Page 19 of Tension
The music fades, leaving the studio in a charged silence broken only by the rhythmic pounding of my heart. I step away from Mateo, letting the space between us grow, but the echo of his touch remains on my skin like a brand. My chest feels tight, and Iforce myself to focus on adjusting my hair, tucking loose strands of auburn away from my face.
It was just a dance, I tell myself.Nothing more.
But I can’t deny how my body betrayed me in those moments, how every step felt electric, every glance too charged. His hand on my back, firm yet hesitant, sent a warmth coursing through me that I had no business feeling. His honey eyes, so intent on mine, made me feel like the only person in the room.
And I hated it.
Hated how magnetic he was, how easily I was drawn to the raw determination in his gaze. It wasn’t just his technique, though that had been better, more connected, and more alive. No, it was something else entirely. It’s similar to what I used to feel with Gerardo when we danced, but I felt it deeper in my core.
I cross my arms, stepping closer to the mirrors to create more distance from him. From the corner of my eye, I see Yvonne laughing softly at something Mateo said. She leans into him with the easy familiarity of a partner, and I feel a flicker of relief. They’re the same age, in sync, and the perfect pairing. I’m just his teacher, and yet...
I glance at my reflection, catching sight of the freckles across my nose and cheeks. They’ve always been there, a remnant of my youth, but today they feel like a mocking reminder of the years between us. Mateo is young, full of untapped potential, while I have a husband waiting at home. A husband who trusts me.
The weight of guilt settles inside my chest like a boulder, and I shift uncomfortably, as though moving could dislodge it. What am I doing? This isn’t about Mateo; it’s about the competition. About helping him succeed.That’s all it is.
As much as I try to rationalize, I can’t forget the way his gaze lingered, or the way his body moved with mine. It wasn’t just a dance. It couldn’t have been, not with the way my pulse raced and my breath hitched every time our eyes met.
No.
I turn sharply, facing the mirrors as if confronting myself. This isn’t about him. It’s about the Rumba, about the story we’re supposed to tell through movement. Mateo needed to feel the connection, the push and pull that defines the dance. That’s what I was showing him. Nothing more.So why does it feel like more?
I force myself to think of Greyson’s critiques and of the competition in Paris. Of the pressure to see Mateo and Yvonne succeed. This isn’t about me. It can’t be. Mateo’s future depends on my guidance, not my… feelings.
I press my lips together, trying to push down the confusion and unease swirling inside my chest. When I danced with Mateo, it was different because of his rawness, his focus, and the intensity he brings. It’s my job to shape that into something tangible. To refine him and make him shine. To make Fusion Core succeed.
Anything else is a distraction.
I glance toward the clock on the wall, realizing how late it’s getting. Gerardo will be home by now, probably preparing dinner or reading on the couch. He’s been patient through all of this, through my late nights and extra rehearsals. He trusts me, believes in me.
The thought of him waiting makes the guilt heavier. I shake my head, inhaling deeply to steady myself. Whatever I thought I felt during that dance wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been. I care about Fusion Core’s success, that’s all. Anything else is a figment of my imagination, a fleeting moment of weakness that I’ll bury and never let see the light of day.
“Ready to go again?” Greyson’s voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present.
I nod briskly, not trusting myself to speak, then stand beside Greyson as Yvonne takes her place at Mateo’s side. They moveinto position as I fold my arms and watch, schooling my expression into bored nonchalance. Professional and detached.
But as the music starts again and Mateo’s gaze locks briefly with mine, I feel the faintest tremor inside my chest.
No.
It’s nothing.
It can’t be.
Later that evening, I step into the penthouse, the familiar scent of freshly baked bread wafting from the kitchen. The warm, homey aroma tugs at something deep inside me, reminding me of the life I’ve built here, the life I chose. Gerardo stands at the counter, arranging a tray of cheeses and olives with his usual meticulousness.
He looks up as I enter, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Welcome home, amor,” he says, setting the tray down and wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Long day?”
“You could say that,” I reply, slipping off my coat and hanging it over a chair. My voice sounds even to my own ears, but inside, there’s a tangle of thoughts I can’t seem to unravel.
His eyes flick to my jacket and I know it bothers him, but he won’t say anything. He’ll just hang it by the door later when I get ready for bed. My bad habits are something he’s overlooked, and I’m too lazy to change. “Perfect timing,” he continues, his tone cheerful. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
I raise an eyebrow, already wary. “What is it?”
This is how we’ve been acting for the past few days, overly cheerful and skating around the fact that he drank himself into a stupor over our old competition videos as I sobbed in our closet.
“Your birthday,” he singsongs, his smile widening like a child revealing a secret. “I’m planning a surprise party for you next weekend.”
I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Gerardo, it’s not a surprise if you tell me about it, and you know how I feel about surprises.”
