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Chapter One - Nevaeh
Pain shoots up the arch of my right foot.
Immediate, almost debilitating pain that any doctor would probably be concerned about. That should probably concernme.
But I can’t stop now. All eyes are on me.
I wince through it and push myself to keep going. I swing my left leg to the side in sync with my arm as I spin in fast circles and maintain my momentum.
The dance studio zips by as if I’m not the one moving. The room orbits around me at a dizzying blur.
Round and round and round again.
Panic clenches inside my chest. So does a sense of breathlessness in my lungs. The pain’s gone nowhere—it intensifies ’til I’m gritting my teeth with each push off my right heel.
Soon it’s not just the room looking like a dizzy blur because I’m executing fouettés. It’s a rush of dizziness crashing over me as the pain becomes too much and I can’t hold on another second.
My foot gives out and I drop to the floor with a harsh thud. The other dancers in the studio gasp. Then comes their scandalized mutters of gossip.
I’m shaking as I blink through the haze of pain and dizziness, but I have an idea of what they’re saying.
Told you she wasn’t good enough.
They only picked her out of pity.
She doesn’t deserve that lead role.
I’d love nothing more than to tell them to shut up, but in the moment, I’m much more concerned about my foot. If the damage is serious enough it could cost me my lead in the show.
Damp with sweat and half dizzy, I scramble to sit up and undo the ties of my ballet shoe. I don’t notice that Ignazio, the director of the show, who also happens to be the manager of our dance company, has strode over to scold me.
It’s not until I hear my name and he’s already standing over me that I realize he is.
“What have I told you a thousand times before, Nevaeh?” His pallid, hook-nosed face twists into a scowl. He notches his hands at his slender waist and makes me feel like a peasant to his lord the way he towers over me. “If this is too much for you, I can choose someone that will be able to keep up. Not all dancers are befitting ofprincipessa.”
I gulp down air and give a profuse shake of my head. “I can do it. I’ve told you I’m good.”
I rush to stand up, determined to prove myself. My injury has other ideas—another bolt of pain spikes through my right foot and sends me sinking to the ground as quickly as I tried getting up.
Ignazio rolls his eyes and mutters swear words under his breath. “Pitiful, Nevaeh. You said you could handle this.”
“I can… it’s…” I wheeze, trying to push myself up on shaking arms. “It’s just a small sprain, Ignazio. I… I just need a moment…”
“There’s no more time for ‘just a moment’. YOU!” He rounds on Darren, my dance partner. “What are you doing standing around like an oaf? Pick her up—help her home! She needs to rest that ankle if there’s any hope for next week.”
“Oh, no… don’t send me home early. I can do stretches.”
“If you’re to remain myprincipessa, you’ll go home and rest that fucking ankle.”
There’s no arguing with Ignazio when his thick Italian voice takes on a growly sound and his dark green eyes flash in warning.
I stifle any other protests.
Darren, being the well-meaning if not brainless jock type he is, does as he’s told no questions asked. He slips a toned arm around my back and hoists me up so that I’m propped against his athletic frame. None of my weight is on my right foot. Most of it’s on him.
Used to being held in his arms, I’m more concerned with Ignazio's instructions. “Does this mean you don’t want me at dinner Friday?”
Ignazio's face darkens. “You better be there on Friday. As presentable as ever, Nevaeh. You have been reserved. You know I do not disappoint our fans.”
