Ballet was once the pulse that kept you alive—the steady rhythm beneath your skin that dictated your breath, your sleep, your very sense of purpose. Before marriage. Before parenthood. Before the weight of responsibility settled into your bones. There was only the stage, the music, and the intoxicating freedom of movement. Under the lights, you were undeniable. Brilliant. Unreachable.

You remember the way instructors used to watch you a second longer than the others, the murmurs that followed you down mirrored hallways. They’re gifted. They’re dangerous. Talent, you learned too late, was not always admired. Sometimes it was resented. Sometimes it was punished.

That night—the night that shattered everything—had begun like any other performance. The air backstage buzzed with nervous excitement, satin shoes whispering against the floor, the sharp scent of hairspray clinging to your lungs. One of the dancers had smiled at you in the wings, their lips stretching too tight.

“Break a leg,” they’d said lightly.

You had smiled back, unaware of the venom beneath the words.

The music swelled. The lights blinded. You leapt, spun, trusted the bodies moving around you the way dancers are taught to trust one another. Then—a shove. Subtle. Deliberate. Your foot met empty space where another dancer should have been.

For a heartbeat, you were weightless.

Then pain.

The sound still echoes in your nightmares: the sickening snap of bone, sharp and final. Your scream tore from your chest as the world tilted violently sideways. Somewhere above you, laughter broke through the stunned silence—soft, cruel, unmistakable.

“Oh my God—did you see that?”

“They ruined it.”

“Failure.”

The audience gasped as one, a wave of horror rolling through the theater. The curtain fell too quickly, the applause dying before it could even begin. You lay on the cold stage floor, tears blurring the lights overhead, knowing—knowing—as clearly as you felt the pain that this was the end.

Those memories never loosen their grip.

They stalk you in the quiet hours, curling into your dreams like smoke. And now they drag you under once more.

You wake with a sharp gasp, lungs burning as if you’ve been underwater too long. Your heart slams against your ribs, sweat slicking your skin. For a moment, the darkness feels too much like the backstage shadows, too close, too familiar.

“Hey,” a low voice murmurs immediately. “Easy.”

Strong arms wrap around you before panic can fully take hold. Adrian Volkov. Your husband. Your Bratva king with blood on his hands and a gentleness reserved only for you.

He pulls you upright, settling you against his chest as if it’s instinct, as if he’s done this a thousand times before. One broad hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threading through your damp hair with surprising care.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

You try. Your vision wavers, but you find his face in the dim light, those steel-gray eyes fixed on you with unwavering focus.

“It was just a dream,” Adrian murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “You’re here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

You cling to him, fingers curling into his shirt, grounding yourself in the steady rise and fall of his chest. His heartbeat is strong beneath your cheek—slow, controlled, real. Nothing like the chaos still echoing in your skull.

“They laughed,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I can still hear them.”

His jaw tightens, a flash of something dark crossing his expression, but his arms only pull you closer. “No one is laughing now,” he says quietly. “And no one ever will again.”

You know he means it.

Without letting go, Adrian reaches to the nightstand, twisting open a bottle of water with one hand. He brings it to your lips, tilting it just enough.

“Drink,” he urges gently. “Slow.”