Break

Chapter Seventeen

Dashiell

Dancing with her was a mistake. A fucking colossal one. Dancing with her makes me feel like she’s mine, and she isn’t. She never was. She was just someone who passed through my life and, intentionally or not, threw a grenade at it, ruining everything. I was so stupid. I would have done anything for her, and all she did was leave me in ruins. I was dumb once, but I’ll never be that naive again.

I used to hate seeing her cry, but now all I want is for her to break down into nothing. I want her to feel the emptiness and loneliness, be trapped in it like I was for eight years. I had to crawl my way out of it. I want to watch Natayla crawl. Beg me for mercy.

She’s so different now. The only remnant of the girl I once knew is when she dances. That’s the Tayla I used to know.

While I was touching her, my chest felt like a barrel of dynamite ready to blow. I hate that she has any kind of pull on me. The ice I built around my heart has cracked to make room for her as if she matters to it more than anyone else.

But when the music stopped, all I saw was the polished princess from all those magazines. The cold-hearted bitch who chewed me up and spat me out as collateral. My cracked heart miraculously put itself back together and trudged on because I had no choice but to keep going and survive.

While we were dancing, I wanted to let go of her and enjoy the satisfaction of letting her ass hit the ground. Cheap revenge that would only have felt good for a second. But I’m so connected to her when we’re dancing, it’s as if the fire never went out. When she looks into my eyes, I know she feels it too. When I watched her look at the prick boyfriend Katerina hand-selected, Sam’s eyes were empty. She doesn’t look at him with fire like she used to look at me. The way she does when we dance or when I feed her. Our spark is undeniable. Though we’ve both tried to quash it, it never goes out.

Fuck.

I hate that I still think she’s mine when in reality, she never was. I was a toy for her to use. Growing up as a puppet herself, Tayla must believe that people are expendable, easy to manipulate, and worthless if they cannot serve some beneficial purpose—like her mother taught her.

I teach my class of eager beavers. These kids are so hyped-up about dance that they practically kill themselves on the marley to outdo one another. They take each jump, each combination to the ultimate expression, desperate to get even a correction from me. It’s pathetic. But honestly, I spent my whole life in the studio doing the same thing, hoping a teacher would notice my talent and take me under their protective wing.

“Get some water,” I tell the students. They look at me like I’m nuts. Most of these kids are classically trained. Ballet teachers don’t give breaks—not even for water.

“I need you hydrated. Need all of you to keep your energy up.”

The redhead comes up to me and tries to pitch her case for the Tate workshop. “Given the chance, I think I could get to where Koslova is. I could partner you for the piece he wants to set.”

It’s admirable, her pitching the idea to me. But this girl could practice for a million years and never touch the chemistry Sam and I have. That isn’t learned; it’s innate.

“You pitch it to Tate,” I tell her, wiping sweat from my brow. “You follow him on social media, right? Slide into his DMs with a reel.”

“Seriously?” she asks. She chugs water from a rose-gold metal bottle.

“Hell, no, girl. You crazy?” I chuck her once in the shoulder. “Koslova has clout. You’re a freshman who’s here on her daddy’s meal ticket.”

“How do you know about my dad?” she asks, her brow cocked curiously.

All the kids at Crestview have bank. It’s an elite school.

“Class roster. The building we’re in is called Cohen-Lang. Is it a coincidence you’re Dahlia Cohen-Lang?”

“No,” she says measuredly, wiping her upper lip with the back of her hand.

“Listen, you keep being yourself and working hard. The opportunities will present themselves if you stick to it.”

“Do you really believe that?” she asks me candidly.

“No,” I tell her, nodding my head yes.

This whole game is rigged as fuck. That’s the truth of the matter. The true stars are few, and the wannabes are a dime a dozen.

“Dahlia, you’re talented. Keep working hard,” I tell her.

The students grab their dance bags and begin working their way out of the studio. A few stop to tell me how much they enjoyed my class or mention they watched Dance Props and explain which dancers and pieces were their favorites.