Page 64 of Tension
“I love you.”
“Love you both,” I tell them. “Good night.”
The call ends, and I set my phone down, leaning back against the couch cushions. Just two more weeks, and maybe the weight I carry will finally lift. Or maybe it will crush me first.
TWENTY-FIVE
Vaeda
“Again,” I say, my voice sharp but breathless as the Paso Doble echoes through the studio. “From the chassé turn.”
Mateo and Yvonne reset, their movements fluid, driven by the relentless rhythm. My heart pounds in time with the drums, adrenaline pushing me past the ache already burning in my ankle. I’ve been favoring it for days, hiding the pain beneath a layer of willpower and grit.
This dance needs to be perfect because Paris is just over a week away.
“More aggression,” I call out, stepping forward, demonstrating the pivot I want with the snap of my shoulders. “You’re not painting the story with your bodies. You’re performing a pattern. There’s a difference.”
They move again. This time it’s better. Stronger.
“That’s it,” I say, and before I can stop myself, I take a step forward to correct Mateo’s posture. I don’t even realize how hard I’m planting my foot until a hot, white surge of pain rips through me.
It happens in an instant. A sickening pop and my leg gives out as I hit the ground.
“Vaeda!” Mateo and Greyson yell in unison. Mateo drops beside me, his hand hovering over my shoulder. I try to speak but only a strangled sound comes out as pain steals the breath from my lungs, tears springing to my eyes as I clutch my ankle.
“Don’t touch it,” Greyson barks, already pulling out his phone. “We need an ambulance. Now.”
Mateo backs away, his face ghost white as Yvonne stands frozen, a hand over her mouth.
The sirens arrive faster than I expect, and soon I’m being lifted onto a stretcher, the ceiling of Fusion Core spinning above me as the EMTs secure my leg.
“Achilles’ heel?” one of them asks me softly, recognizing the injury.
I manage a nod through gritted teeth. The last time I was wheeled out like this was six years ago when it ended my career. I can barely swallow the scream that wants to rip out of me.
At the hospital, everything is a blur of tests, questions, and ice packs. Then I’m transferred to an MRI. When the orthopedic specialist finally returns, her face is calm and professional.
“You didn’t rupture the tendon,” she explains, flipping the chart in her hands. “But it’s a severe flare-up. A combination of tendinitis and strain. You’re lucky. If you’d pushed further, it could’ve torn completely.”
“Surgery?” I croak out the question, my throat tight with fear.
“Not necessary, but you need to stay off it. Crutches are a must. You’ll need rest, ice, compression, and elevation. And then physical therapy.” I close my eyes in relief. “We’ll start you on a short course of pain management,” she continues. “Hydrocodone-Acetaminophen. Twenty tablets. Use only if the pain becomes unbearable.”
My stomach twists, but I nod. It’s common with this sort of injury, but I hate taking them. They make me tired and out of it.
“When can I begin therapy?”
“After a week of rest. So when you get back from Paris, you’ll begin but, Vaeda,” she adds gently, “you cannot dance on this foot until then. Not even lightly.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
The elevator ride to my penthouse feels longer than usual, the sterile hospital scent still clinging to my clothes. I grip the crutches under my arms, my knuckles white with tension. Greyson stands at my side, silent but watchful, holding the hospital-issued tote with my X-rays and prescriptions tucked neatly inside.
The pain hasn’t fully settled in yet, but I know it will. What scares me more is what comes after. What lingers. The depression will hit when I least expect it, and when Gerardo finds out, it’ll only be another reminder of what killed our ambitions. I never wanted to relive this again.
We step into the soft glow of my apartment hallway after the elevator dings, and the moment I cross the threshold into my house, my phone vibrates again. It’s already been going off the entire ride back, buried at the bottom of my purse. Greyson fishes it out and hands it to me. Ten missed calls from Gerardo. I sigh, my stomach twisting.
“I told him,” Greyson says softly, guilt woven into the words. “He needed to know.”
