Page 36 of When Hearts Awaken

Without waiting for a response, I make my way down the steps and head toward the subway station, his raw and raspy laughter echoing in my ears.

My lips twitch, bubbles simmering inside my chest.

Taylor one, Charles zero.

Then, I freeze, belatedly noticing the spark of amusement, the rush of satisfaction at my rejoinder and not bowing down before him. And it’s then I realize, despite him being so close to me just now, I didn’t feel afraid.

Chapter 15

Backstage at the MetOpera is a study of controlled chaos. A frenetic energy hums through the wings in between Acts III and IV ofSwan Lake. It’s the inaugural performance kicking off the international tour and also Ian’s debut as the artistic director of ABTC. Naturally, everyone is on edge. A faint smell of sweat and perfume permeates the air and the rushed footsteps of dancers and stagehands dashing across the floor remind me of standing in the middle of Grand Central Station during rush hour.

I silence my phone, but the buzzing still comes through—no doubt updates on the Patterson trial and financial reporting I’m expecting from my finance team. Despite the mountain of work waiting for me in the office, I have to be here today for the inaugural performance. Along with accompanying the ballet company for the first few international stops, I promised I’d be here to show my support when we announced the tour as part of the response to the scandal.

I glance at our family’s empty private box, front and center of the Parterre level, and a twinge of sadness prickles my chest. I’ve avoided that box and instead am watching the performance from backstage because of the feelings it evokes in me. Grandma wasn’t a fan of ballet—she loved opera and musicals more. Liam wouldn’t be caught dead sitting through any of the performances.

Firefly was the only person who would’ve enjoyed this night. I think back to the excited glow in her blue eyes when she grabbed my arm during the last performance we saw together—The Nutcracker—three years before she ended up in the hospital.

“Glad I don’t have to march into the office to drag you here, you workaholic.” She winked before settling down into her seat. “I wish we could do this more often.”

I huffed out a laugh. “Don’t be so dramatic. I’ll always make time for you.”

Liar.

For the next three years, I’d never accompanied her to another performance. There were always other obligations—work, networking, business dinners.

I always assumed I’d have more time with them.

Regret is a corrosive poison—once in your system, it slowly eats away at you little by little, until every movement causes pain.

I swallow, looking away.

“Taylor, will you grab another pair of pointe shoes for Bethany?” Ian asks. “The ribbon tore in her current pair—she has a few extras on her table.”

“Yes, sir.”

The bane of my existence jolts to attention and scurries away from her spot across the wings, where she was staring forlornly at the stage. She’s wearing yet another baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants, looking completely out of place in a field of glittering costumes and bright colors. Her arms are hiked across her chest. I frown—it’s not the first time I’ve seen her wrap her arms around herself like that, and I can count with one hand how many times I’ve seen her in anything that’s not ill-fitting or in funeral colors.

It’s like she’s trying to protect herself or make herself invisible.

But that’s impossible. Her willowy frame, the innate elegance in her features punctuated by the angry countenance hovering over her most days, the pale skin marred by dark makeup and her ever-changing nose piercings.

Can the moon ever blend in with the dark night? I don’t think so.

Really, Charles? Moon and dark night?I’m slowly being driven crazy by her. That’s the only rational explanation.

“Don’t. Poke. The. Bear.”

Flames radiate from my chest when I think back to that day on the steps of ABTC. The woman never backs down, even when it’s good for her. Every time I saw her in the last year and a half, we’d always end up in some strange bickering match over everything. She’d have opinions about my single status, which she said was because women were too smart to fall for my shit, which I’d return with a backhand about her lack of boyfriends, a comment I’m still not proud of today. Then there were countless barbs about my fake smile, my questionable business partners—pretty much if I were to say the sun is yellow, I’m sure she’d have an opposing viewpoint.

The woman fucking hates my guts, that much is obvious.

She tries my patience and drags me down to her level, daring me to erupt—to lash out with no care about my surroundings.

But you like it even though you won’t admit it.Why else would you want to murder the assholes from Legion when they were being their usual lecherous selves?

Fuck that. I won’t engage in this train of thought.

But the most annoying thing about the minx was how she’d shut down whenever I mentioned my uncle. Her face would pale and her snappy barbs wouldn’t come then. It unsettles me.

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