, and scary in a way I’ve never seen.

He walks to my side. “She’s fine,” he barks, his voice arctic. Our shoulders brush. He’s standing closer to me than a mere friend would.

The drunk charmer mutters something that sounds like an apology and turns on his heel. The terrace door shuts in his wake with a soft snick.

I release a breath I’ve been holding. “He was…”

“Yeah,” Alec says. He’s taken a step away from me now, but his eyes are locked on mine. “I saw him following you out. Are you okay?”

“Yes, thank you,” I respond. “Maybe I was supposed to say I can take care of myself or whatever, but I really appreciated that.”

His eyes warm, and, at his sides, he slowly unclenches his fists. “I get it. That guy was out of line.”

I wrap my bare arms around myself. They’re turning cold with the night air. “He called me ‘baby.’ Like, where do men get the confidence to do stuff like that?”

All warmth disappears from his gaze. “He said what?”

“He pulled the old ‘heard you’re a dancer’ thing, too. Ugh.” The number of times I’ve heard that from friends of friends, from my brother’s buddies, from people in the area where I grew up. As if a dancer is synonymous with any number of sordid things.

Alec crosses his arms over his chest. There’s a faint color along the ridge of his cheekbones, and I wonder if he’s been drinking, too. I wonder if he ever lets himself drink too much—if he ever loses control.

“You’ve been turning lots of heads tonight,” he mutters. “I’m sorry some of them don’t know how to behave themselves.”

I shake my head and walk over to the railing. It’s hard to look at him at length when I’m feeling like this. Warm inside and cold outside; liquid heat in my stomach because of the champagne and a head that’s lightly spinning, haziness clouding my thoughts.

He joins me, leaning against the railing. We watch the glittering lights of New York in silence.

A sadness rises within me. It’s been there every single day these past weeks, since that fateful day in the ballet studio. Heard you’re a dancer. Well, you heard wrong. Because I’m not anymore. And I likely never will be again.

That world is gone and done with.

The first tear falls silently, racing down my cheek like a thief in the night. It doesn’t make a sound. But Alec notices, of course. He’s always been too good at noticing things. He doesn't say anything for a while, but I feel his presence next to me. It’s solid and steady.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “I’ll kick him out of the party for you. Would that make you feel better? He’ll be gone immediately.”

The offer makes me chuckle. “No, no. Thank you. But it’s not that. It’s… I’m thinking about ballet.”

He hesitates for a few seconds, but then he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Tell me,” he murmurs.

“Dancing was my dream. It was what I worked for. I wanted to be a prima ballerina so badly. I still do, and I know ballerinas have short careers, but I was hoping for at least five more years. I still… I don’t… it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.” Another tear falls down my cheek. “I lost my apartment. I lost my chance to dance professionally. I lost everything. Including my dream.”

His face is etched in tense lines like he doesn’t like hearing this. Who can blame him? I’m a mess and can’t seem to stop my emotions from welling, from spilling onto the surface, and I can only partly blame that on the alcohol.

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