“No!” I lunge toward her. “She…she said we’d go on a vacation.”

She raises a brow. “Vacation? Where?”

“Russia.”

She laughs, her perfect white teeth showing under the red lipstick. The sound is so loud that I want to place both hands on my ears and not listen to her anymore.

“Well, well. The model good girl plans on leaving.” Still clutching the book, she retrieves her phone and walks to the fireplace.

Mom stares at the book and mutters, “Trash,” and throws it into the burning flames.

I spring forward, trying to get it back, but the fire has already eaten it. Tears sting my eyes and I hit Mom’s leg. “You said you’d leave my book alone!”

“I lied. Now, hush.” She pushes me away and I fall on my butt on the floor beside her. The sting makes me wince, but I learned to mask it quickly.

Mom places the phone to her ear and a hand on her hip. “There’s a change of plans… Yes…an accident…tonight…”

After she hangs up, she turns around to face me with a triumphant smile, the one that looks like the bad guy. “You finally proved your worth, tiny bastard.”

“Are you going to let me go to see Aunt Annika this weekend?”

“Nope.”

“But Dad said…”

“Your dad won’t be taking her side anymore, Adrian. Because no matter how long he stays with her and no matter how much Bitch Annika and I worship at his feet, only one person matters to him. The one person who will carry on his legacy.” She tilts her head to the side. “You.”

I stand up, meeting her head-on. “Dad said I could spend the weekend with Aunt Annika.”

“You won’t be able to anymore.”

“Why not?”

She leans in to whisper in my face. “Because your beloved Annika is finally going to disappear.”

“No…” Tears stream down my cheeks. All I can think about is her smile, even the sad one, the hugs, and how much she cares about me. She can’t disappear and leave me with Mom and Dad.

“Yes. It’s about time she does.” Her phone rings again and she smiles. “That was faster than I expected.”

I watch her as she listens to someone on the other end. Her brows draw together and her red lips twist. The weight in my chest lifts as if it were never there. When Mom is mad, it means Aunt Annika is safe.

“No, Georgy can’t suspect anything… Yes…I will think of a way to keep him preoccupied.”

After she hangs up, she stares at the fireplace, hand back on her hip and her fingers balled around the phone.

“Is Aunt Annika all right?” I ask in a low voice.

She turns around abruptly, as if she’s forgotten I was there. I don’t like the spark in her eyes or the slight smirk on her lips. “How could I not think of this? The best way to keep Georgy occupied is you, my little bastard.”

When she slowly approaches me, I stumble, stepping back, not wanting her to hit me again. My legs bump against the coffee table and I end up landing on my butt.

Mom stops in front of me, her shadow falling over me and blocking the light from the fire. “Why are you running away from me?”

She glides her nails over my cheek, then into my hair, but she’s not caressing it like Aunt Annika does when putting me to sleep. Mom’s hand is cold like the look on her face.

It’s like being in Russia during the freezing winter.

Mom grabs my arm and I remain still as a stone, unable to move. She dials a number on her phone and sniffles a little before she puts it to her ear. “Oh, Georgy! What to do about Adrian?”

She pauses and I can hear Dad’s frantic curses in Russian from the other end.

Tears slide down Mom’s cheeks. She always cries when talking to Dad, even though her expression right now is still like the bad guy’s.

“He…he fell down and broke his arm…I don’t know what to do! Please come over, please!”

More curses from my father. More Russian.

“Oh, my baby!!” Mom shrieks and hangs up, sniffling, then just like that, her expression turns to normal. “Now, Adrian, you wouldn’t mind making a little sacrifice for your mother’s happily ever after, would you?”

Before I can say anything, she closes her hand around my arm and twists it in the opposite direction, hard.

An ugly pop echoes in the air and I shriek.

Lia

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.