Page 60 of Endless Love

TWENTY-SEVEN

Willow

“…Gustave Fontaine.”

At the very mention of his name, I felt all the blood in my body drain and all the air leave my lungs.

It had been over six grueling months of recovery. I’d given him everything, all of me, but he had fucked me, literally and figuratively, shattering my heart, ego, and soul into a million pieces. Still holding Ryan’s hand, I looked for a place to hide. But it was too late. Ryan’s mother ushered him into the room and his eagle-like eyes made contact with mine. All eyes were on the dashing impresario with the shiny black cane as they headed our way.

“Ryan, can we leave?” I spit out the words.

“Willow, what’s the matter?”

“I just want to leave.”

“Do you feel sick?”

“Yes.” Sick to my stomach. I felt like I might puke.

“Okay. Just let me say goodbye to my mother and a quick hello to her guest and we can split.”

Too late. Oh God, no! There was no avoiding him. No escape. Every nerve in my body on edge and my stomach a giant knot, I kept my head down as Ryan planted his hand on my lower back and ushered me toward the man I dreaded seeing again. His mother was beaming.

“Ryan, darling, I’d like you to meet, Gustave Fontaine. He’s the artistic director of the ballet company for which I’m hosting a fundraiser tomorrow night at Lincoln Center.”

“Nice to meet you.” Ryan shook Gustave’s hand as his mother’s focus shifted to me.

“And this is my son’s new girlfriend…Willow.”

Gustave’s hand took mine and lifted it to his smirking lips. My spine tensed like a tightrope as they touched down on my flesh.

“How sublime to see you, my petite oiseau.” Pronounced wha-zoh, the word was French for bird. It was Gustave’s pet name for me because when I leaped it was like I was flying.

His eyes narrowing, Ryan cocked his head. I could feel tension radiating off his body. “You two know each other?”

Gustave fired him a dirty look. “Miss Rose was one of the lead dancers of my ballet company. A rising star.”

“Miss Rose?” The expression on Ryan’s face told me he was putting two and two together. “And the name of your company would be…”

Oh, God!

“The Royal Latvia Ballet.”

Ryan’s jaw dropped to the floor, but before he could utter a word, his tipsy mother chimed in.

“Ah! Willow Rose! Of course! I knew you looked familiar. Darling, I’m sure I’ve seen you dance in Europe.”

“I-I don’t perform anymore,” I stuttered, Gustave’s presence suffocating me.

“It is such a pity. I have been trying to woo her back.” He eyed me lasciviously, leering at the ballerina neckline of my little black dress.

Beads of sweat were clustering behind my knees and nausea was rising in my chest like a tempest. Gustave was getting to me. Already casting a wicked spell. I needed to get to a bathroom quickly.

“Excuse me, but I need to use the restroom.” I was thankful that only words spilled out of my mouth.

“Willow, there’s one down the hall.” Ryan’s concerned voice drifted into my ears as I dashed out of the packed living room, hoping to find a bathroom quickly in this sprawling apartment. Thankfully, I came upon one just in time. I raced inside and falling to my knees, I lifted up the toilet seat. Holding back both my long braid and Ryan’s dangling pendant necklace, I wretched until there was nothing more I could throw up. My knees weak, I stood up and staggered to the sink, glimpsing myself in the mirror. I looked wretched, nothing like the glamorous woman who had arrived here only minutes ago. Turning on the faucet, I rinsed my mouth and then splashed cold water on my face, not caring if I washed off my makeup. How many times had he done this to me? That was his power. His invincible super power. To make me fall apart. Make me undone. Haphazardly twisting my braid into a bun, I made my way to the door on my Jell-O-like legs. Cranking it open, I got another surprise.

Mira Abramovitch. Or should I say Abramobitch, which is what the other dancers called her. My archrival. The girl who coveted every part I got and did her best to sabotage me. We’d competed against each other since we were in pre-school. Or more precisely, she’d competed against me. With the support of her wealthy, power-driven mother, who was set on her daughter becoming the world’s foremost ballerina.

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