Page 72 of Tension
He doesn’t argue, and that’s worse somehow. Instead, he just places a steadying hand on my arm, and it’s the first time I realize I’m shaking. “Go back to the hotel and rest. I’ll finish loading the team out.”
I nod mutely because he’s right. My future hangs precariously on an injury I am ignoring because I so desperately want to protect my image. All because I don’t want to remind my industry peers of how I ended my career, my dream, and the need to keep my ego intact.
The hotel room is dim when I hobble in on my one crutch, the curtains drawn against the burnished light of Paris at night. My body is a mess of adrenaline and dull pain, and all I want is silence, but silence doesn’t come easily.
Not when my mouth still tingles from the feel of his. Not when I can still feel the press of his hips against my thighs, the tremble in his hands, the rawness in his voice when he whispered,“Tell me to stop.”
I sit down on the edge of the bed and pull off my shoes slowly, carefully. My ankle throbs, but it’s nothing compared to the ache spreading through my chest. I’ve lied to everyone. To Greyson. To Gerardo. To me. I’m not in control anymore.
When I finally crawl into bed, I leave the pill bottle on the dresser, unopened, and stare at it for a long time before turning off the lamp and lying back against cool sheets. I don’t dream of the Eiffel Tower or our team’s routine. Instead, I dream of a bathroom tryst and locked doors. Of a man with trembling hands and eyes that look at me like I’m the only thing he craves.
Of a man I can never have.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Vaeda
Saturday morning arrives far too early. The sky is barely lit, the streets of Paris painted in soft grays and pinks as the city slowly stirs awake. My ankle is stiff and sore, a throb pulsing deep in the joint as I stretch it from beneath the duvet. I shower slowly, letting the hot water work out some of the pain in my body, but it does little for the ache curling behind my ribs.
Today is the final day and the most crucial. It’s the ballroom final, the last chance for Yvonne and Mateo to prove themselves, for all of us to prove that Fusion Core deserves to be here.
I dress in black slacks and a cropped, fitted blazer, my blouse silk and deep emerald. Understated but elegant. Although no amount of tailoring can pull me together completely. Not when I’m unraveling from the inside out.
When I arrive at the venue, the hair and makeup suite is already buzzing. Curling irons hiss, and hair spray clouds the air. Stylists move like dancers themselves, weaving around the competitors, sculpting sleek buns and smoky eyes.
I step further into the room and instantly wish I hadn’t. Mateo and Yvonne are seated beside each other at the far end of the room. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, laughing at something she’s just said. Her fingers reach up to adjust a curl at the base of his neck, lingering there longer than necessary, and my pulse stutters. I can’t breathe. The air in the room feels thinner, laced with perfume and powder and jealousy.
I turn slowly, being careful with my ankle as my heel clicks against the marble floor. I went without the crutch today, as I spent most of the day yesterday without it. It’s more of a hindrance than a help, and it would’ve made my escape cumbersome. Pushing out of the suite, my heart thundering inside my chest, I walk briskly into the corridor, head down, willing the sting behind my eyes to vanish. I can’t let them see me like this. I can’t lethimsee me like this.
But I don’t make it far.
A hand grabs my wrist, spinning me fast. I gasp, barely catching my footing before I’m pressed to the cool plaster wall. Mateo’s body cages mine in, his breath hot against my cheek, and his eyes burning.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hiss, but my voice is shaky.
He doesn’t answer. He just crushes his mouth to mine, and I melt.
I try not to. I try to be strong, but the second his lips touch mine, it’s like striking a match to gasoline. Heat floods every nerve, and my fingers fist the lapels of his jacket as he kisses me like he’s been starving. Like he needs me more than oxygen.
When he finally pulls away, his breath is ragged, his voice low and wrecked. “I dreamed of you last night.” My heart stutters. “And when we win this thing,” he says, his forehead resting against mine. “I want to celebrate with you. Alone.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Not when the walls I’ve tried so hard to rebuild are falling again, one whisper at a time.
His hands slide down my arms before he lets go, retreating just enough to look at me. His gaze is saturated with a mixture of hope and hunger, or maybe it’s just love in its most dangerous form. Then he’s gone, footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving me pressed to the wall, breathless and shaken.
I look up and down the corridor and release a breath. No one is here, and I’m lucky it’s so early. We’re becoming increasingly reckless, and there’s going to come a point where we explode and incinerate everyone around us.
The ballroom is electric.
It thrums with anticipation, every seat filled, and every breath held. Camera flashes go off like strobe lights, illuminating the gleaming floor and the final number about to unfold. The grand finals. The showstopper. Our Paso Doble.
I stand just off to the side near Greyson and Grace, my arms folded, though not for warmth. My ankle is already screaming, yet my entire focus is on Mateo and Yvonne entering the floor. He wears a midnight black suit, open at the collar, his hair slicked back, eyes fierce and sharp as a blade. She’s in crimson red, the kind of color that eats light and demands attention, but no matter how dazzling she looks, it’s him I can’t take my eyes off of.
He’s no longer the hesitant student who first walked into my studio. He’s a force. The music crashes into the room like a wave, and they begin. Their Paso is similar to a battle. Every movement is calculated, and every beat devoured. He drives forward. She yields, then strikes. They’re fire and resistance, command and defiance. The crowd gasps when he drops her intoa knee sweep and pulls her back up in one fluid motion, and I nearly forget to breathe.
They twist, charge, circle each other like predators, and when they hit that final pose with his hand gripping her wrist and her back arched in surrender, I feel every part of my body tighten.
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence, then the ballroom erupts with applause like thunder. Judges stand as cheers ripple through the walls of the venue. Even Greyson whistles beside me, his face alight with pride.
