Page 73 of Bad Little Bride

The space is no less than twenty feet, both long and wide, and every single inch is covered. Tops, pants, gowns. Handbags, heels, and jewelry.

But it’s the glass doors to the far left that draw me over.

With shaky fingers, I wrap my hand around the crystal knob and tug them open, my smile widening at the array of colors. The glitter and tulle and sweet, sweet satin.

It’s not until I start to move the hangers around that I realize what it is exactly that I’m looking at.

They’re costumes, yes. Leotards and tights and more, duh.

But they’re not just any dancer’s attire.

They’re mine.

They’re all the ones I wore to every major performance I’ve ever had, including the showcase pieces from Greyson Elite and my solo in New York. The very piece my father had to sign a contract stating any damages done to the diamond-encrusted, million-dollar design, even during the performance, we would be liable for. Yes, my father could pay that without a single blink, but that’s not the point.

The delicate piece was created as a marketing tool and was auctioned off to the highest bidder a month after the final curtain closing last year. From what I heard, it was locked in a glass case in the center of DeLuca Diamonds in New York City, but it’s just hanging here as if it’s a simple piece of silk.

They’reallhere.

Every. Single. One.

I look toward Grandma, who still stands just outside the closet entrance, but my attention latches onto a familiar faux fur jacket, the leopard print vibrant and the length nearly sweeping along the floor.

The clothes. The shoes and bags.

“These are all my things,” I whisper. From home.

“All your things and more,” Grandma comments.

“So this room…”

Her shoulders straighten, as if bracing for a fight. “Is your new room.”

My pulse beats a little faster and I peek at her from the corner of my eye. “And Enzo?”

She tips her head slightly, her gaze assessing, and when she speaks again, there’s something lighter in her tone. “Will come home to you here.”

I nod, turning back to the closet.Mycloset, before stepping out intohiscloset.

Our room.

This is our room. Mine and my husband’s.

I’m married to Enzo Fikile.

A tiny thrill slithers up my spine as my gaze lands on the bed, but there’s an anxious tug that comes with it.

My eyes stray back toward the closets, my mind reeling. Enzo prepared this room for us, bringing in all my things from home and arranging them just as I had them, taking what he saw and adding to it using the same styles. And the costumes, both new and old. The shoes.

My toes curl, an eagerness to get back into pointes nearly drawing me right back inside.

He’s given me everything I need now.

Is this why I was put in that other room? So he could prepare?

To give me time to warm up to him or maybe time for him to cool off after I pulled the disappearing act.

Why does he have my performance pieces?

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