Page 54 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

She grins and shrugs, her point made.

“I have a life to live,” she says. “I do not want to spend more than a year of it trying to make my calves look symmetrical.”

The doctor tells us to let him know if we change our minds. He gives her more physical therapy things to do at home, and we leave.

Outside, I face her on the sidewalk, the bright sun lighting her face.

“What?” she asks.

“I’m just proud of you,” I say, pulling her into my arms. “You grow stronger and stronger each day. I love you more and more each day.”

“Thank you,” she says into my shirt. “Thank you for believing in me.”

CHAPTER 25

Galina

Ijerk awake, someone shaking me from sleep.

“Gigi.” It is Vasily, sounding urgent as I look around, confused in the dark. “Wake up, love. We have to go.”

“Go?” I ask, groggy.

“It’s time,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

I shake the remaining sleep from my head and follow him as he works in the dark, tossing me a bag and telling me to grab whatever I cannot stand to leave behind.

I look around helplessly. We have been in St. Bart’s for thirteen weeks – thirteen weeks during which I felt happy and at home. The first time I have ever felt such a way. I want to take everything. Every stitch of furniture. Every piece of clothing. Every grain of sand. Every bit of this has new, happy memories.

“Gigi!” he admonishes quietly. “Please.”

I should have known this was coming, that staying here would be too much to ask. I know my father. He never gives up if he feels he’s been jilted. I saw that Vasily was taking more calls outside, quietly. I saw the tightening of his jaw, the ways his eyes darted around, looking for danger. He has been training andworking out more, learning martial arts in town, lifting weights here at the house. He was fit before, but now he is cut from steel.

He has been preparing for a fight, I realize. Preparing to defend us. Me.

I start to move, grabbing only my favorite items of clothing, toiletries, underwear, and shoes. I grab a couple of books and a few snacks. Vasily asks if I am ready and I nod, looking around one more time, hoping maybe I will see this beautiful place again sometime.

He starts to move, his long legs taking him at a quick pace across the pool deck, to the stairs that lead down to the white-sand beach, and the calm, midnight ocean. A boat idles in the shadows at the end of our small pier. We are practically running down the wood planks, and fear starts to unfurl in my gut at the pace, the urgency.

We throw our bags in the boat and climb in, the driver taking off at breakneck pace as soon as we sit down. The boat keeps up the pace for maybe an hour, when another small island comes into view in the bright moonlight. As we get closer, I see a helicopter and as soon as we make landfall, we are up and running toward the machine. Vasily helps me buckle in, putting headphones over my ears before buckling himself into place. The pilot reaches back, handing him an envelope. He opens it as we lift off, handing me a passport.

My name is now Danika Freedman. He shows me his – Matthew Freedman. He clasps my hand and says, through the headphones, “We should really get married when we get settled again.”

I smile, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes. I know it doesn’t show the excitement I know I should feel about being married to the man I love. I want to marry him; I know that much. But now? On the run? With fake names? I don’t know. Perhaps the timing isn’t right. Perhaps pretending is enough for now.

The helicopter somehow lulls me back to sleep, so it isn’t until we land that I wake back up.

“Where are we?” I ask, looking out through the opening door.

“Brazil,” Vasily says.

We get out and walk to a waiting town car, black and nondescript, where Vasily hands our bags to the driver, along with a stack of cash.

We drive and drive and it is early morning, the sky just starting to brighten in the east. We go high into the mountains, thick greenery all around us as we drive. After a long time, we arrive at a secluded, small house perhaps a mile up a hill from a small town.

A woman waits for us when we arrive. She takes our bags to the single bedroom, tossing them on the massive, four-poster bed, then grabs my hand and leads me to the bathroom, where she has me sit in a kitchen chair while she prepares hair color.

An hour later, my hair is three inches shorter and inky black, styled into a sleek bob with blunt bangs. It was my request to Vasily back in St. Barts. We had watched Pulp Fiction on the DVD player, and I loved how Uma Thurman looked. I told him jokingly that I wanted to look like her if we had to run again. Now I do, but somehow it is not as funny in the moment. I feel uneasy. Unhappy.

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