Page 59 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

Another hour in the car and I was dragged from the backseat, my father ranting about how much trouble I have been my whole life, how he always hoped for a boy but he got me instead. Pathetic and useless, he had called me. And then he shot me and left me for dead in a swamp, thick with mud.

Everything below my neck hurts and it is hard to breathe. I think that bullet pierced a rib or a lung. Perhaps I am to bleed to death here on this random road in a foreign country.

My thoughts become a jumble of Vasily and the beach and my father and dance. So many things swirling and I wonder if this is how it feels to die, if this is what people mean when they say one’s life flashes before their eyes as they pass away.

When I hear the screech of tires, I cannot tell if it is real or not. I try to open my eyes but I cannot move my head. I think I see boots. Two voices speak urgently in a language I do not understand. Someone grabs my wrist. They don’t let go, but I do.

When I wake up, it is as if time reversed, and I am back in the hospital after being rescued from Baranov’s men. I look to my left, expecting Vasily to be sitting there, and my heart breaks when I find the chair empty.

Tears are streaming down my face when a doctor comes in. He is older, with kind eyes and white hair. He checks my vitals and then reaches out to take my hand.

“Hello,” he says. “I am Doctor Shu.”

I nod, sniffling.

“You just woke up?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“Are you in any pain?”

Just my whole heart. “No.”

“Do you remember what happened to you?”

“Most of it, yes.”

“Can you tell me your name?” the doctor asks.

“Galina Gusev, but isn’t it on my chart? Am I in Brazil?”

He chuckles. “It is on your chart, yes; I just wanted to make sure your memory was intact.”

“Unfortunately, that seems to be the case.”

He pats my hand and lets it go, backing away to sit at a computer, where he types something in on the keyboard.

“Well, Galina Gusev, from a medical perspective, you’re going to be just fine. You were shot and the bullet pierced two ribs but otherwise you got really lucky.”

“I don’t feel lucky,” I say.

“Yes, well…I suppose it depends on perspective. I would like to record your recollection of what happened, to add to your records, but there are federal agents outside the door who want to hear that story, too. Do you mind telling it to all of us? It will spare you having to retell it twice.”

“Fine,” I say. “But you didn’t answer me when I asked where I am. Not in Brazil, I suppose, since there are federal agents here and you are speaking English?”

He smiles kindly. “You’re in Baltimore,” he says.

Baltimore? How did I get here?

Two people in dark navy suits walk in. The first is a tall, broad-shouldered man with blonde hair. He is handsome in the way NFL quarterbacks are handsome, with big hands and boyish features. His partner only comes to his shoulder, a curvier, Latina woman with luxurious dark hair and gleaming, dark eyes.

“Miss Gusev,” the man says by way of greeting. He gives me a nod. “I am Agent Wright, and this is my partner, Agent Rodriguez.”

The woman nods at me.

“Hello,” I say.

“Do you mind if we record your statement?” Agent Rodriguez asks.

---