1
Alex
Five years ago
I PRESS MY FOREHEAD to the cool glass of the ballet studio door, my breath fogging the surface in small, ghostly clouds. In the dim light, Vincent moves as if he’s made of something other than flesh and bone—something liquid and ethereal. Something I could never be. My stepbrother, the dancer, spinning through the empty studio like he’s forgotten the world exists. Like he’s forgotten I exist, watching him from the shadows.
The studio stands apart from the rest of the estate, half-hidden by the overgrown hedge. It’s almost midnight. Everyone else is asleep or pretending to be. Everyone except Vincent, who slips out here most nights when he thinks no one notices. He doesn’t know that I follow him every time, like some pathetic shadow.
Inside, he spins through a series of pirouettes, each one perfect, each one making my chest tighten in a way I don’t understand. His reflection multiplies in the mirrors lining the walls—a dozen Vincents moving in unison, all of them graceful, all of them untouchable. A single lamp sits on the floor, casting his body in gold.
I can’t look away. I’ve never been able to look away from Vincent.
He’s been my stepbrother for almost three years now, ever since Father married his mother. Three years of discovering the little miracles that make up Vincent Bell. The way he reads poetry under his breath when he thinks no one can hear. How he leaves the crusts of his sandwiches for the birds outside. His laugh—rare as rain in a drought and twice as precious.
And his dancing. Perfect and completely at odds with the rest of our world.
Vincent lifts into an arabesque, his body unfolding into a perfect line from fingertips to toes. His concentration is absolute. He’s somewhere else right now, lost in music I can’t hear. He doesn’t need music, because the rhythm lives in his blood.
Sweat darkens the nape of his neck, his thin t-shirt clinging to the ridges of his spine. He’s breathing hard, but it doesn’t slow him down. Each movement flows into the next—fluid, alive. I’m alive too, my heart fluttering against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. Like it wants to leap into that room and join him.
Then he jumps—just once—his body suspended in the air for one impossible moment. Time stretches. He hangs there, defying gravity, defying everything I’ve ever known about what bodies can do.
I’m so lost in watching him that I don’t hear the footstepsbehind me. Don’t sense the presence until it’s too late. Until the cold that comes before a storm is already pressing against my back.
Father.
I drop my hand from the glass, straighten my spine, wipe the awe from my face. Too slow. Too late. I know he saw it—my naked admiration. My weakness.
He steps up behind me, arms crossed over his immaculate suit. Even at midnight, Yuri Orlov looks like he’s heading to a board meeting. Not a hair out of place. Not a hint of softness anywhere.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His silence fills the space between us, heavy with judgment.
His hand lands on my shoulder, and I flinch even though I try not to. His fingers dig in, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me who’s in control.
Inside the studio, Vincent notices the movement behind the glass. He slows, coming out of a turn, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweat gleams on his forehead, his body glowing from exertion. His golden-brown hair is darker now, damp at the temples. He looks so alive it hurts to see.
Our eyes meet through the glass. I smile—small and stupid and real. The kind of smile I only ever give him.
Vincent smiles back, a quick flash of warmth that makes the night less cold.
Then Father’s hand tightens on my shoulder, the pressure increasing just enough. The moment snaps like a thread pulled too hard.
“Sasha.” His voice slices through the air. “Go inside.”
I freeze, confusion knotting my thoughts. I don’t want to look away from Vincent. Don’t want to leave him alone withFather. Something isn’t right.
“Go now,” Father says, his voice a threat wrapped in silk. “I need to speak with Vincent.”
Through the glass, I see Vincent’s posture change. His shoulders pull back, his chin lifts slightly. He heard Father’s words somehow or sensed their meaning. The dancer disappears, replaced by someone harder.
My chest twists with an unpleasant premonition. I want to say something, but Father’s glare cuts the words right out of me.
I look at Vincent one more time. He just nods—slow, solemn, like someone stepping onto a battlefield.
“Now, Sasha.” Father’s voice doesn’t rise, but it doesn’t need to.
I turn away, each step an effort. The walk back to the house is endless. The gravel path crunches under my feet, too loud in the quiet night. The estate looms ahead, windows dark except for the security lights that Father insists on. Always watching. Always guarding what’s his.
