Almost to my neck.
Almost to the place where a bond mark would go.
"And I hope my father will be forced to witness the power executed in such a vulnerable yet powerful work of art in dance."
Power.
Vulnerability.
Art.
He sees it.
He sees what I'm trying to create, what I've been working toward, what this performance means to me beyond just a scholarship or an escape route.
Heseesme.
Then he steps back.
Distance.
Space.
The careful separation of people who don't quite know what they're allowed to be to each other.
"I'll wait outside," he says, and his voice is steady again—controlled, measured, the mask slipping back into place. "Take your time."
He's at the door when a knock sounds from the other side.
"Miss? I'm ready to take final measurements!"
Marguerite.
Back with the seamstress.
Perfect timing.
Kai opens the door, nods to the attendant, and slips out without another word.
I'm left standing in front of the mirror, costume half-secured, the ghost of his lips still warm on my shoulder.
What just happened?
What are we becoming?
What are WE?
The questions spin through my mind, unanswerable and urgent.
But underneath them—underneath the confusion and the fear and the complicated tangle of feelings I don't know how to name—something else is crystallizing.
Clarity.
Understanding.
A shift in perspective that changes everything.
Kai isn't the villain of this story.
