Page 45 of One Last Encore

Her head snapped toward him. He wasn’t looking at her with pity, but with something worse: understanding.

But he didn’t understand. How could he? He carried the kind of charm that lingered long after he left a room. The kind of face that turned heads without effort. Women gravitated toward him—at bars, at gigs, in every city between tour stops—eager for a smile, a chance. Women without her baggage. Simpler. Easier.

Meanwhile, she had spent five years folding in on herself, pouring everything she had into ballet. It was the one place she still felt like she belonged. The one space where lonelinesscouldn’t quite reach her. She’d tried to move on, gone on dates when her friends pushed her to, but it never felt right. No one ever did.

It all boiled down to one moment. One choice.

He’d let her go.

And she hadn’t been enough for him to stay.

"I don’t have to be over something to move on," she said, voice steady, though her fists curled at her sides.

He didn’t flinch. "You’re living half of your life."

The honesty of it sliced through her like a knife, sharp and unrelenting.

She didn’t need love. Not when she had dance. It filled the spaces where love had once lived, replacing tenderness with discipline. It was early mornings in the studio, the ache of muscles, the pursuit of perfection. A life measured in rehearsals, not emotions. It was enough.

Love was messy, unpredictable, and dangerous. It made people weak, made them cling to things they could never keep. Love had broken her once, left her gasping for air. She wouldn’t drown again.

"Just let me explain," he pressed, voice softer now.

"Explain what? That you weren’t there when I needed–" Her voice wavered, catching on something raw. She shook her head sharply. "Forget it."

"We have to talk eventually, Ingrid." His voice was firm, edged with something dangerously close to regret.

The sound of her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine. He used to call her "princess" or "kitten”, teasing nicknames whispered in the soft glow of late-night conversations or pressed against her ear in stolen moments. Hearing her real name felt almost worse somehow.

She grabbed her cat, clutching her wine glass as she climbed through the window, desperate to put some distance between them.

"You can’t hide forever," he said quietly. "I told you you were stuck with me, and I meant it."

She froze halfway into her apartment, her breath catching. She could still hear it so clearly, the way he’d murmured those words in the subway, as if nothing in the world could pull him away.You’re stuck with me now.It had been a lie, and hearing him say it again felt like salt rubbed into a reopened wound.

Anger hardened in her chest. "You don’t get to say that to me. Not anymore."

He flinched. Just slightly. But she saw it.

With a force that rattled the glass, she slammed the window shut. She wasn’t that girl anymore. She wasn’t soft. She wasn’t naïve.

And yet–

You’re living half of your life.

She hated that part of her knew he was right.

CHAPTER 14

INGRID. HALLOWEEN, FIVE YEARS AGO

"I can’t believe I let you talk me into wearing this ridiculous outfit," Ingrid sighed, jabbing Eden’s butt with her plastic pitchfork.

"Excuse you," she huffed, rubbing her butt cheek. "I will not be disrespected by someone dressed like the main attraction at a devil-themed Vegas revue."

Ingrid narrowed her eyes. "You shoved me into this."

Eden grinned, completely unrepentant. "And you lookhot."

---