Page 3 of Control

“Goodbye Madame Varon,” said Amelia as she tried to untangle the little one from her limbs so she could walk.

“You can call me Claire. I feel odd having the parents call me by my last name.” Though it wasn’t my real last name. Nobody needed to know the truth.

She nodded in understanding. “See you next week, Claire.” Turning and walking to the door, she locked hands with Meena on the way out.

The studio was finally empty, and I was finished teaching for the day. I rummaged through my bag, finding my pointe shoes. I sat on the shiny polished-wood floors to fit them on my feet. They were thoroughly broken in, with holes in the uppers of the nude satin, and in dire need of replacement after years of abuse, but money wasn’t something that flowed freely. Replacing them wasn’t an option right now, and I sort of preferred it that way. Aged shoes were more flexible and allowed for more movement. They also carried with them the past of the dancer who wore them. They were a testament to the journey of their owner. The laces held the triumphs of every dance. The soles bore the pressure of every fall. The seams revealed every loss of composure. Each pair of shoes told a story, and mine cried of pain and frustration. They spoke of abandonment and betrayal.

I thumbed through my dance practice playlist on my phone. Most of the songs I played were for the children I taught, so I had never-ending lists of songs by classical composers and piano renditions of princess-movie theme songs. I found it difficult to find time to practice these days with my teaching schedule, so my personal list usually went untouched.

It probably seemed like such a waste—a once aspiring prima ballerina who had trained at The Paris Opéra Ballet School giving up her dreams of performing and settling on teaching children to make ends meet. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t stay in Paris any longer to pursue my ambitions. I had to run—run for my life.

I settled on a cover of that song by The White Stripes. The mellow yet eerie strumming of the guitar echoed through the speakers. After years of dancing, my heart rate would automatically match the beat of the song I was about to perform.

I closed my eyes, letting the melody move my feet. I lost myself in a flutter of spins, leg extensions, and jumps. The scuffing sound of my shoes on the floor added an extra chain of melody to the song.

With every move, images played in my mind, like scenes from a movie. The lift of my leg into an arabesque projected the trails of blood along the carpet. The jump into a sauté flashed the broken glass that littered the room. The spin into a pirouette displayed the image of Maman lying lifeless, bleeding out from her neck. I spun faster around the room, as fast as my feet would take me, to shake the visions. No speed nor force could free me from the image of her wide eyes staring up to the heavens. My knees gave out from the abuse and I collapsed onto the floor, my hands breaking my fall.

I opened my eyes, which had been tightly shut the whole time. Mirrors surrounding the dance hall reflected only one image—mine. Gasping for air, I stared at the tortured woman I barely recognized anymore. Her body was slick with sweat, not from exertion, but from terror. Blonde hair that had fallen loose from her bun formed a curtain around her face, hiding most of her features. No, this wasn’t Camille’s daughter staring back at her. This was her father’s daughter.

Chapter II

Claire

“Whose party is this again?” I asked, walking quickly to keep up pace with Lana. My strappy black stilettos were failing at giving me the traction I needed to avoid slipping on the sidewalk. Thankfully, it was summer, so I didn’t have to worry about loading on layers to keep warm before leaving the house. I threw on a black motorcycle jacket that I had found at a thrift store over my fitted nude dress. It had been a steal at only ten bucks at a second-hand store a couple of blocks away from my apartment.

“Some guy I met at that club, Nirvana. I think he’s a bouncer, or at least, he was big enough to be one.” Lana made a beeline for the hotel door, anxious to get to the party. Her long, dark hair was swinging down her back as she hauled ass like a woman on a mission. She looked like a disco ball in her silver dress, its huge-ass sequins reflecting the night lights from the city. As outrageous as she looked, it suited her personality perfectly, screaming “life of the party.”

She was my only friend in New York. I had met her when I first moved here three years ago. We met randomly on the subway when a homeless guy was being toofriendlywith her. I went over and cursed the guy out in French and got him to leave her alone. After that, it was a match made in heaven. She was the good cop to my bad cop. She was overtly friendly to everyone, scoring us free drinks at bars and invites to parties. And I was the tough one who made sure no one took advantage of us. I didn’t put up with shit from anyone. I didn’t have time for it when I was just trying to survive.

Lana was more fortunate than me in the sense that she had a support system back home in Minnesota. Both of her parents were still alive and had high hopes for their daughter to become a lawyer, but instead, she had dropped out of NYU and registered for fashion-design courses at a local community college. She was talented at making her own clothes, even if I didn’t understand most of her designs. She referred to each of her designs ashaute coutureand was adamant that the women in Paris were wearing the same thing. I hadn’t been back to Paris for years, but I could guarantee they weren’t wearing disco-ball dresses.

“You need to stop meeting randoms and promising them you’ll accept their invites. What if they turn out to be serial killers?” I asked, catching up to her as we entered the same hotel mentioned on the business card that the bouncer had given her.

“Oh my God, Claire! Would you stop? He’s not a serial killer! People do this all the time. How do you think anyone ever gets invited to these big ass parties with tons of famous people?!” she ranted as our heels clicked on the marble floors of the hotel lobby. The space was uber contemporary and boasted complementing sleek décor—the type of place where young rich peoplewouldhang out.

“Why is it at a hotel, though?” I was still skeptical, despite Lana’s attempts to persuade me that this was perfectly normal. The parties we had been invited to before were in public places like clubs or bars, never a hotel room. What if we arrived there and some crazy madman was waiting for two twenty-something girls in skimpy outfits? He could murder us, and no one would ever come looking for us…at least not until Lana’s parents realized she was missing days later.

“Would you rather it be at a stranger’s house?” she shot back, trying to get me to shut up.

She teetered on her heels all the way up to the concierge. The man behind the counter raised an eyebrow at us as he took in our clothes, mainly Lana’s “Studio 54” getup.

“We’re here for the party,” Lana announced with the confidence of an elite socialite as she slid the business card the bouncer had given her to the man.

He sighed in annoyance, as if he had dealt with one too many of us for the evening.

He handed Lana a guest keycard. “Use this to access the private elevator on the left and it will take you to the penthouse.”

My jaw dropped. “Penthouse?!” What kind of party was this? I had assumed it was just in a regular hotel room, hosted by some pervy guy who was trying to impress ladies because he was insecure about his one-bedroom apartment and part-time job at some club.

Lana took the card and rushed over to the elevator without thanking the concierge. I grinned apologetically at the man, who probably didn’t get paid enough for this, before following her.

The whole way up in the elevator, Lana was doing some happy wiggling dance because she couldn’t contain her excitement. I was still sure a serial killer would be waiting for us as soon as the doors opened—albeit a rich one with a penthouse view.

The elevatorbingedand the doors opened. To my relief, no serial killer was waiting for us. Instead, there were hordes of people who couldn’t even be bothered to notice our arrival.

We both stood stunned, taking in the scene before us…a sea of women, gorgeous yet scantily clad. I thought some might have even been paid to attend, with how little they wore and the way they danced on various platforms around the room with poles attached to the ceiling. Men were there too, but they weren’t young and lean like the women. Instead, they were more on the beefy side. Maybe the bouncer had invited his other bouncer friends?

We pushed our way inside. It was a beautiful penthouse, though no one would even notice through the bacchanal taking place. Women were perched on top of men’s laps, fawning over them. Some were on other women’s laps with their tongues down each other’s throats. A few men were huddled by the bar doing body shots off a brunette in her underwear lying on the bar top.

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