Page 5 of When Hearts Awaken

A striking ballerina is dancing on the screen—her motions flawless, controlled, her midnight black hair arranged like a halo on top of her head.

A dark angel.

My pulse quickens for some unknown reason and for a moment, I forget about the guilt eating away at me, and instead am drawn into the world the dancer on the screen has created.

Her eyes are haunted—the sorrow in them eviscerating, and my chest clenches. Those eyes have seen pain—I’d bet my fortune on it. She stares at the camera—I feel like she could gaze into my soul.

Who is she?

The clip cuts away to another news segment, but my attention remains riveted to the screen.

Firefly would’ve loved to see her dance.If she weren’t laying on the bed in a coma.

Fisting my hands tightly, I tear my gaze away from the screen. My eyes burn as I carefully reach into my breast pocket and pull out a small present, gift-wrapped in red, her favorite color.

I open the drawer of her nightstand, filled with the personal belongings they found on her that day—her wallet, her phone, her earrings, and her favorite bracelet. Shifting those items to the side, I set the gift next to five other pristine, unopened ones.

“Happy birthday, Little Firefly.”

With my heart ripped out of my chest, I walk to the door, only for it to suddenly swing open, and someone I don’t expect barges in.

“Ethan?” I stare at the tall dark-haired man in front of me, whose eyes look reddened, his gaze far away like he’s deep in thought. His tie is crooked, collar unbuttoned. He doesn’t look like the usual put together, quiet younger sibling of the illustrious Anderson family I’m fortunate enough to call my friends.

Ethan startles. “Charles,” he murmurs before clearing his throat and straightening up, his face completely devoid of the earlier emotions.

“You’re still visiting her.” An observation, not a question.

“Always.” A few seconds pause, then he adds, “I promised Liam.”

He doesn’t say more, but then again, he doesn’t need to. He’s lying and I don’t call him out on it. We all need lies to hide behind, so we don’t have to face the truth.

Clasping his forearm, I give it a squeeze before pasting on my fake smile and slipping out of the room.

Chapter 2

The September evening chillsweeps through the open French doors of the rooftop studio at the opulent historic building housing ABTC just off Central Park West. I breathe in the humid air, a sure sign that rain is around the corner.

Stark moonlight streams in from the arched windows, joining the dim glow of the two kerosene lamps I brought with me. The studio is dilapidated—some windowpanes are missing or cracked, the lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling broken. Most dancers avoid coming up here.

But it’s my haven. Me and the moonlight. My spot of brightness in the dark.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror as I spin and spin, each rotation giving me the highest of highs. Grinning, I close my eyes, letting my body take over, my limbs long and strong, practicing the moves I know as well as breathing.

I’m in my element. Ballet. Dance. Pure control.

Thirty-two fouetté turns. That’s what the famous black swan dance in Act III ofSwan Lakecalls for. It’s when you hear the audience cheer at the ballerina for spinning like those rotating dolls in the toy store.

Thirty-one. Thirty-two.I count the rotations in my mind, but I don’t stop.

I can do more. I’m much stronger than that.

My toes pinch, my calves burn, but the pain grounds me and I push forward, the high in my veins and determination in my lungs driving me.

“You’re one of the best Odiles out there,”Madame Renoir said in the past.

The best.

All those late night hours practicing when the world was asleep, the strict diets and tiresome exercises, Mom and Grace working extra hard to make money to put me through dance lessons even though we had barely enough to survive on.

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