Dance, Sugarplum

4. Lyla

CHAPTER 4

LYLA

ACT 1

I’m dancing again. Pirouette, jeté and the crowd applauds. My eyes fill with tears as their proud faces watch me. Happiness dares to blossom as I cross the stage, holding my arms up gracefully, my chin up high, and ? —

A sharp tap pulls me out of another fitful sleep. My heart shoots into my throat, and my head throbs with the suddenness. I unglue my eyes, swallowing the bitter reality as the first rays of morning light peek into the car through the frost.

I’m unsure what woke me. I’m barely able to feel my toes, and my hands are locked painfully, and they’re useless as I lift them. I breathe against them, except it does nothing but puff fog and prove there aren’t enough blankets in the world to improve my situation.

“Lyla!” I hear my name muffled from someone’s lips, and a tap on the window follows, making me jump.

Frost coats the glass, and I can’t see who’s outside but a blur of black. I’m not thinking straight. My heart hammers inside my chest, and I turn on the car, ready to run.

“Open the damn door.” They try the handle, and this time, I recognize the voice.

Every cell of my body freezes when I realize it’s him.

He found me.

Carter is here.

One of the most powerful men in this city towers over my car. The frosted window blocks his expression, but his features are a stain on my memory, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t forget him. I was so careful hiding from him. I sold the car I had at the time I lived with him and blocked his number from my phone.

It didn’t matter. It’s like the past two years are gone, and I’m within his reach once more. Fragile and easy to manipulate. I’m back to the gilded cage he built for me. A willing, guileless victim.

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I surreptitiously press record. Driving away won’t help with someone like him. He’s too pushy, too used to having everything he wants, and his hand is already on my car. My finger twitches to unroll the window a crack, but I won’t dare unlock the door.

“What?” I reply, flinching as I do.

My mother married him when I was twelve. He was so attentive and tender. I was happy to find another father figure. But now, I’m haunted by the memories of the night he came onto me and ruined my entire life. My mother was barely in the ground before he was cupping my tit and telling me I was the one he’d wanted all along. I shake myself out of it, keeping my tears at bay. I lie and tell myself I’m strong.

“Lyla, I said open the door.”

“You can say whatever you need to say and go. I’m busy.”

He snorts, and my cheeks redden. I might not look it, but I am busy. I have a lot to do if I’m going to find something to eat this morning and make it to the next audition.

“This is pathetic, even for you, Lyla. Just come home and admit what you did.”

“What I did?” The words escape me before I can stop them.

Engaging with him is useless. Since the moment I rejected him, he’s been on a mission to destroy my image. The whole ballet scene knows me now as the whore who betrayed her own mother. He removed me from his company, burned my bridges, and isolated me. Yet every time we’ve been face-to-face, he tries to convince me I was the one who initiated it. That I’m the crazy one.

He leans closer, the shape of his profile revealing itself and sending unbidden fear down my spine.

“You were grieving.” His voice comes so soft, like when I was a kid, and he’d talk to me about hard days. “I understand that now, and maybe I should have handled you a little more gently, but I was protecting you too.”

My exhaustion aches in every part of me. I’ve been running from him for a long time, looking for work and trying to live this impossible life. I’ve fought to show people I’m still a dancer regardless of the truth, but all that’s left is bone-deep exhaustion.

My head rests on the cold glass, and I sniffle pathetically. “I didn’t do anything. You know that.”

“I might have a place for you if you’re willing to tell everyone what really happened. Telling the truth has to be better than this.” He gestures toward the obviously lived-in state of my car.

I didn’t do anything , I repeat the words to myself, replaying the scene in my mind, ensuring I remember the real version and not his lies.

For months after, I obsessed over our every interaction, wondering if I led him on or gave him the wrong idea about my love for him. But how can a teenager give a grown man the wrong idea? A teenager who loved him as a father?

It’s him, not me, and it doesn’t matter if I’m the only person in the world who knows it. It’s still the truth. A tear rolls down my cheek.

Would my mother believe me if she were still here?

I don’t know for sure, but I’m convinced I’m no longer safe in my car. This piece of junk has been my only refuge until now—little as it may have been.

“This is dangerous, Lyla. You’re going to freeze to death. Come back home.”

I dip my chin, subtly nodding to myself. I can’t deny he’s right. Most things about my life these days are dangerous. Last winter already featured a few near misses, and I had a more stable place to stay then and a little more money.

I hate myself on a soul-deep level as I war over my dignity and my need for shelter. Part of me wants to go so badly—give up and take my old life back. But going with him is more than accepting the humiliation of his version of events.

I know in my bones he’ll try again. He wants me to come home because I’m the one he wanted all along. His touch still ghosts my skin, and the memory of his whiskey breath in my ear draws frightened goose bumps.

A full sob shakes me as I think about the proud girl I used to be. My head held high, a deep sense of bravery, a girl with a home who felt safe. How terribly fake it all was.

Looking at him through the frosted window, I cry harder. Losing both my parents wasn’t enough. I loved him, trusted him, and then had to learn the hard way that men only want one thing.

He tried to touch me, not only abusing my trust but also warping my sense of reality. He couldn’t accept my rejection. He lied to everyone, and to this day, he’s still gaslighting me.

The fucked-up truth is that I still love him. If he wanted me as a daughter, I would run to his arms, but I know he doesn’t.

I look down at my lap. The phone continues recording our interaction, and I don’t know why I’m doing it. He’ll never admit it, and I’ll forever wear a scarlet letter over my chest.

A painful knot sticks in my throat. He keeps knocking. My heart hurts, and while I hate everything he did, I want to go home so fucking badly.

Just for a second, I’m about to give in. I’ll live in my house, have a place in his company, dance every night, and be warm and safe.

Before I can answer, he slaps the glass with both palms. The whole car shakes, and that dream shatters in front of me. I will never be safe again.

“Lyla, sweetheart…”

I hate the quality of his voice, as if he can calm me down and make me see reason. My head hurts, and the will to stay here and fight for what is right dissolves. Maybe I should just end it.

My phone pings gently. The notification of an email flashes on the screen for just a second, but it’s enough for me to see that it belongs to my last audition.

My hands shake, and my fingers stumble as I rush to open it, not daring to hope, but maybe I am because I’ve stopped crying.

Congratulations, Lyla Moore…

I made it.

It’s not a big part, but it doesn’t matter. I’m going to dance again. An ugly whimper of relief slips from between my lips. My shaking hand covers my mouth, and I read the words over again.

I made it.

Carter shouts something as he slaps the window again. The mask he so carefully places over his monstrous self melts like the snow.

A small smile curves my lips as I toss the phone into the passenger seat before turning the key. The universe winks at me as the car starts without a complaint. I pull out, not worrying about his toes or his bullshit, leaving my past furiously kicking the pavement behind me.