by Fawn Bailey
That was the night I decided to keep the baby. I was convinced maybe the kid would help me be a better person. I was young, I had a bright future ahead of me, and a trust fund in my name. I knew I could make it.
But I lost the baby three months later.
A spontaneous miscarriage, they’d told me. It happens sometimes in the first trimester.
Something happened to me when I realized I wouldn’t be a mother. And when the doctor ran some tests and came back with the grave results, he broke a primal part inside me. The part that cared about other people and wanted them to be happy. He ripped out my ability to be compassionate, and I wondered whether I’d ever get it back. Because if my own life was so fucked up, why should I care about anyone else’s?
That was when the jealousy became truly overwhelming, sending me on a wild goose chase to find Harlow.
We’d been told the program she was invited to was exclusive, well-paid and with results that would show over the months she’d spend there. But no one gave us the location.
I’d been to see Harlow’s apartment, but it was rented to someone else, her stuff already gone.
I knew I had to dig deeper, so my next stop was Harlow’s father.
The man lived in a dump.
It wasn’t so much the small house, which was nice enough. It was the inside, the dirty dishes, old books and newspapers and unwashed laundry. I could tell he lived alone. The house needed a woman’s touch badly. He didn’t even want to let me in when I arrived, and his mouth set in a thin line when I mentioned Harlow.
“She was a mummy’s girl,” he grumbled when we finally walked inside and sat down on his grubby sofa. “I never had much to do with her.”
I tried to hide my disgust. Not only with my environment, but also with his attitude when it came to his daughter. She was only eighteen years old, and he was already treating her like she had nothing to do with him. Compared to my own overprotective parents, it came as a big surprise, and I found a new understanding for Harlow deep down, behind my contempt and jealousy.
I’d asked him about the training program she’d left for and quickly came to realize he didn’t know or care a shit. She could have been in fucking space for all he cared, and when I tried to raise his interest, it just didn’t work. He’d written his daughter off a long time ago, or perhaps he hadn’t even bothered to get attached to her in the first place. I felt sorry for my friend. She truly was alone in the world. I knew her mother had died when she was little, and I couldn’t imagine her life, living with this awful human being who was belching in front of me, scratching his balls through a pair of thin pants.
I left feeling disgusted and worn out. I hadn’t come any closer to find out where Harlow had gone, but at least I had another thing occupying my thoughts, another interest I could pursue.
The man I’d met almost a year ago, the one who had piqued my interest.
He’d told me never to speak of what I saw that night. I had kept my promise, but now, with both my friends gone, I felt fucking alone. I needed someone, a friend. So, I decided to do the stupidest thing I could have done. I decided to seek out the man who had killed the father of my child.
As I sat in his office, I couldn’t believe I’d actually done it.
Months of teasing, prying, trying to find out more, and here he was. I’d dragged him out of his shell, forced him to find me.
Now, he was sitting across from me. His suit was expensive, tailored. I could tell. His scent was dark and sweet, and I was enamored with him. He had dark hair, dark eyes and he was cleanly shaved, with stubborn stubble poking through already. He was impossibly handsome. Like someone off a perfume ad. I couldn’t look away.
Next to him, there was a woman. A woman who could be his wife or his girlfriend. She equaled him in beauty, but her gaze was cunning and looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and contempt.
“This is Pia,” he told me while he went through some papers, never giving me much attention. “Hopefully we can reach an agreement together.”
I wondered what he meant. Was he going to try to pay me to shut me up?
“You have been busy,” the man said darkly.
His voice had a hint of a British accent but was mostly American.
“I wanted to see you again,” I said honestly, never moving my eyes from his. “I was just hoping it would only be the two of us.”
The woman, Pia, snickered, but my attention didn’t waiver. I kept staring at the man.
“I told you this once, a year ago,” the man went on. “You need to stop looking. You need to leave this alone. I saved you from a hellish life.”
I stayed quiet as he stretched back in his chair, folding his hands together.
“How’s the baby, by the way?” he asked, and something inside me shattered into a thousand pieces.
“It’s gone,” I told him plainly. “I lost it.”
I didn’t tell him I’d be unable to have children for the rest of my life. I wanted him to like me. To want me. I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me.
His powerful brows furrowed, and he gave me an apologetic glance.
“I’m sorry to hear that. It doesn’t change the reason you are here.”
“Which is?” I raised my brows, waiting for him to go on.
“You need to let this go,” he said. “You need to stop searching for her.”
“Searching?”
Something clicked in my brain, and it must have clicked in his, too, because his face grew pale.
“Harlow,” I muttered. “You know where she is?”
He didn’t reply, just got out of his chair, grabbed me by the wrist and showed me to the door. I tried to fight it, but his grip was firm and electric against my skin.
“Don’t dig,” he warned me one last time before he shut the door in my face.
I left, walking out from the beautiful, tall building into the icy London weather. I was already a few steps down the street when I felt someone tapping me on the shoulder. I turned around to see who it was, and with it, sealed my fate and changed the course of my life forever.
“Things have changed around here.”
I bit my bottom lip nervously, waiting for her to go on, the phone pressed tightly against my ear.
“In what way?” I demanded to know. “How is Harlow, and how is Amber?”
“They’re fine.” She always got so fucking terse when I mentioned my friends. I got the impression that she was jealous. “Some… things went down. We lost one of our own. It seems to have messed up Harlow a little.”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I replied. “Is she training?”
A long pause followed, and I stewed in my own jealousy. I knew they were both probably getting the royal treatment, and it filled me with rage. Why hadn’t they chosen me? I’d won over Harlow once, getting the better role. So why did nobody else recognize my talent? It made me so angry.
“She’s fine,” the woman went on. “Just stop thinking about it. Think about our plan instead.”
My blood rushed through my veins at the thought.
Yes, the plan. We had a plan, a great plan, a grand plan. Soon, I would take Harlow’s place.
“When will I see you?” I asked, and she avoided the question, speaking about something else unimportant, so I asked again, letting her know I wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Soon,” she finally promised. “We’ll meet up soon and discuss everything. Are you sure about this?”
“What do you mean?” I didn’t understand.
“I just mean…” she sighed before going on. “It’s a big thing to do. You might hurt Harlow in the process. Are you sure you want to do it?”
I pondered her words for a second.
Harlow was probably the best friend I had. I had a couple of others, nice enough girls who went out with me but who I didn’t exactly trust with all my secrets. I remembered the months after I lost my baby. How Harlow had stayed by my side because she was the only one who’d known about it.
I hadn’t told Madame or any of my friends, waiting for my second trimester to start. Except it never happened, and now, it never would.
“Yes,” I replied harshly. “I’m sure. I want to do it.”
“All right,” she said, and I could just picture the smile on her stunning face. “I’ll call you soon and tell you what you need to do.”
“Pia…” I said softly, but she’d already cut the call.
I threw my phone on the bed with exasperation. I was late for practice again, not that anyone seemed to care about that since Harlow and Amber were gone.
This was my last shot. My last chance to get back at Harlow for being better than me.
And Pia would help me get my revenge.
Epilogue
Rose
You are going to dance for me,” he’d told me that morning.
I was sitting on the window seat. The one my friend, the raven-haired, beautiful nude girl used to occupy. I hadn’t seen her in a long, long time and I often wondered what happened to her, but I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want him to know I needed anything from him. It would be a sign of defeat.
I didn’t respond to his words. Just stared out at the beach where I still hadn’t been.
“I know you practice every day,” he went on, his fingers going to the nape of my neck, gently stroking my skin.
I hated the way my body responded to his touch. I arched my back instantly, desperate for him to go on. The attraction between us was incredible. Indescribable. I still didn’t understand why my body was so desperate for his, but I’d stopped resisting it. He hadn’t fucked me yet, but I was desperate for him to do it. To sink his cock between my legs and finally relieve me of the ache I felt every second he was close to me, and even when he wasn’t, yearning for him to come back.
“I’d like to watch you dance,” he added. “I know you haven’t done it in a long time…”
His fingers twirled in my hair, his touch rough as if he was physically holding back and making himself go gentle on me. I wanted to hate him – the same feeling I had struggled with since he’d killed Ellis. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to do it. There was the attraction between us, blinding and crazy and fucking impossible to ignore. I decided at the very least I could hate him for that. For igniting feelings inside my body that had no business there. I’d decided a long time ago to dedicate my life to dancing, and he was taking it away from me.
“Will you dance for me, Harlow?” His words were soft, his voice demanding, and I crumbled at what it did to my body.
“No,” I whispered. “I don’t want to…”
He reached for me, his fingers wrapping around my chin and making me look up at him. I shut my eyes tightly, not wanting him to see the pain in my eyes, but he stared at me so intently I had to open up, and a single tear rolled down my cheek.
He still hadn’t explained everything. Hadn’t told me why I was a victim, a prisoner. Why he’d decided to steal me when he had so many women willing to kneel for him, take everything he gave them while begging for more. What made me so special? There were women in the mansion who were more beautiful, more special. Yet he had chosen me. And I couldn’t figure it out for the life of me.
“You don’t want to?” he asked softly, and I shook my head no. His expression hardened. “But you will.”
I opened my mouth to argue but he closed it for me, gently forcing my chin upward.
“Tonight,” he went on. “I want to see if you’re as good as I remember.”
He left with those words, leaving me wondering.
He’d seen me dance before, after all…
That evening, some clothes were delivered to my room, and I nearly wept at the sight of them.
They were ballet clothes, things I was familiar with, but hadn’t seen in months. He’d sent over a black body stocking that was tight and fitted. I didn’t wear a bra under it, and my nipples poked through the fabric. There were also white tights and a pink tutu that looked more like an accessory than a part of a dancer’s wardrobe. I was still grateful though, surprised at the effort he’d gone to. But the real surprise was waiting in a gorgeous white box. I unwrapped the pink tissue paper, and when I saw what was inside, a sob escaped my lips.
It was my ballet shoes, the ones I’d had in London. They were just as ruined and stained as they were when I last wore them. They were perfect.
They still fit me, and I slipped them on and fought back the tears that threatened to slide down my cheeks. I’d often wondered what had happened to my flat in London, to my things. I now knew he’d taken them, just like he’d taken everything else that was part of me. I should have known before.
I pulled my hair up into a bun, the motions familiar yet forgotten. I hadn’t done it in a long time. Pia had told me to wear my hair down.
When I looked at myself in the mirror, with carefully applied makeup and the clothes he’d gotten for me, I felt like the old me. The sight was almost unbearable, and I turned away from my own reflection.
A couple of minutes later, I was walking down the hallway, accompanied by a guard. Thorn had told me there would be a room prepared for me, for what I was about to do, and he hadn’t been lying.
The guard led me into a large room that appeared to be a home cinema. But now, there was no film playing, just a large space at the front with a single spotlight shining on me.
Thorn was sitting in the front row, a huge bouquet of red roses next to him. Their color was stark, so red and dark it reminded me of Ellis’s blood when Thorn shot him. It made me shiver as the guard left, leaving me exposed in the room.
My eyes connected with Thorn’s and I stared openly at the man who would be my new master.
It had been months since he’d taken me.
Another month since Ellis’s death, since I’d finally connected the dots.
I’d spent weeks not speaking, or talking only to Amber. But now I was prepared. I was ready to call him Master.
I held up my ballet shoes, battered and bruised just like I was.
“I can’t wear them,” I said softly. “It’s… it’s too much. They remind me of who I used to be.”
Thorn stared at me as music started to fill the room. Piano music, tones I knew, melodies I’d danced to before. I approached him with slow steps and deposited my ballet slippers in his lap. When I tried to draw back, his fingers wrapped around my wrist and he made me look back at him.
“Rose,” he whispered. His nickname for me. He’d called me that before when he first took me from that bloodied room. “If you dance for me now, I won’t be able to hold back. You’ll be mine forever. I’ll never let go. Do you understand?”
I stared back, not willing to say a word. I had to dance. I needed to dance to stay sane. Yet here he was, offering me a way out. A chance to escape his cruelty and the terrors I would experience with him. He wasn’t a good man. He’d already proved that by killing Ellis.
“I understand,” I whispered, tore my hand out of his and walked to the stage.
The music made me dance. I could never resist it. The movements, the dancing, it flowed out of me like someone had severed a vein. I bled for him, beautiful dark blood washing over the makeshift stage as I danced. For his eyes only, as it would be from now on. I only danced for one person, and it was no longer me. It was Thorn – the man in the front row, with his eyes dark and hooded, and his intentions wicked.
I didn’t know how long I’d been dancing for. Time wasn’t important anymore, all that mattered was the music playing for me only, the music that had transitioned into the Nutcracker and later on, into Swan Lake, letting me dance freely, not by a routine I had learned during my lessons. I closed my eyes and danced with hope, with regret and every other feeling I’d felt since I’d met Reuben Thorn.
When I couldn’t bear to keep my eyes closed anymore, I opened them wide and connected my gaze with his. He was rigid in his seat, his cock visibly straining against his trousers. He picked the biggest, plumpest rose from the bouquet and toss
ed it on the stage. It landed at my feet, the stem snapping when it connected with the floor. I kept dancing and he kept throwing roses, a performance just for him, just for us. I willingly let go, understood and accepted that I belonged to him now. That I was his woman, his private dancer, his property. Now and forever.
I danced. I danced over the roses, the thorns digging into my feet, but barely noticing the pain. The floor was stained with my blood, and I kept on dancing as he threw the flowers. He hadn’t meant to hurt me, I don’t think. But yet I danced, my soles torn up by the roses. I let my pain bleed out of my feet, the pain of knowing I was stuck here, with this man my body loved and my mind struggled to hate.
In that moment, I understood what Pia had meant when she’d showed me her bruises. Why she had to hurt herself. How it had escalated from pain to something she needed as much as her next breath.
I danced when the music tuned out. I danced in silence. I danced for my hopes and dreams, and I danced for the love I hadn’t known I needed. It was only when I started to feel the pain that I stopped.
I collapsed on the stage, my feet ruined and torn up. He was next to me in seconds, his strong arms gathering me in his embrace. He held me like a broken doll. Held all of my pieces together, so beautifully broken by what he’d made me do and what I’d done to myself.
He must’ve carried me to the bedroom again. But he didn’t leave after that.
He patched up my feet. Cleaned the wounds, applied antiseptic cream and wrapped them up for me. We didn’t say a word, either one of us. There were some things better left unsaid.
Once he was done, I settled on the bed and he brought out a bottle of amber liquid.
“For you,” he said. “I thought it would remind you of…”
My eyes watered. It was Becherovka, the Czech drink I’d shared with my friends after The Nutcracker performance.
“You know everything,” I told him in a whisper.
He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. I knew it was true.
