Page 12 of When Hearts Awaken

“Damn, what’s going onoutside?” I sidle next to Lisa, who has her nose smashed against the second floor window, which is cracked open a smidge. She’s no doubt looking at the commotion happening downstairs by the front entrance.

“Bigwigs are here. Charles is getting out of the car and people are pissed off.”

“Charles?”

“Bank of Columbia’s CEO. You really need to read the news, Tay. The scandal is crazy!” Lisa exclaims, then proceeds to tell me how the public is rightfully outraged at the crimes committed by a top executive at the bank.

Countless women have stepped forward with horrid tales of unwanted sexual advances—daughters, wives, sisters of everyday hardworking folks who fell victim to a monster at the company. Flames spark in my chest as Lisa recounts all the stories she’s read about so far. All those women whose lives are turned upside down. Women who’ll probably experience traumatic flashbacks like me.

Anger swims inside me and I eye the picket line and the angry mob gathered around a black town car as this man, Charles, steps out.

His muscular body is poured into a formfitting suit, his presence radiating with arrogance and prestige.

Like he doesn’t give a crap about the lives ruined under his watch at a company he leads.

Charles turns toward the reporters and the crowd. “I have no comment at this time regarding theallegedcrimes being reported.” His face is flushed, and I notice his hands clench into tight fists as if he doesn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth.

Outrage and fury roar from the crowd, and I feel the same ire in my veins.

Alleged?From what Lisa just told me, there was nothing alleged about any of it. These bigwigs only care about saving their asses and lining their pockets, legal words and whatnot.

They never believe the women, just like how no one believed me.

Charles flashes the reporters what I’m assuming is a self-deprecating “I’m caught in a tough place, woe is me” expression and I grit my teeth. He unleashes a half-smile and says, “Bank of Columbia and ABTC are combining forces to raise awareness about sexual assault and to advocate for survivors. This will be an exciting partnership for us and I’m thrilled about what’s coming. Now, please excuse me, I’m late for a meeting to kick off this partnership and to discuss how we can positively impact this cause.”

“Wow, that is the most top-notch BS maneuvering that I’ve ever seen…and I’ve seen a lot from Dad and his business partners.” Lisa lets out a low whistle.

I bite down a growl and fist my hands by my sides. The fake as shit motherfucker.

Another validation for my aversion to rich men in suits—Mom’s exes, the monsters from my past, and even my birth dad, who I haven’t forgiven for abandoning Mom and us.

I excuse myself to go to the bathroom before heading into the rehearsal room for Madame Renoir’s meeting, which no doubt is to announce this partnership with ABTC and other smaller sponsors. I need to splash some water on my face to cool down. After feeling like I have my wits about me, I step out of the bathroom to head to the meeting.

I pass by a few older men in suits.

“They didn’t make them like this back in my day,” the bald one mutters under his breath, his lecherous eyes roving over my leotard-clad body.

Keep walking, Taylor. Keep walking. Don’t stir up trouble at ABTC.

His buddies chuckle and I see them turn toward a newcomer, their comments dropping in volume.

“Checking out my dancers, John? Not without my permission.” A new voice floats to my ears, and I fight a shiver at the rough timbre—powerful and masculine—currently laced with humor.

“Charles, just because you’re the largest sponsor doesn’t make them yours. Get in line.” More laughter.Ugh. So gross.

I can’t resist looking back as I enter the rehearsal studio. I see the back of the newcomer, a tall man, golden hair shining under the spotlight like a crown. That motherfucker I saw outside just now. Charles, the misogynistic, fake as shit pig. I really hope I don’t run into him in the future because I might not be able to help myself and give him a piece of my mind.

Once inside the room, I force my mind to focus on the white swan dance I’m trying to master instead. We have fifteen more minutes before the meeting. I might as well practice. I need to figure this out—push through this block I have with the role. Keep my eyes on the prize—the promotion dangling within reach. Maybe once I get it, I’d feel better about everything that happened.

Maybe I’d feel more…whole.

I take a deep breath and slip into my ballerina persona—perfect, poised, graceful. Calm even as the world riots around me. My hands and feet move on their own accord—the warm-ups easy. I practice my pirouettes, each spin pushing down the anger until it’s packed tightly at the base of my spine.

Calm. I’m calm.I’m Taylor, the ballerina now.

After a few more minutes of practice, I blow out a breath.

Then I sense someone staring at me. A man’s gaze, I’m sure. It’s distracting. Menacing. Unnerving.

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