Break

I recognize the song. Come Through by H.E.R. Somehow, Dash incorporates balletic moves into this improv and gives me as much spotlight as he allows himself. I get intoxicated with the song, his fingers threaded through mine and his hips behind mine, pressing, hitting the beat effortlessly. The dance is so sexy, I’m turned on, yet I follow his lead, staying immersed in the music and the vibe even when he suddenly lifts and spins me.

When we finish, our faces are inches apart, one of his hands on the middle of my back, the other gripping the dip in my hip. Our chests heave in unison as we try to catch our breath. Dash’s class erupts in enthusiastic applause and a few errant wolf whistles.

After the students’ applause dies, a slow clap sounds from behind us in the hallway. Dashiell pivots to see who it is, and I look in the mirror cautiously, afraid it might be Lance coming to cause a problem.

It’s not Lance, but it is someone I recognize immediately: Donovan Tate, one of the most famous contemporary choreographers of our time.

Chatter rises among the students who likely recognize him from television dance shows and know his work from multiple music video collaborations with A-listers. Tate is synonymous with fame in the dance world. Everything he touches is golden.

Everyone gawks while Donovan and Dashiell exchange a handshake that signals familiarity, like two long-lost friends running into one another on the subway.

Donavan waves to the class and gives me a wink. “I’m stealing your teacher for one second. I promise to give him right back.”

The excited chatter of the students grows louder, and I no longer know what to do with my body. I bow my head at Dashiell’s class and try to slip past the two men talking, but Dash throws out an arm to keep me from leaving.

“You know the indomitable Natayla Koslova, I’m sure,” Dashiell says.

“We’ve never formally met. Beautiful piece just now. Well done,” Tate says in his sharp British accent.

“I’ve got to get to rehearsal,” I tell them both, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. I have tears in my eyes because dancing with Dashiell is simply that moving.

“Please come to my workshop this weekend, Miss Koslova,” Tate says. He hands me a card. “You and Dash are natural partners. I’d love to set a piece for you both if you’re interested.”

My eyes widen. Despite Mother’s reputation and her constant attempts to push me into elite circles, she has no connections to the popular dance world. A Tate piece would be huge for me. Huge. And dancing with Dashiell—a dream come true.

“It would be an honor, Mr. Tate. I have to check my schedule and see if I’m available, but I’d love to come.” What I mean but don’t say is that I have to ask Mother and make sure she won’t murder me for acquiring a prestigious role on my own—without her ever-present guidance. I already know her answer will be no.

Dash presses something into my palm as he hands me my things, and I scurry out of the classroom, hoping I haven’t made a complete fool of myself in front of everyone. Rushing down the hall, fifteen minutes late for my pas de deux rehearsal, it dawns on me how famous Dash is. The tables have turned completely in the opposite direction. He’s no longer a desperate small-fry looking for a leg up in the dance world. He’s now the reputable one with the connections and star power. It would benefit me, a Koslova, to have a connection to Dash Cunningham.

I’ve kept my fist gripped, not allowing myself a glimpse of whatever he’s given me. Knowing Dashiell, it was likely some small decadent morsel of food, a truffle, or a salted caramel for me to savor. A treat that would get me through rehearsal better than the paltry calories of the snacks I’ve parceled out for myself.

Mr. Vallestrada gives me a bemused look when I rush into the studio, brow sweat and fly-aways marring the perfection of my French twist.

“Sorry I’m late.” I bow to him and my partner, Eric, who looks ready to skin me.

I set down my treasure to put on my pointe shoes and what I see shocks me. Inside a satiny drawstring bag sits a diamond tennis bracelet. I pull it out and marvel. It’s not the same one I gave to Dash when he left Haverton, but it’s real, and the brilliant stones sparkle magically under the overhead lights of the studio. I quickly put it aside in my dance bag and hurry to wrap my toes and jam on my pointe shoes.

I guess most women might get giddy if someone as fascinating and charismatic as Dashiell Cunningham gave them diamonds, but the gesture does nothing for me. A curtain of dread and loss drapes over me; I would’ve preferred a salted caramel. This gift is Dashiell returning my favor, paying me back. He wants us on even ground, to be free of his debt to me. Dashiell Cunningham owes me nothing. He wants the tables turned. He wants me to owe him.