Page 1 of The Pucking Wrong Man

PROLOGUE

ANASTASIA

TEN YEARS OLD

“You were fantastic today, Ana. You’ve almost got it down perfect,” Miss Gallagher murmured. I beamed under her praise. She rarely gave it, but when she did, it was magical. “Have you thought about the extra class I suggested? A contemporary class would be very helpful in getting you to the next step.”

I ducked my head, not wanting to look her in the eyes. I had thought about it.

A lot.

I wanted it so badly.

But I was already on scholarship here. I was afraid to ask if they could cover a new class too. The girls already made fun of me enough. The kids in the contemporary class were older...they would probably be even more mean about it.

“Ana,” Miss Gallagher said knowingly, her finger tapping on my chin so I had to look at her...she hated when I wouldn’t.

“Yes?” I asked, ignoring the shakiness in my voice. She always said there was no crying in dance.

But I was really close to crying right now.

“If you need something, you just need to ask. This dance studio is very invested in you. We want you to succeed.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I sniffed, wiping at my eyes frantically because I couldn’t stop my tears.

There was a pause, and then her voice lowered even more. “Is everything alright at home?”

I stiffened.

Why did adults always ask this question, like I could actually tell them the truth?

Dad would get so mad if he knew I was even talking to her.

And when he got mad—really, really bad things happened.

I held in my shiver and tried my best to keep my face blank.

She was just trying to help. They all were.

But there was no one that could help me. I just had to be okay until I was grown up.

Or at least that’s what I told myself.

“Everything’s fine,” I said, my tone suspiciously high and squeaky. I tried to put on the dance smile that they’d taught me in my first class.

“Happiness needs to beam out of your eyeballs,” Miss Franca had told us that day.

Staring up at Miss Gallagher with all the fake happiness I could muster…I wasn’t sure she was falling for it.

Miss Gallagher sighed like I’d disappointed her and patted my shoulder. “Someday, you will trust me, ma chérie,” she said before she glided away, her posture elegant and confident, and everything I wanted to be.

I wanted to run after her and tell her all about Dad and how mean he’d gotten the last few years since Mom left. I wanted to tell her how alone and scared and hungry I was all the time.

But the last time I’d told someone, he’d hit me so hard, my head cracked open. I still got headaches all the time from it.

Nope. I wanted to sprint after her, throw my arms around her waist and beg her not to let me go home.

But I didn’t let myself.

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