“Then turn it into fuel for a reckoning. We leave for London tonight.”
CHAPTER 15
ADA
My mother used to tell me that living the wrong life is a fate worse than death. That it cuts bone deep, aggravating old wounds, so that every movement reminds you of just how erroneous your time on this earth is. And that knowing you have no way of changing it is as wretched as watching a trapped butterfly fluttering helplessly against a pane of glass.
But what happens when this kind of hurt is all you have left?
You start craving it like a drug.
That’s why, after multiple surgeries for two comminuted patella fractures—because my bones had shattered into a million pieces like my heart—plus countless knee realignment surgeries afterwards, I slacked on the whole physical therapy thing. I needed the hurt. I needed to flounder so deeply in ‘what might have been’ that breathing became an afterthought.
“One-two-three-four… And again, girls, one-two-three-four.”
It’s only when my osteoarthritis kicked in that I stopped wallowing in my misery like a drunk at the bar. My dancing days were over, but if I started to take care of myself again, if I started to try and live again, I still had enough movement in my legs to continue my mother’s legacy.
Soon after, I bought a small dance studio, and I teach here as often as I can, pushing my aching body to its limits to keep a fragment of my past alive.
“One-two-three-four. Don’t forget to keep those feet turned out, Anabelle… That’s excellent, Maria.”
Kirill doesn’t care what I do, just so long as his ring stays on my finger. I gave him what he really wanted nine months after our wedding.
These days, he keeps me stranded in suburbia, while his latest underage girlfriend services him in London. He can’t divorce me because of his pact with O’Sullivan, which also means he can’t kill me, so he chooses to ignore me instead; keeping me trapped behind a wall of stone-faced Bratva bodyguards who monitor my every move.
I’m tainted. Not worthy of his attention. But I’m not worthy of anyone else’s, either.
“And again, girls. Plié, plié, arabesque… wonderful! Now, who can remind me of the seven movements in ballet?”
A haphazard chorus of chanting brings me back to my bright white dance studio, and to the row of ten years olds in black skirts and leotards standing in front of me. A few of the girls are listing off their answers with confidence while others are trailing behind in monotone and trying hard not to fidget.
“To bend, to stretch, to rise, to jump, to turn, to glide, to dart…”
Like I did in the darkness of my old bedroom.
Like I did for him.
“Plier, etendre, relever, sauter, tourner, glisser, elancer…”
This is the part of South-West London where most of the kids are privately educated and speak French as easily as they speak the language of social media. It’s bijou on acid. The shops are boutique, the streets are immaculate, and the cappuccinos and lattes cost double here than they do anywhere else.
It’s not the kind of place I would have chosen to live myself. I prefer ugly truths over keeping up appearances, but I’ve made it my home regardless.
Besides, I didn’t have a choice.
Butterflies and parallel lives.
Kirill doesn’t care that I have my own business, either. It was my final bargaining chip after he stole the last piece of my soul. In fact, I haven’t seen my cheating, thieving, murdering beast of a husband for over twenty months now. I’m thankful for that small mercy, but his absence means the bitter chill of my son’s absence as well.
“Excellent work, girls,” I say, smiling at each of my students until every face is beaming back at me. I made a choice to keep Alex alive, remember? These are my children now. “I think we’ll leave it there for today.”
“Yes, Miss Rivers.”
There’s a blur of black lycra and chatter as they flit towards the changing rooms next door, but one girl is dragging her satin slippers. She keeps glancing back at me and biting her lip, as if there’s a question on her tongue that she’s trying to keep prisoner.
At the same time, I can see her au pair hovering in the doorway, anxious to get her home and fed before her parents return from whatever high-flying jobs they have in the city. Their city. A shiny bustling hub of business, so different to the cruel and unkind London I know.
“Lily,” I hear her purr, her delicate French accent making her charge sound like an exotic flower and not a skinny, fretting bean. “It is time to go.”
But Lily ignores her and takes a hesitant step towards me. An hour’s worth of exercise has loosened her high ponytail and wisps of ice blonde hair are framing her face like falling stars. Something about her innocence makes my smile falter.
“Can I ask you something, Miss Rivers?”
Not O’Sullivan.
Not Semenov.
Not Razor.
This little corner of my world is mine and my mother’s. Rivers was her surname and I reclaimed it for myself when I opened the studio. Why? Because everything I do here flows back to her. I teach this new generation the same way she taught me: with no expectation of perfection, and the sweetest twist on convention. It’s not just ballet. My classes are a step kaleidoscope of every type of movement.
“Did you dance too much when you were younger?”
I pause, caught off guard by her question.
“Is that why you have a limp?”
“Lily!” This time, her name sounds more like a gallic curse.
“It’s okay,” I reassure the blushing au pair, trying not to laugh. This is what I love most about children. They have no filter. They ask all the questions that adults are too shackled by the rules of society to say. “Do you know the story of Swan Lake, Lily?”
She nods.
“Remind me.”
“Odette was cursed, which meant she could only be herself at night.”
“Good. Well, think of me as a little like Odette. I may not be able to move or dance as much as I’d like during the day, but in my dreams—”
I’m back in my mother’s front room, spinning and twirling.
I’m back in his arms.
Her eyes widen in shock. “Does that mean you were cursed? But who cursed you?”
“Lily, enough!” The au pair springs into the room, grabs the little girl by the hand and hauls her off toward the changing rooms, gabbling out apologies to me in French.
“Really, it’s fine. I’ll see you next week.”
Shaking my head in amusement, I make my way over to the iDock to select the music for the next lesson, and then I freeze, my skin stippling in fear.
“It is a good question, meelaya,” comes a voice suddenly, his accent as thick as toxic treacle, even after all these years. “Who really cursed you? The man with the baseball bat, or you for daring to defy him?”
All the clean air is sucked out of my studio, replaced by a dirty scent from my past.
In a way, I’ve been expecting him ever since Frankie’s books stopped arriving.
I spin around as Kirill emerges from the fire exit door. “What the hell are you doing here?” My eyes dart to the changing room door. “I have another class in thirty minutes.”