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“No?”
“No. I’m sorry if you think I’m your wife, but I’m not.”
“Yes, you are, Lia.”
“My name is Winter.”
The darkness I thought was gone slams back into his eyes. “That’s six.”
“You can’t erase my name. It’s Winter. At least call me that when it’s the two of us.”
“Seven, Lia.”
I squeeze my lips shut, feeling more tears barging to my eyes. I don’t know why the fact that he refuses to call me by my name has this effect on me, why it feels like he’s cutting me open more than any of his punishments would. It shouldn’t, and yet, a morbid feeling gnaws at my insides, demanding I win this.
Because with each passing day, my real identity is disintegrating and I feel like I’ll become Lia in no time.
“You can play your sick games all you want, Adrian, but you won’t be able to wipe away who I am.WhatI am.”
“Eight.”
I should cut my losses and keep my mouth shut, but I don’t. I can’t. He has to know that I am my own person, that he can’t transform me into his dead wife.
“My name is Winter Cavanaugh and I was born in Michigan. My father died when I was a toddler, and my mom relocated us to New York for work reasons.”
“Shut up.”
“No! You’ll listen, because I’m not just some blow-up doll who’s playing the sick role of your dead wife. I’m human. I have feelings.I feel.” I suck in a harsh breath before I continue, “After my mom relocated us here, I took ballet classes, even though they were expensive as fuck. When Mom couldn’t afford to pay for them anymore, my teacher took me under her wing as a charity case and paid for them on my mom’s behalf because she couldn’t stand to see my talent go to waste. And you know what? I was a fucking brilliant ballerina. I made all my classmates green with envy because I had strong ankles and could stand on pointe from the time I was goddamn eleven. I wasthatgood. But that was also when the rich kids started ganging up on me, calling me a charity case. Do you know what it feels like to grow up poor, Adrian? Of course, you don’t. You had your rich mob father.”
“Are you going to shut up?”
“No. You’re going to listen. This time, you’re going to fuckinglisten. I was recruited as a backup in the New York City Ballet when I was sixteen. I thought me and Mom’s life would become rainbows. But no, the dancers there didn’t like me and made it known. They bullied me, changed my broken-in shoes with new ones. They stole my Band-Aids, toe pads, and my elastic bandages and tore my leotards before important performances to stop me from going on stage. But I had a friend who helped me. She gave me a hand and protected me. She let me dance on her behalf sometimes. She had my back throughout the years, and even though her skills were no different from mine, she became a prima ballerina at the age of twenty. I didn’t get very far. I only stayed there, in the background, like a nobody, but I didn’t resent her for it. I was happy for her. I celebrated with her and was thankful I could keep a roof over our head.
“But do you know what happened next? I found out she was the one who’d kept me in the background. All her nice behavior was a ploy to keep me under her thumb. I was so stupid. So fuckingstupid. I hated dancing so much after that, so I quit. I left that world and everything that came with it. But she never left my mind. She stayed at the back of it and in my nightmares. She was there when I was a nobody waitress seeing her posters on the streets. She said she wanted one last favor. She had the fucking nerve to ask for a favor. But I couldn’t say no, and do you know why? Because my mom was dying, and I was knocked up by some fucking man whose name I don’t remember and my daughter was born with weak lungs. I took the hotshot ballerina’s offer, which included having my baby daughter ripped away from my hands soon after she was born. When I told my mom about what I was doing to ensure our future, she cursed me to hell, but I didn’t stop. I didn’t have the luxury of stopping.
“I didn’t succeed, though. I had an accident where my head was nearly cracked open. When I woke up in the hospital, my mother was gone.” I’m sobbing now, tears streaming down my cheeks. “My little girl’s lungs gave up on her and she followed soon after. That’s how I ended up on the streets. That’s how I became a shadow of a person, homeless, a nobody. So no, Adrian. I’mnotLia. My name and identity are the last things I have, so don’t you dare take those away, too.”
I’m panting by the time I finish telling him my story. I never expected to blurt it out as if the words were burning my tongue. The only other person who knows about my history is Larry, and I only told him in batches. Not in one go like I just did.
If I expected sympathy from Adrian, he shows none. His expression remains the same. “What was the favor she asked of you?”
“What?”
“You said she asked you for a favor. What was it?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Tell me.”
“N-no.”
He narrows his eyes. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not proud of it.”
“You said it didn’t succeed.”
“I wanted it to. I guess that’s what counts for me.”
