The words don’t compute at first. I stare at him, then at the document, then back at him. “What?”
“Look at the papers.”
I approach slowly, as if the folded sheets might bite. When I pick them up, my hands aren’t quite steady. I unfold the papers, my eyes scanning the legal jargon until I reach a line that stops my heart:
Property deed transferred to Vincent Bell, effective immediately.
“You bought this?” My voice cracks embarrassingly. “For me?”
Alex runs a hand through his hair. “You said you wanted to open a dance studio someday. For kids who can’t afford lessons. I remembered.”
The room spins slightly, and I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself. He remembered. A dream I’d shared almost in passing—and he remembered.
“If you don’t like it,” Alex rushes to add, words tumbling out like he can’t stop them, “if the location’s wrong or the building isn’t what you pictured, we can find somewhere else. This was just… available. And I thought it had potential.”
I look around the space again, but now I’m seeing it through a different lens. Where the reception desk would go.How the main studio would look with the boards removed from the windows, sunshine spilling across polished floors. A smaller room through that doorway for private lessons or a lounge for the kids to do homework. Music filling the silence, bodies moving through the space—learning, growing, finding the same escape in dance that saved me.
“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper, the papers trembling in my hand.
“Say yes.” Alex steps closer, his eyes searching mine. “Say you’ll let me do this for you.”
Reality crashes back in, and I shake my head. “Alex, I can’t accept this. It’s too much. The building, the renovations—it would cost a fortune.”
“I have the money,” he says simply.
“Your father’s money,” I counter, even as my heart aches to accept what he’s offering. “Money that comes with strings.”
“Fuck the strings.” Alex’s jaw sets in that stubborn way I’m coming to know so well. “Look, my father made his peace with us, however reluctantly. And yes, I’m still connected to the family business. But this—” he gestures around the studio “—this is mine to give. My trust fund, not his active accounts.”
I bite my lip, wanting to believe him, wanting this more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.
“Besides,” he continues with a wry smile, “doesn’t it feel right, using some of the Orlov money for something good for once? Taking whatever shady profits my father’s made and turning them into something that helps kids?”
Put that way, it’s harder to argue. I run my fingers along the barre again, my mind racing with possibilities. “There’s so much to do,” I say finally. “The floor needs to be completely refinished. The mirrors replaced. New barres, proper lighting,sound system…” I’m making a mental checklist, already planning despite myself.
Alex’s smile grows wider. “Is that a yes?”
“The plumbing probably needs to be checked too,” I continue, a smile tugging at my own lips now. “And we’d need a proper reception area, changing rooms…”
“Vincent,” Alex says, stepping closer, his hands finding my waist. “Is that a yes?”
I look around once more, my heart so full it feels like it might burst. “Yes,” I whisper, then louder: “Yes. God, Alex, yes.”
The relief on his face is almost comical. Did he really think I might say no? But then I see something deeper in his eyes—he’s not just relieved I’ve accepted his gift. He’s relieved I’ve accepted his vision of our future together. A future where I have my dream and he’s part of making it happen.
“I’ll handle all the renovation costs,” he says, his hands tightening at my waist. “And help with the business side of things, if you want. Permits, insurance, all that boring shit.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to start with all that,” I admit. “But the actual studio—the teaching, the curriculum, the space itself—that would be my domain.”
“Absolutely.” Alex nods eagerly. “It’s your vision, Vincent.”
I reach up to cup his face in my hands, feeling the stubble against my palms. His eyes are so earnest, so full of hope and love that it steals my breath.
“We could offer scholarships,” I say, the ideas flowing faster now. “Full rides for kids who show promise but can’t afford even reduced rates. And partner with the public schools for after-school programs.”
Alex nods, his hands sliding to the small of my back. “Whatever you want.”
“We’ll need staff, eventually. Other teachers with different specialties.”
