Page 78 of Dance of Ruin

We moveda bunch of times when I was younger. Every time Dad climbed another rung on the political ladder, we’d “upgrade”: a duplex in a working-class neighborhood became a split-level ranch in a great school district, then an even bigger house with a pool near a country club.

Then Mom died, and any pretense of keeping things normal and even-keeled for two or three years at a time went out the window. I movedfivemore timesbetween the ages of nine and sixteen. Finally, Dad settled on the ludicrously enormous, gilded mansion in the suburbs of DC, and I moved into the residence at the school attached to the Washington Ballet Company, near the National Mall.

We never lived together after that. He had politics, I had dance. Since moving to New York four years ago, I’ve been in the same cruddy apartment, and I really thought I was done moving, at least for the next five to ten years. But you know what they say about the best laid plans…

My mouth is a tight line as the elevator doors glide open. Instantly, evenIhave a hard time keeping my expression blank when I see Nico’s SoHo loft.

Ho. Lee. CRAP.

I half-expected some neon-accented, motorcycle-in-the-living-room, ultra masculine bachelor pad. Rock band stage, hot tub, maybe a stripper pole, panties from various “conquests” nailed to the wall.

But nope. Nico’s place isstunning.

It’s also enormous: a soaring, double-height space with a balcony walkway running around the perimeter, with doors leading who knows where.

I step out with my one bag of clothes slung over my shoulder and stare in awe at my surroundings, my spine locked tight.

I mean,yeah, as my dad climbed the political ranks, we lived in some seriously nice places. This, however? Next freaking level.

That said, for all its grandeur, luxury, and size, Nico’s penthouse is…cold.

Not in temperature, but in energy. It’s all sharp edges and clean lines. Steel and black marble. Perfect leather furniture I’ll bet no one ever relaxes on. Floor-to-ceiling windows with the city spread out beneath like a threat instead of a view.

There’s no warmth. No personal touches. Not one single piece of clutter.

Just sheer dominance, embodied in architecture.

“This way.” Nico directs me up a sweeping modern staircase to the second floor, then down a long hallway lined with recessed lights that glow like fire trapped under glass.

I follow. My heartbeat stays surprisingly steady. I tell myself that’s good. It means I’m still in control.

Such a lie.

He stops outside a door, then pushes it open.

Woah.

The bedroom is massive, done in the same minimalist aesthetic as the rest of the house. A king-size bed dressed in deep gray linens. Black walls with silver accents. A closet with its doors standing open, revealing empty hangers and perfectly aligned drawers. A leather bench at the foot of the bed.

It’s beautiful.

It’s also terrifying.

“This is your room,” he says.

I glance around the space, which is very clearly a primary suite, not a guest room.

“You meanyourroom,” I reply.

He turns to me slowly, lips curving with that same feral, dangerous amusement that always makes my stomach clench.

“Ourroom.”

My core tightens.

“I…what?I’m not staying in the same room as you.”

“Well, we can agree to disagree, but you are.”

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