Chapter 2

Luca Ferraro, Dante's assistant, hurried after me and asked if I wanted him to get Dante.

"No." I wheeled myself away, afraid that if I watched them any longer, I'd go inside and beg Dante to come home with me.

That night, I called Mara and asked her to check with the rehab center for me again. Then I sat in the bedroom and waited for Dante.

He came home well after midnight and crouched down to tuck the blanket around me. "Hurting again?"

He could still be so gentle with me.

I grabbed his hand, and the tears came all at once.

"I saw you kiss Isabella. Dante, you know what she did to me."

He stiffened and pulled his hand free. "That was years ago. She's been getting threatening letters lately. Her father asked me to keep an eye on her."

"Does looking out for her mean kissing her?"

"Erin, don't make it sound so ugly."

"So you can kiss her, but I'm not allowed to talk about it?"

He shot to his feet and tossed his jacket onto the couch. "Every time I come home, it's the same thing. Are you hurting? Have you taken your meds? And God forbid I'm a little late, because you'll be waiting to interrogate me. I'm tired too, Erin!"

My first instinct was to apologize. The words were right there, but I swallowed them.

"Dante, you used to hate seeing me hurt. How could you do this to me? And with Isabella, of all people?"

He didn't answer. He turned and walked off to his study.

I lay awake all night, crying until my pillow was soaked.

I still had a hospital appointment the next day. The rehabilitation specialist I'd booked well in advance was only in Boston for the day. I needed him to assess my injuries so I could take his report to Switzerland.

The next morning, Dante came to collect my medical records. "Come on. I'll go with you."

I didn't bring up last night's fight. I just tucked some old performance photos into the folder.

I cared more about finding out whether I could ever dance again with prosthetic legs than getting an apology from Dante.

The rear door of the armored van had just opened for the wheelchair lift when Isabella called.

She said a strange car had been parked outside her apartment for a long time.

Dante immediately ordered Luca to drive over and pick her up. I grabbed Dante's hand. "My appointment's at ten. You promised you'd come with me."

"She could be in danger. I'll get you another car."

"Can't you at least wait until my ride gets here? I can't get into another car on my own."

He looked down at my hand holding his. "Are you trying to remind me again that you lost your legs for me?"

"I'm talking about the car."

"I'll handle it. Stop trying to guilt me into staying, Erin. I'm exhausted."

Tired. Again.

I let go of his hand.

He climbed into the van and left without arranging another ride for me.

My caregiver managed to arrange a ride through the hospital, but I arrived 40 minutes late. I completed the tests, only to find that the specialist had already left.

I took out one of my old performance photos and asked a nurse to pass it along with my test results. My hand trembled, and the photo slipped to the floor.

Someone picked it up, glanced at it, then looked at me in my wheelchair.

"Is this you?"

I nodded and placed the photo facedown on my lap, unable to bring myself to look at it again.

Luca came to pick me up. He told me the suspicious car outside Isabella's apartment belonged to a repairman. Even so, Dante had insisted on bringing her back to the estate.

When I entered the living room, Dante was crouching beside the couch, holding Isabella's ankle as he urged the family doctor to examine it more closely.

"My new shoes rubbed a little, that's all." She laughed and drew her foot back. "I'm dancing Giselle next week. A Band-Aid will do."

"You're a dancer. We can't take chances with your feet." Dante wouldn't let her put her foot down.

There was a small red spot on her heel. The skin wasn't even broken. All I'd done was ask him to wait for one car, and he'd made it sound like I was calling in a debt.

He finally noticed me. "How'd the checkup go?"

"I didn't get to see the doctor. I was late."

"I'll book you another one." He started to get up, but the second Isabella's foot moved, he caught it again. "Keep it off the floor."

I couldn't stop myself. "What, are you going to carry her up the stairs too?"

Isabella looked at me. "You've danced this role too. You know better than anyone how much your feet matter. Once the show's over, I'll be fine. Please don't be mad."

"Do you really have to rub it in?"

"I was the one who sent the van to get her. Don't take your anger out on Isabella," Dante cut in.

I clutched my medical file. "Then look at me. I just want to stand up again. I'm not trying to torture you. Dante, do I have to beg you for that too?"

He fell silent for a moment before moving behind my wheelchair, offering to take me back to my room.

I gripped the wheels to stop him from pushing me and asked my caregiver to take me instead.

But Walter, the butler, stopped me by the elevator. "Ms. Walsh, we're converting your dance studio into a guest room. There are some things we need you to sort through. Would you like to keep them or have them thrown out?"