AGE TWENTY-FOUR
Nothing good ever comes without pain.
Since I was a little girl, that fact has been cemented into my head with bloodstained fingers.
I was born from pain, raised by pain, and eventually embraced it.
However, no matter how much pain I’ve had to endure, I’ve never managed to become numb to it. Not even when I went out of my way to train my body for it.
Pain is real, suffocating, and with the right amount of pressure, it’s bound to break my every last barrier.
My endurance is stronger, though.
Loud cheers fill the hall long after the curtains fall for the finale of The Nutcracker. I remain on pointe, hands poised in my salute even after we’re out of the public eye.
My ankles scream to be put out of their misery, as they have repeatedly over these last couple of months. Long rehearsals and endless tours have dulled my senses, almost bleeding into one another.
I give it a few seconds, catching my breath before I softly land on the soles of my feet. My ballet shoes are inaudible in the midst of the fuss backstage.
Other dancers release relieved breaths as they either pat each other on the back or simply stand there dumbfounded. We might belong to the New York City Ballet, one of the most prestigious dance companies in the world, but that doesn’t lessen the pressure. If anything, it makes it tenfold worse.
We’re expected to be our absolute best whenever we go on stage. When the company handpicked its dancers, the only rule was: no mistakes are allowed.
The roaring applause at the end of our performance isn’t something we hope for, it’s something we’re expected to accomplish.
The director, Philippe, a tall, slim man with a bald head and thick white moustache, walks over, accompanied by our choreography director, Stephanie.
Philippe smiles, his moustache tipping with the movement, and all of us release a collective breath. He’s not the type to smile after a show unless we’ve done a perfect performance.
“You were marvelous. Bravo!” he speaks with a pronounced French accent, and claps. His entire body joins in the motion, his colorful scarf flying and his tight blazer straining against his body.
Everyone else follows his lead, clapping and congratulating each other.
Everyone except me, the lead male dancer, Ryan, and the second female lead, Hannah.
Some dancers attempt to start small talk with Philippe, but he brazenly ignores them as he walks to me and lifts my hand to his mouth, brushing his lips and moustache against my knuckles. “My most beautiful prima ballerina. You were a work of art tonight, Lia chérie.”
“Thank you, Philippe.” I pull my hand back as swiftly as I can and wince when a tendon aches in my left leg. I need to get a pain patch on that as soon as possible.
“Do not thank me. I’m the one who’s honored to have a muse like you.”
That makes me smile. Philippe is definitely the best director I’ve worked with. He understands me better than anyone ever has.
“Ryan.” He nods at the male lead, rolling the R dramatically. “You were perfect.”
“As expected.” Ryan raises an arrogant brow. He has those all-American good looks with a square face, deep blue eyes, and a cleft chin.
“You, too, Hannah,” Philippe says dismissively to her. “You’ll need to work on your pointe for Giselle.”
Her expression lights up as she smirks at me, then clears her throat. Hannah is blonde, a bit taller than me, and has cat eyes that she always accentuates with thick, shadowy makeup. “Does that mean we’ll be auditioning for the lead role?”
Stephanie steps up beside Philippe. She has deep black skin and naturally curly hair that she’s gathered into a pink band. As a former prima ballerina in the NYC Ballet, she has a reputation that precedes her and is as tenacious as Philippe, but they work surprisingly well as a team. “There will be an audition, but not for the lead.”
“But why—” Hannah stops herself from snapping at the last second.
Stephanie motions her head at me. “The producers already picked Lia to be Giselle.”
Hannah’s gaze meets mine with nothing short of malice. I give her a cool one in return. Being in ballet since I was five has taught me to rise above their petty jealousy and catfights. I’m here because I love to dance and play characters that I’m not in real life. Everything else is white noise.
That’s probably why I have no friends. Some kiss my ass for their own benefit, then stab me in the back, and others are malicious about everything.
Everyone here is just a colleague. And as Grandma used to say, it’s lonely at the top.
My tendons start aching again and I hide my wince. I overwork myself during these marathon shows and I need aftercare.
Now.
I tip my head at Philippe and Stephanie. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Quoi? You’re not going to join us for the celebration party?” the director exclaims. “The producers won’t like this.”
“I need aftercare, Philippe.”
“So do it, and then join us, chérie.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. I’m exhausted and need downtime. Please relay my apologies.”
Philippe and Stephanie seem displeased, but they nod. It’s unheard of for a prima ballerina not to attend celebration parties, but they know how much I hate the limelight outside of dancing. Besides, most of those producers are sexist, perverted assholes. I’d rather not meet them unless I absolutely have to.
The dancers slowly trickle into the dressing room, chatting among each other.
Hannah leans over to whisper, “Maybe the producers will finally realize how much of a fucking talentless bitch you actually are.”
I stare at her. Thankfully, she’s not tall enough to look down on me. “If you rehearsed as hard as you run your mouth, you’d probably have a chance at taking some lead roles from me.”
She clicks her tongue and her face contorts, highlighting the bold makeup that gives her a witchy appearance. “How many of the producers did you fuck, Lia? Because we all know you wouldn’t get this many lead roles if it wasn’t for whoring yourself out.”
Her words don’t sting. Not only are they untrue, but I’ve also heard such jabs from the entire ballet troupe over the years. In the beginning, I wanted to prove I’m no whore and that I got this far by torturing myself, but I soon realized it was pointless. People will think what they want to think.
So now I’ve grown accustomed to them, but at the same time, I won’t allow Hannah or anyone else to walk all over me. Squaring my shoulders, I say with mocking calm, “Until then, you’ll have to remain Miss Number Two.”
She raises her hand to slap me, but Ryan clutches her wrist and pulls her against him. “Now, Hannah, don’t get worked up over people who mean nothing.”
He lowers his head and kisses her, open-mouthed, harshly, but his eyes remain fixed on me. The lust in them and in his tight pants is visible from my position.
I turn around and make my way to my private dressing room backstage, but I’m not going to bother with changing. After they put something itchy in my clothes one time, I make sure to check everything before I shower, but I’m in no mood tonight, so I’ll just do it at home.
My feet come to a halt once I’m inside. Countless bouquets from admirers and the producers stuff the room, barely allowing me to move.
I comb through them until I find a bouquet of white roses. My lips curve in the first genuine smile of tonight as I hug them to my chest and lower my head to take a deep inhale. They smell like home and happiness.
They smell like Mom, Dad, and bright memories.
I refuse to associate them with the day when everything ended. I place the roses back on the table and take the card, grinning as I read it.
You’re the most beautiful flower on earth, Duchess. You not only grew on the harsh pavement, but you also flourished. Keep growing. I’m proud of my little Duchess.
Love,
L.
Luca.
We might not see each other often, but my friendship with him will always be there.
My smile pauses when I lift my head to look in the mirror. I’m in a soft pink tutu with a muslin bodice and a tulle skirt. It’s tight around my breasts and waist but is wide at the bottom.
My hair is pulled up and my face is full of glitter and layers of makeup. I don’t have the time to remove it, because if I don’t leave right now, one of the producers will corner me and force me to attend their show-off party. They’ll parade me from one of their associates to the next as if I’m livestock for sale.
I take out the pins and release my hair, then remove my ballet shoes. I wince at the droplets of blood marring my big toe and massage it. It’s nothing to worry about.
Pain means I did my best.
After slipping into my comfy flats, I put on my long cashmere coat and wrap a scarf around my neck and half of my face.
I make sure no one is outside my room before I hug Luca’s flowers to my chest, snatch my bag, and hurry to the parking lot.
A long breath leaves my chest when I’m on the road with the flowers in the passenger seat as my lone companion.
I wish I could call Luca and talk to him right now. But the fact that he didn’t come to meet me backstage means he’s keeping a low profile.
Ever since we met as kids, his entire life has been about being in the shadow of action and dealing with the wrong crowd.
I’m not an idiot. I know that as much as he took care of me, Luca didn’t get his money legally, but as he says, the less I know, the better. He doesn’t want to put me in danger and neither do I.
So we kind of look out for each other from afar.
But I miss him.
I want to tell him all about today’s show and how the pain in my ankle kept me on the edge. I want to tell him about the blood because he’d understand what it means to be in pain.
He’s the only person I can call both family and a friend. And it’s been months since I last saw him. I had hoped he’d make an exception today and come out of the shadows, but apparently, that wasn’t the case.
I arrive at the parking garage of my building in less than thirty minutes. It’s located in a quiet suburban neighborhood in New York City and has excellent security that makes me feel safe at home.
My ankle is throbbing when I exit my car. I lean against the door to catch my breath and a cramp tries to break the surface. After taking a few deep breaths, I beep the locks, then remember my bouquet. I might not get Luca in the flesh, but I can at least feel his presence through the flowers.
I’m about to get them when a loud sound of screeching tires fills the garage. I duck down and remain in place when another screech follows.
Usually, I wouldn’t stop for any commotion, but hearing disturbing noises late at night at an apartment building like mine is rare. In fact, it should be almost impossible.
I stare up at the cameras blinking red in every corner and release a shaking breath.
I’m safe.
But for some reason, I don’t come out of my hiding spot beside my car. It seems vital at this moment, and if I get up, I feel like something disastrous will happen.
The ache in my ankle pulses harder, as if it’s sensing my stress and participating in it.
A black Mercedes comes to a shrill stop in my direct view, its tires leaving angry black marks in its wake.
No one gets out, though.
Another black car, a van this time, brakes behind it. Then I watch in horror as its window lowers and bullets fly in the direction of the Mercedes.
I jump, placing both hands over my ears to block out the loud gunshots. Inching back, I find myself crouched between my car and the wall. Thank God I always leave some space.
The gunshots go on and on like a crescendo of a musical, up and up, faster and harder and louder. For a second, I think it’ll never end. That it’ll keep going for an eternity.
But it does stop.
My heart beats in my throat, nearly spilling my guts on the ground as I hear some rustling and then curses in a foreign language.
Could I be trapped in a nightmare?
I dig my nails into my wrist and squeeze until pain explodes on my skin. No. It’s not a nightmare. This is reality.
The voices are now high-pitched, angry, and not holding back. I probably shouldn’t look, but how am I going to escape this horrible Black Mirror episode if I don’t see what’s going on?
Making sure my body is still hidden behind the car, I grab the hood and peer around it. The Mercedes that was shot at has multiple bullet holes in the windshield, but the glass didn’t break.
All its doors are open, and while I was fully prepared to find dead people, the car is empty. Instead, three men dressed in dark clothing are outside, all holding guns. Two of them are wearing suits. One is bulky and blond with a scowling face; the other is lean and has long brown hair tied at his nape. They’re forcing a chubby man to his knees in front of their third companion.
He’s wearing a simple black shirt and pants. His sleeves are rolled to above his wrists, exposing a hint of tattoos. One of his hands rests by his side and the other holds a gun to the chubby man’s head.
I only get the view of his side profile, but it’s enough to tell me he’s the one in charge.
The bossman.
From this distance, I can’t tell what he looks like except that he has dark hair and light stubble. He’s tall, too. So tall that I feel his superior height even from my hiding position.
I glimpse at the van that stopped behind them and wish I hadn’t. Two men are sprawled over each other on the floor, unmoving, blood covering their unrecognizable features.
Bile rises to my throat and I inhale deeply to stop myself from retching and giving away my existence.
I’m distracted from the view and illogically drawn back to the scene in front of me when that foreign language starts up again. The two men are talking to the bossman in a language I don’t recognize. I think it’s Eastern European.
“Who sent you?” Bossman asks with a Russian accent, and I swallow at the calm power behind his words. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t kick or punch, but it sounds like the worst threat of all.
“Fuck you, Volkov,” Chubby Man snarls in an accented voice—Italian.
“That’s not the right answer. Are you going to give me one or should I go after your family once I’m finished with you?”
Sweat breaks out on the chubby man’s temples and he curses in Italian, which I do recognize. It’s the only other language I somehow speak besides English.
“What’s it to you?” Chubby Man is twitching badly.
“That’s not the answer. I assume you would rather I go after your family.”
“No. Wait!”
“Final chance.”
“Boss wanted to keep an eye on—” Chubby Man doesn’t finish his sentence before the bossman pulls the trigger.
The shot rings in the air with haunting finality.
I slap both hands on my mouth to stop myself from shrieking. My stomach churns, about to throw up the apple I had for dinner.
The man’s vacant eyes roll to the back of his lifeless head as he drops to the ground. Bossman lets his hand that’s holding the gun fall inert at his side. His bland eyes are focused on the corpse as if it’s dust on his leather shoe. His expression remains the same—a bit focused, a bit bored, and absolutely monstrous.
He just executed a man in cold blood and has no reaction to it.
That’s even more terrifying than the act itself.
Just when I’m about to throw up my dinner, his head tilts to the side.
Toward me.
