Page 49 of Off Balance

"I'm almost too tired to eat," I say.

She laughs. "Not me. I feel like I'm always ravenous." To prove her point, she opens her bag and pulls out a large sandwich. It'sloaded with meat and veggies, so much so that she can barely get a big enough bite. I have a feeling she's still trying to be polite, though. If I wasn't here, she might unlock her jaw like a snake and swallow the sandwich whole. She pulls out a bottle, pours in what I'm assuming is protein powder, and shakes it.

I pull a similar protein drink from my bag, contemplating what to say while I mix the beverage. The silence between us is companionable and not awkward at all. It's not until she's finished her sandwich that I speak.

"I like you, Daphne. I think you're an amazing dancer and partner."

"But?"

"No buts, I promise. I just wanted to say… to warn you, I guess. That there are people here who would take advantage of you if you aren't careful."

Daphne sits up and zips her lunch bag, spine ram-rod straight, as she faces me. "I was told you'd say something like that."

"What? By who?"

"Whom," she corrects, not unkindly, but the sharpness of her tone makes me consider her differently. "Emile said you'd be jealous."

"He did, did he?" I huff out a humorless laugh.

I shake my head and lean my head back. Looking at the domed ceiling, I'm struck by such a vivid memory, I randomly start blathering away.

"All I've ever wanted to be was a dancer," I tell her. "My dad didn't approve. Luckily, he was gone a lot. He was in themarines. But he caught me taking classes at the local community center during one of his trips home and let’s just say he did not react well."Understatement."My mom conspired with my aunt to make sure I could keep taking classes. The second time he caught me, he threatened to break my legs."

"But you're here," she says simply.

I stand up, brushing invisible crumbs from my chest and legs. "Damn right, I am. It was a long, hard road to get here. I'd live through it all again to dance on that stage even one more time." I hold her gaze. "Sometimes you do whatever it takes, but sometimes, you realize youalready havewhat it takes. You don't need to give pieces of yourself away to accomplish what you were always meant to do."

With that, I turn on my heel and march straight to Emile's office to give him a piece of my mind. On my way down the hall Belinda says he's not in, waving me off as she lifts her phone to her ear.

"Yes, Mr. Alistar. I'm on my way now. I'll be there as quickly as I can, but it's lunchtime traffic." I watch her blow out a breath while she pushes the button to the elevator multiple times. "I understand. I'll be there as fast as I can."

"Everything alright?" I ask her.

"Monsieurforgot that things cost money, again. He's at a florist and forgot his wallet, so I need to bring it to him. I imagine he'll be back well before rehearsals end today, if you needed to talk to him?"

"Oh, no, it was nothing important. Just wanted to say hi."

She gives me a pitying smile that's maybe a little less judgmental than usual. The elevator doors slide open just as her phone ringsagain, and she gives an exaggerated groan. I gesture towards the restroom and wave her off, mouthing, "good luck."

The moment the doors close, I turn around and head down the hallway. There's not much on this floor, aside from Emile's massive office, a conference room, and a large sitting area. The entire floor is empty now that Belinda has left. I punch in the same passcode I use to get in and out of the gates to Emile's house, and the door unlocks. I slip inside and shut the door behind me, then stand and stare. What exactly am I here for?

I'd wanted to confront Emile about Daphne. I can't exactly do that if he's not here. Should I leave him a note, asking to talk later?I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve if I don’t do something now.

His desk is predictably clean. There isn't a thing on it except the computer monitor and a single framed photo of himself dancing with the Paris Opera Ballet. His tenure there is the accomplishment he is the proudest of.

I have the urge to push the frame off the desk, but I set about finding a notepad or some paper instead. The first drawer I open is meticulously organized pens, two spare hairbands, and some hand cream. The second is nothing but files. My name catches my eye, and curiosity gets the best of me. I pull it to see what's inside. Most of it is personnel files, the application I filled out to audition, the contract agreement I signed when I agreed to an internship. I've been waiting for Emile to draw up a new contract now that I've been promoted to principal dancer, but there isn't any evidence here to suggest he's even working on it.

We havea lotto talk about.

Annoyed, I shove the file back in the spot I found it and start to close the drawer, when I see Heath's name. Glancing backtowards the door once, I hesitate before pulling the file out and opening it. Some of it is the same personnel stuff, with multiple copies of contracts that he'd accepted during his three years as a dancer here. There's also a copy of the complaint he filed against Emile, followed by multiple bank statements. Emile told me that Heath dropped the charges because they were unfounded, and he couldn't prove anything. But if that's true, why did he pay him off? Because I'm holding several receipts for several large wire transfers to Heath's personal bank account.

My watch beeps, startling so much I nearly jump out of the chair. I almost toss the file in the air, and some of the papers scatter.Shit. I need to get back to rehearsal. I scramble around to put the file back together, hoping it's all in the right order, and slam the drawer closed.

As I run back to the studio for rehearsal, I wonder exactly what happened with Heath to warrant such a large payout.

Watching recaps of Dom's old fights is nothing compared to watching one play out in front of me. I'm so stressed, I've shredded my nails down to the quicks, and my bottom lip probably resembles ground meat.

"Hey! You doing okay?" Dwayne calls over to me from his spot behind the ropes. He glances at me warily, while mostly keeping his eyes on the fight. As much as I want to look away, I can't take my eyes away from the two sweaty men throwing punches at each other in the center of the ring.

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