Chapter 3

By the time I got upstairs, Isabella had already taken the stairs and changed into slippers.

She was walking just fine on the same foot Dante had insisted she keep off the floor only minutes ago.

Two workers were carrying a mirror out of my studio. I stopped them at the door and demanded they put it down.

That's when I noticed half the room had already been cleared out. The barre had been removed, and my performance photos and ballet shoes were piled into cardboard boxes.

"Who gave you permission to touch my things?"

One of the workers said Dante had ordered them to prepare the room for Isabella that night.

Isabella stood by the window, directing them where to put the bed. She'd also asked them to leave the mirror because she still needed it for her daily practice.

I was shaking with anger. "There are so many guest rooms. Why does it have to be this one?"

"Dante says this room is safe. I'm only staying a few days." She came over and picked up a ballet shoe lying beside a box. "You never could stand sharing the barre with anyone. Still so possessive, I see."

I knocked her hand away. "Don't touch that!"

She staggered back and immediately looked past me, her eyes filling with tears. "I was only trying to help you pack."

Dante came up behind us. I grabbed his hand and begged him to stop the workers.

Instead, he gripped the handles of my wheelchair and tried to move me away from the doorway.

"We don't have time to install extra security in another guest room. She'll stay here for now."

For two years, only our bedroom and my dance studio had bulletproof windows. Back then, Dante had promised I could practice there safely once I was ready to dance with prosthetics.

Now he wanted me to hand it over.

I gripped the doorframe. "Then give her your bedroom. You're not taking my studio."

On nights I couldn't sleep, I often came in here and played the music I used to rehearse to. I couldn't dance anymore, but at least I could look at those photos and remember what I looked like up on stage.

I've already lost my legs. Now I have to give up my studio for her too?

Isabella tugged at his sleeve. "Forget it. I'll go to a hotel. Erin's already like this. I shouldn't upset her."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She's just trying to be nice." Dante stepped in front of Isabella. "You can't even stand on your own. What do you need a dance studio for? Do you expect everyone to waste their time protecting a room you can't even use?"

My grip on the doorframe loosened.

He froze too. After a moment, he bent down to reach for me. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" I stared at him. "How did I lose my legs?"

He said my name, but I couldn't hold it in anymore.

"Look me in the eye and say it! When I saved you, I was worried about rehearsals the next day. I was terrified of twisting an ankle. And then I lost both my feet! Did I ever blame you for that? How could you use my injuries against me just to kick me out, Dante?"

My voice kept rising, and the tears wouldn't stop.

He crouched down to hold me, but I shoved him away, snatched a photo of us from the box, and ripped it in half, separating his image from mine.

We'd taken it during the first tour he accompanied me on. I was wearing my tutu, and he was holding a bouquet, grinning even wider than I was.

He lunged for it. "Don't tear it!"

"Oh, so now you care?"

I threw his half at his feet and pointed at the door. "Take her and get out. I'll pack my own things. I don't need you two standing here watching."

Only then did he order the workers to stop. Once the door shut, I clutched my half of the photo and broke down sobbing, doubled over in my wheelchair.

That evening, Mara received my test results and told me the doctor had agreed to treat me. She'd also arranged a place for me to stay. But she warned me not to expect to walk again right away. I'd need treatment for my old injuries, along with a fresh assessment of my prosthetics and rehabilitation plan.

"I know. I'm going."

I booked a one-way ticket for two days later. Just as I finished, Dante knocked on my door. He promised to restore my dance studio as soon as Isabella moved out.

I didn't open the door. He tried again. "There's a family dinner tomorrow night. Sit next to me. I'll stay right beside you. I won't go anywhere."

I snapped a photo of the studio, slipped my half of our torn picture into my medical folder, and agreed to go.

I'll treat this dinner as my goodbye.