Chapter 3
The sound of Ethan's footsteps heading straight to the master bedroom told me tonight was finally here—the Lincoln Center charity gala he'd bought that twenty-thousand-dollar necklace for.
I sat on my guest room bed, staring at the simple black dress I'd chosen. My hands shook so badly I couldn't even grip the zipper.
Just get through tonight, Lily.
"You're going to be the most beautiful woman at the gala," Ethan's voice carried down the hall, soft and tender. "This necklace was made for you."
Isabella's giggle made my stomach clench. "You always know what to say."
The sound of fabric rustling, a zipper sliding up smoothly, followed by what was definitely a kiss.
Meanwhile, I couldn't even dress myself without my hands betraying me.
Three attempts later, I managed to get it halfway up. Good enough. Nobody would be looking at me at tonight's fundraiser anyway.
The Lincoln Center blazed with lights as our car pulled up. Photographers lined the red carpet, cameras flashing as Manhattan's elite stepped out of their limos.
Ethan emerged first in his custom tuxedo, then offered his hand to Isabella. She floated out in silver silk, that twenty-thousand-dollar necklace catching every flash.
I climbed out last. Unnoticed.
A reporter called out, "Mr. Cross, is tonight the official debut of your relationship with Ms. Rodriguez?"
Ethan's arm tightened around Isabella's waist, his smile dazzling. "Isabella and I prefer to let our connection speak for itself. Her talent certainly does."
Cameras clicked frantically as Isabella blushed and leaned into him.
"She's absolutely stunning," someone gushed. "Exquisite taste, Mr. Cross."
Then another reporter gestured toward me. "And Mrs. Cross, will we see you back on stage anytime soon?"
Ethan's expression went glacial. His voice turned flat, professional. "Lily's focused on other pursuits now. Dancing is... behind her."
Behind me. Like I was ancient history.
The whispers started immediately:
"She looks so frail..."
"Wasn't she famous once? She looks terrible now."
I forced my lips into what I hoped resembled a smile, hands clasped behind my back to hide the trembling.
Inside the Metropolitan Opera House, crystal chandeliers bathed everything in golden light. New York's elite mingled with champagne, their laughter echoing off ornate walls.
I was reaching for water when my legs gave out. I caught myself against a marble pillar, but several people noticed my stumble.
Ethan appeared instantly, his touch cold and impersonal. "Watch yourself, Lily. Don't embarrass me."
Don't embarrass him. Right. As if existing wasn't embarrassing enough.
Ten minutes later, Isabella swayed slightly and pressed her hand to her forehead. "Ethan, I feel a little dizzy..."
The transformation was instant. Ethan's entire focus laser-beamed onto her.
"Jesus, are you okay?" He slipped off his tuxedo jacket, draping it around her shoulders. "Sit down. Someone get her warm water—not cold."
"I'm probably just tired," Isabella said weakly, leaning into his chest.
"We should go home. You need rest." Pure concern, pure tenderness.
The same man who'd told me not to embarrass him was ready to leave a charity gala because Isabella felt slightly tired.
I wanted to laugh at the savage irony. Or scream. Maybe both.
At nine PM, despite her earlier "dizziness," Isabella insisted she was fine enough to perform.
"I can't disappoint the audience," she'd said bravely, earning even more of Ethan's admiration.
The lights dimmed and she took the stage.
She moved through my choreography like she was born for it—every extension perfect, every turn controlled. The audience was mesmerized as she transformed into the dying swan, beauty and death intertwined in flawless motion.
This was my piece. My breakthrough. My fucking legacy, and she was wearing it like a costume.
"Magnificent!" someone whispered behind me. "She's even better than the original dancer."
Ethan sat in the front row, his eyes never leaving Isabella's form. The look on his face was pure worship—the same expression he used to reserve for me, back when I could still dance without falling apart.
The final pose held for what felt like an eternity. Then the audience erupted—standing ovation, flowers thrown onto the stage, tears streaming down faces in the front row.
Isabella curtsied gracefully, her smile radiant as she caught the bouquet Ethan threw from his seat.
I sat in my corner chair, hands gripping the armrests to stop them from shaking, forcing myself to clap along with everyone else.
Despite the pandemonium backstage, Isabella noticed me at once and glided over, her face still radiant from the glow of victory.
"Lily!" Her voice was honey-sweet. "I'm so glad you were here to see that. What did you think? I mean, as the original creator, your opinion means everything to me."
The way she said 'original' made me sound like yesterday's news.
"You danced beautifully," I managed, my voice barely steady.
"But what about the technique? The emotional interpretation?" she pressed, eyes gleaming. "I want to make sure I'm doing it justice."
Everyone was watching, waiting. My throat felt like sandpaper.
"I'm not feeling well enough to give feedback right now..."
"Oh." Isabella's face fell in fake disappointment. "Are you upset the audience liked my version better?"
The words hit like a slap. Conversations around us stopped dead.
"That's not—"
"Don't let her jealousy ruin your night, Isabella." Ethan appeared beside us, his voice ice-cold. "Some people can't handle being replaced."
Replaced. The word hit me like a punch to the gut.
"I get it," Isabella said with fake sympathy. "Must be tough watching someone younger dance your old stuff."
My old stuff. Like I was some has-been from the stone age.
I couldn't breathe. Everyone was staring at the washed-up former star getting schooled by the new princess.
"Excuse me," I whispered, and fled.
I spent the rest of the evening hiding in the car, watching through tinted windows as Ethan and Isabella mingled with Manhattan's elite.
When they finally emerged at eleven PM, Isabella was glowing from her triumph while Ethan's arm never left her waist.
The ride home was silent except for their whispered conversations in the front seat.
Eleven-thirty PM. The house was finally quiet, Isabella having retired to the master bedroom with promises of a massage from Ethan.
I sat in the living room, staring into the fireplace, when Ethan appeared in the doorway. His bow tie was undone, his hair mussed from Isabella's fingers.
"Well?" he said coldly. "How did tonight feel? Just like I promised you from the beginning—this is only the start."
Something inside me snapped.
"Why?" The word came out as barely a whisper. "Why do you have to be so fucking cruel?"
"Cruel?" He laughed bitterly. "You want to talk about cruel? You telling me I wasn't good enough for you—that was cruel."
"That's not what happened—"
"Bullshit!" His voice exploded through the room. "You said my background didn't matter, then you dumped me the second someone better came along!"
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly. You humiliated me in front of everyone. Made me feel like trash. Like I was nothing."
For just a split second, something flickered across his face—a flash of pain so brief I almost missed it. But then his expression hardened again, the mask sliding back into place.
"You destroyed me, Lily. So now it's your turn to know what that feels like."
"I never wanted to hurt you—"
"But you did!" His voice turned frosty. "You ripped my fucking heart out. And just like I told you—you're going to watch Isabella take everything."
"I wasn't trying to—"
"Save it." He turned toward the stairs. "You're finally understanding what it feels like to be crushed, aren't you? This is exactly what I promised would happen."
He paused at the doorway, not bothering to look back.
"Hope it was worth it, Lily. Because this is the rest of your life now."
The sound of his footsteps on the stairs echoed like a death sentence.
Three AM. I stumbled to the bathroom, my head spinning from emotional exhaustion.
That's when I saw it.
Blood in the sink. Bright red drops against white porcelain.
I'd been coughing blood. The disease is accelerating. I'm running out of time.
Through the walls, I could hear Ethan's voice drifting down from upstairs: "Go back to sleep, baby. Everything's fine."
Everything was fine for him. He had his revenge, his perfect new dancer, his empire.
But I was dying.
At four AM, I sat at my vanity with trembling hands, opening my diary:
[Day 128: Ethan introduced me as "former dancer in retirement" to reporters. Told everyone I "can't handle being replaced." Said tonight was just the beginning.
Found blood in the sink. He's determined to make me suffer.]