Last Dance
Aria's POV
The glass broke against the studio wall, missing my head by inches.
"You little witch!" Mrs. Henderson screamed, her face red with anger. "My daughter deserves the lead role, not some nobody like you!"
I ducked as she threw another water bottle. My heart pounded like a drum in my chest. This was meant to be a normal Tuesday dance class. How did it turn into a war zone?
"Mrs. Henderson, please calm down," I said, backing toward the door. My hands shook as I held them up. "Emma is a wonderful dancer. The test results aren't final yet."
"Don't lie to me!" She grabbed Emma's dance bag and swung it at me. "I saw you talking to the judges. You probably slept with them!"
Heat rushed to my face. I was only twenty-three, trying my best to teach kids and pay rent. I never asked for this trouble.
"Mom, stop!" Emma cried from the corner. Tears rolled down her face. "You're embarrassing me!"
Mrs. Henderson froze. She looked at her daughter, then at me, then at the broken glass on the floor. Her anger melted into shame.
"I... I'm sorry," she whispered. She grabbed Emma's hand and rushed out of the studio.
I slumped against the wall, my legs feeling like jelly. Another parent complaint. Another drama. At this rate, the company would fire me before Christmas.
My phone buzzed. A text from my boss: "We need to talk. Come to my office after your last class."
Great. Just beautiful.
I cleaned up the glass pieces, trying not to cry. Dad always said I was strong like Mom. But some days, I felt like I was sinking in quicksand.
The rest of my classes went by in a blur. Little kids stumbling through ballet routines. Teenagers rolling their eyes at my edits. By six o'clock, I was tired.
"Aria, sit down," Mr. Rodriguez said when I knocked on his office door. His voice was soft, which made everything worse.
I knew what was coming.
"The parents have been complaining," he said, not meeting my eyes. "They think you're too young. Too... involved with the kids."
"I care about them," I said quickly. "That's not a bad thing."
"I know. But caring doesn't pay the bills." He slid an envelope across his desk. "I'm sorry. This is your final paycheck."
The world turned sideways. "You're firing me?"
"The studio is closing next month anyway. The rent is too high." He looked tired. "I wish things were different."
I walked out of that building feeling like a zombie. Three jobs down to two. And my two leftover jobs barely paid for groceries.
The bus ride home took forever. I stared out the window at the city lights, wondering how everything had gone so wrong. Six months ago, Dad was living. We had our tiny room. I had dreams of starting my own dance studio someday.
Now Dad was gone, and I was drowning in bills I didn't even know existed.
I climbed the stairs to our flat on shaky legs. Each step felt like climbing a rock. The hallway smelled like old food and broken dreams.
Inside, I dropped my dance bag and kicked off my shoes. The room felt too quiet without Dad's classical music playing. Too empty without his bad jokes.
I made a cup of tea and sat at his old desk. Maybe I could find some papers. Something to help me figure out our finances.
The desk drawers were stuffed with papers. Old bills, bank records, newspaper clippings. Dad was never organized.
But then I found something strange.
A manila envelope hidden behind a picture of Mom. My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside were papers I'd never seen before. Loan deals with names I didn't recognize. Gambling receipts from places I'd never heard of. And at the bottom, something that made my blood turn to ice.
A contract written in fancy letters. It talked about bills and payments and... me.
My name was on this paper. In Dad's handwriting.
"In the event of default, the daughter shall serve as collateral..."
I read it three times, but the words didn't make sense. Dad would never... he couldn't have...
My phone rang, making me jump.
"Hello?" I answered with a shaky voice.
Heavy breathing on the other end. Then a man's voice, deep and scary.
"Aria Cross?"
"Who is this?"
"Your father's bill is due. We're coming to collect."
The line went dead.
I ran to the window and peeked through the curtains. The street looked normal. A few cars parked under lighting. An old guy walking his dog.
But then I saw them.
Men in dark clothes standing in the shadows between buildings. They weren't hidden. They wanted me to see them.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I grabbed my phone to call the cops, but stopped. What would I tell them? That my dead father owed money to scary men?
A car engine rumbled outside.
I looked again and felt my world collapse.
Four black cars were pulling up to my building. Expensive cars with tinted windows. The kind of cars that belonged to people who didn't ask nicely.
The men in suits started walking toward my building.
I backed away from the window, holding the contract to my chest. The papers crinkled in my sweaty hands.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the stairs.
They were coming up.
I ran to my door and turned all three locks. But somehow, I knew locks wouldn't keep these men out.
The footsteps stopped right outside my door.
Three slow knocks.
"Aria Cross," a calm voice said through the wood. "We need to talk."
I pressed my back against the door, barely breathing.
Another voice, younger but just as dangerous: "We know you're in there. We just want to talk your father's arrangements."
Arrangements. Like I was a package to be delivered.
"Please," I whispered. "I don't know what you're talking about."
A third person, with an accent I couldn't place: "Open the door, little dancer. This can be easy or hard. Your choice."
The handle turned.
Even though it was locked.
Even though that was impossible.
The door swung open, and four men stepped into my life like ghosts come to life.