Page 68 of When Hearts Awaken

I can barely keepmy jaw from dropping to the floor as I stand at the entrance of the grand foyer in the opera house. Everything is washed in gold—the columns spanning the large space, the intricate gilded ceilings, the heavy tasseled drapes, the light from multi-layered chandeliers glinting off the tall windows and mirrored accents.

It’s like Midas has made himself a home here and never left.

A string quartet plays classical music in one corner, and the space is ablaze with a quiet energy. A soft hum of conversation and the clinking of champagne flutes fill the air as I stand to the side, feeling extremely uncomfortable in my dress.

Belle said the dress was fit for a starlet, and as I look at my reflection in the dark windows, the sun having set long ago, I know she’s right. It’s a beautiful one shoulder gown made of tulle and satin in a mermaid silhouette with a thigh high slit. The material molds to my body and the color makes me appear almost nude, but tastefully. The bodice is covered in crystals and a small train sweeps out on the ground. The sweetheart neckline is modest, but low enough to see the swells of my cleavage.

Grace and Olivia hemmed and hawed when they saw me in the gown, with Grace making joking comments about why I couldn’t wear something like that to her wedding. She arranged my hair into a loose updo with wispy strands framing my face and dangling over my bare shoulders. My makeup is a simple cat-eye, no dark eyeshadows or thick liner, but my lips are in a dark red shade I like.

That was the concession I made—I got to pick the lip color as long as it wasn’t purple, and the nose stud stays—a small crystal to match the dress.

I look unrecognizable.

I look like the sixteen-year-old girl with dreams of love in her heart, the girl who wore a beautiful dress to her first ballet function with her best friend, who didn’t know hours later, her life would change.

My breath quickens as I stare at my reflection, desperate to hold on to the present.

The past is in the past, and I survived.

I not only survived, but I thrived. I didn’t let that night ruin my life. And here I am, standing inside the opulent Palais Garnier in the middle of fucking Paris, playing the role of Odette.

You’re a badass ballerina, Taylor Peyton-Anderson.

The thought stays the rising panic inside me, and I take my first steps into the room.

Immediately, I sense their eyes on me—the women eyeing my outfit up and down, some with awe in their eyes, others with their noses pointed in the air. But it’s the men’s gazes I feel the most—the malicious intent, the way they slowly examine me from head to toe as if I’m cattle to be purchased.

The nausea immediately makes an appearance and beads of sweat appear on the back of my neck.This is just your trauma making you feel things, Taylor. Not reality.

Then the searing heat of his familiar gaze settles on me.

Looking up, I findhimin the far corner, a few businessmen surrounding him. They’re trying to get his attention, but he isn’t looking their way.

Instead, his attention is all on me.

Charles in a tux should be outlawed—a capital offense. He’s standing tall and regal, like he owns the place. His powerful body, which I’ve briefly felt that fevered night, is stretching against his tailored attire. His blond hair is artfully swept up, a slight wave in the thick tresses.

But those eyes. Those piercing blue eyes.

They are burning hot. Smoldering. I feel myself bursting into flames from his intense perusal.

My heart skips a beat as we stare at each other.

Should I say hi?I texted him thank you for taking care of me, but that was the extent of our interactions.

The girls told me he had swung by to help them with the showcase and for that I’m grateful. Then there were theGossip Timesarticles I read online about him nearly punching a reporter in the face in front of ABTC when they asked him if he sided with his former CFO on his assault trial. It caused an upheaval for a week before the press moved onto the next piece of juicy gossip.

I remember the clamoring in my chest when I watched that video clip of him—eyes blazing with fury, teeth bared, snarling as he gave his two cents about his CFO. A rare moment of public emotion from him. It was like he was unraveling at the seams, and I couldn’t help but wonder why. What changed?

The public apparently agreed because Charles Vaughn suddenly appeared on a lot more internet searches and billionaire heartthrob lists.

I was wrong about him before. I shouldn’t put him in the same group as the other rich men who take without asking. He treated me like I was precious that night. He made me feel normal.

Maybe my radar is just messed up—like how my body reacted to Sir Ian before, who has never been unprofessional toward me.

I think back to the latest update from Emerson on the case—he ended up texting me after I finished getting ready for the gala, much to my relief. He told me he located a suspect from that night, a financier from the UK, and he’s chasing that lead down. He mentioned nothing about Sir Ian.

A beautiful brunette in a red dress walks up to Charles and drapes her arm on his shoulder. He holds my stare for one more second before turning to her and unleashing his dazzling smile.

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