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A shiver tracks down my spine as my stomach curdles with anxiety and long held pain.
“Do you know him?” Clancy presses.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her check him out. In fact, every damn female in the room is unable to take their eyes off him, Madame Tuillard included. He knows it too. He’s always had this kind of magnetism, and he oozes confidence. I’d admired that once. Now I can barely look at him without wanting to sprint from the studio and throw away my chance of a future in dance. It takes every ounce of strength to remain seated.
“Yeah. We’ve met before,” I say vaguely, not willing to elaborate further. I can’t. It hurts too much. Looking at him hurts. His hair is the same shade of dark brown, his eyes still a deep black and his mouth just as plump and as kissable as it was three years ago when I last saw him and the others…
Stop it.
“He’shot,” she states, matter-of-factly. “But can hedance?”
“He can dance,” I confirm with a whisper, wrapping my arms around my legs and hugging myself tightly as I watch him move out into the empty space. “He can most definitely dance…”
As if he heard me, Zayn meets my gaze and winks, reminding me of the first time we met six years ago. Except this time his wink isn’t followed by a warm smile and the possibility of friendship.
Now there’s nothing but hate in his eyes.
