I lean against my crutch, facing the closet, looking at all of my leotards, tutus, tights, and ballet shoes. I don’t know how long I stand here, staring at the evidence of my ended career, but it’s long enough that my injury under the cast tingles.

Then I charge inside and bring every last piece of clothing down, tossing the hangers and the shoes. I try ripping the leotards with my hands and lose my balance, falling to the floor. I crawl to a drawer, yank it open, and grab the scissors. Then I cut through every piece of ballet clothing, destroying the muslin and tulle and everything I once considered beautiful.

I kill the remainder of the dream that was murdered for me.

Maybe this will help me get free. Maybe the walls of my apartment will stop closing in on me as if they’re monsters. Every corner of this place reminds me of ballet, of dancing, of rehearsing on my own until I exhausted myself.

When I first got this place with my extravagant salary, I felt proud to have a place of my own, to have accomplished this with my skills. But now, it feels like my custom-made hell. One I can’t escape.

I need to kill all the memories associated with ballet so I can live. So I can find another path for myself.

Even if the idea brings burning tears to my eyes.

Due to my injury, my contract was terminated with the New York City Ballet, and although I got a generous compensation wired to my bank account, I couldn’t care less about it.

I have a small fortune that’s able to sustain me for a long time, but it was never about the money for me.

Ballet was my defense mechanism against my screwed-up head. Now that I don’t have it anymore, how am I going to stay sane?

The front door clicks open, but I don’t stop ripping through the clothes. It isn’t until a shadow falls over me that I finally look up. I figure it’s Adrian, but it’s daytime and he never shows up before nightfall.

Yan stares down at me with a softened expression. It’s not exactly pity, but it’s something more subtle. I don’t ask why he has the code to my apartment since Adrian must’ve given it to him in case of an emergency.

“Don’t even try to stop me.” My voice is brittle. “I need to do this to get it out of my system.”

“Want me to help?”

My lips part. “Would you?”

“If you’d like.”

“Can you bring them all down?”

He gives a curt nod and methodically knocks down every hanger, skirt, leotard, tutu, and shoe. He even pulls out the drawers with my glitter makeup and jewelry, surrounding me with them.

As he does that, I cut through everything in sight, slicing it all to shreds. Yan stands there watching me with his eternal cool.

By the time I’ve cut through most everything, I grow lethargic, my anger and grief slowly subsiding. Yan is still in his usual position, hands crossed in front of him.

“Do you think I’m insane?” I murmur.

“I think you’re just in pain.”

I sniffle, even though there are no tears. I cried enough for a lifetime the day Adrian saved me from my own mind and hugged me. He held me like he wanted to protect me, like protecting me is his mission in life.

“Can you get rid of these?” I ask Yan.

“Will do.”

“The awards, too. I want them gone.”

“If you want.”

I pause, staring at the scissors in my hand. “Where does Adrian go during the day?”

I hate to admit that I miss him and his words, no matter how few they are. Since the day at the hospital, he’s been the one person who can get me out of my head.

It’s a strange change of dynamics. Before, the only time Adrian and I could get along was when he was fucking me or sexually punishing me. But during these past couple of weeks, his touch has never gone in that direction. He’s only held me, made sure I ate, and helped me shower and change clothes. He sat with me underneath my wool blanket as I watched a mindless movie and then maneuvered my head on his lap so that I was more comfortable. His fingers stroked my hair back in a way that made me nearly purr like a kitten.

I’ve been feeding off that care like a starved animal who’s never had affection.

“He works,” Yan says.

“I know that, genius. Where? With whom?”

“He mostly works at home with Kolya.”

I pause at that information. Aside from the first restaurant date, Adrian and I only ever meet here, so I never considered the notion that he has a separate home.

“He doesn’t go to do mafia things?”

Yan smiles at that. “He does those mafia things at home. He doesn’t go out unless absolutely necessary.”

For some reason, that makes me feel more at ease. At least he’s not in danger of being shot in the streets like all those mob bosses I read about.

And yes, I might have searched about the mafia’s history in New York. But the articles are filled with stuff about the Italian mafia and their hits. There’s little to no information about the Bratva. I’m not surprised, though. Taking Adrian’s secretive nature into account, I assume the rest of his organization is similar to him.

But I still haven’t been able to get those images of assassinated mob people out of my head, and I recently started having nightmares about Adrian suffering from something similar.

Wait. Does that mean I’m worried about him?

“Miss.”

I stare up at Yan. “Yeah?”

“Let me help you up.”

“I can get up on my own.” I get on my good knee, pull my crutch over, and lean all my weight on it to stand. Yan’s body is turned toward me, ready to catch me if I fall, but I manage to stay upright, keeping my cast off the ground.

“What about…her?” I whisper.

He raises a brow. “Her?”

“Kristina Petrov.” I haven’t talked to Adrian about his engagement since that night in the hospital, and part of the reason is because I wanted to live in this peace for a while. To not think about the fact that I took another woman’s fiancé.

“I believe he ended it.”

“You believe? As in, you’re not sure?”

“It’s better if you ask him about it.”

“Tell me, Yan. What’s going on?”

He runs a hand through his long hair. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

“Cross my heart.”

He smiles again, and I’m struck by how pretty he really is. If he hadn’t chosen the mafia life, he would’ve been a perfect model.