Page 15 of When Hearts Awaken

I recognized her the moment I laid eyes on her. She was the dancer I saw on TV in Firefly’s room a few weeks ago. The alluring woman with the haunted eyes so captivating, I couldn’t look away. My breath quickened when I spotted that raven hair, and for a brief second, I was breathless with anticipation.

She took me away from my dark thoughts when I was in Firefly’s room. What magic would she wield for me today? Could she distract me from the damn mess I found myself in?

But no, I was clearly mistaken before. The woman on the TV was a beautiful mystery—multi-layered and fascinating and this woman here…

She was a volcano threatening to level everything and everyone around her.

My blood pressure rose inside me as I watched her flail her arms and legs out like she wanted to strangle the white swan with her bare hands. Instead of drawing me away from the guilt threatening to eat me alive, I was consumed with useless what-ifs.

Firefly would’ve hated this. Her favorite ballet, reduced to a toddler’s tantrum. If she were here, she would’ve done justice to the role. She would’ve taken it seriously.

Then the minx twisted her ankle and tripped.

Her entire persona changed from a fierce ballerina to a goth brat throwing a fit in public. She wiggled her ass, muttering what seemed to be a litany of curses, then plopped down to the ground and started texting.

Like she didn’t care. Like she didn’t know how important dancing the role of Odette inSwan Lakewas for a world-renowned ballet company.

Because not everyone got to have that chance.

Maybe Firefly would be the one dancing Odette if you’d made a different choice back then. If you’d only—

The goth brat smirked at her phone and I wanted to smear her dark lipstick and wipe that damn smile off her face.

Calm down, Charles. You know what happens to people who are too emotional. They become unstable. They become irresponsible.

And now she’s staring at me, her gaze widening with something…shock? Terror? Somehow, seeing that frightened expression sends a thrill through my veins. No one has ever reacted this way to me in public—I’m the charismatic CEO everyone loves. The golden prince.

It’s like she could see through me.

And something about that makes my skin sizzle with awareness.

The air crackles with intensity. The minx narrows her eyes and juts out her chin, her body rigid and defiant, as if daring me to go down there and give her a piece of my mind.

My fingers clench—if she were a sub in one of the kink clubs inside The Orchid, I’d discipline her because of that insolent expression on her face. My jaw twitches, and an unfamiliar fire gathers at the base of my spine as the air gets sucked out of the cavernous room.

Suddenly, she gets up and walks toward the front of the group. I know I should be down there too because they’re making introductions soon. But I can’t seem to move. My heart is racing—from anger, frustration, unsettling arousal—a barrage of strange and unwanted sensations hitting me from all sides.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Or maybe it does.After all, Charles, you are your parents’ child. Maybe instability runs in your blood.

Fuck.

Ignoring the heated stare from that asshole, I smooth my damp palms on my leotard and stand beside Madame Renoir in front of the room. The businessmen from earlier are also gathered there and I swallow the revulsion rising in my throat when the bald one doles out a sleazy grin.

Bethany smiles at me, still very much a picture of angelic grace. It’d be easy to hate her if she weren’t so nice. I quickly nod at her and force out a smile.

“As I was saying, it’s been an honor to be in this position for the last ten years, and I’m proud to have seen such growth from everyone. But alas, it’s time for me to retire. Fortunately, with Bank of Columbia’s sponsorship of ABTC, they’ve brought on the world-renowned artistic director and choreographer, Sir Ian Vaughn, to take over my position in a year and a half after he completes his current contract in France. Please welcome Sir Ian with your warmest applause.”

Cheers and clapping erupt in the crowd as folks recognize the name of the mysterious director behind the recent popularity of modern ballet in Paris. I follow suit, wondering if I’ll get along with my new boss, if he’ll support me in the promotion. I try to ignore the pinch of concern about him being a man. This is a professional setting, after all.

I should be fine.

Then the suits move to the side, letting a lean, middle-aged man with aristocratic bearing through.

Time freezes as the world spins around me.

My stomach drops to the floor and the sudden disorientation makes me want to throw up the contents of my breakfast.

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