Pas de Don't

Copyright © 2023 by Chloe Angyal All rights reserved Published by Chicago Review Press Incorporated 814 North Franklin Street Chicago, Illinois 60610 ISBN 978-1-64160-910-4 This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Control Number: 2023931786 Cover design: Jonathan Hahn Cover illustration: Sarah Gavagan Typesetting: Nord Compo Author photo: Vivian Le Printed in the United States of America 5 4 3 2 1 This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo. For Brittney, Cécile, and Vanessa, who showed me how to love romance novels. Contents Author's Note Prologue New York City, June Sydney, June Chapter 1 New York City, one year later Chapter 2 Sydney, two months later Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Epilogue One year later Acknowledgements About the Author Author’s Note This book features on-page depictions of coercive control and its aftermath, as well as the off-page death of a parent. I’ve done my best to treat these topics with the care that they, and you the reader, deserve. If you’re experiencing coercive control, or need help supporting someone who is, there are free and confidential resources available to you. In the United States: The National Domestic Violence Hotline https://www.thehotline.org/ 800-799-SAFE (800-799-7233) In Australia: The National Sexual Assault, Family & Domestic Violence Counselling Line www.1800respect.org.au 1800-RESPECT (1800-737-732) Prologue New York City, June Heather’s chest heaved as the heavy gold curtain thudded gently onto the stage and the orchestra played the final, plaintive notes of the score. For a beat, a sublime empty moment, the theater was silent, and Heather could hear nothing but her own ragged breaths. She stood in the wings, mentally replaying her second-act solo, spotting a handful of mistakes and tucking them away to correct before next season—but as far as she could tell, it had been her best performance yet. Panting, she waited for the audience to hand down its judgment. A second later, the theater erupted into applause. Out in the dark, beyond the velvet curtain, people cheered, whooping and roaring in a way that stuffier ballet-goers would frown upon. Heather exited the wings to center stage, where Jack waited, his forehead glistening with sweat under his sleek golden-brown hair. She smiled up at him, relieved and delighted that the final performance of the spring season had gone so well. “You were amazing,” she said, pulling the damp fabric of her white tutu away from her ribs, a hopeless attempt to get air onto her skin. She brushed the back of her neck, where a few sweaty strands of her long brown hair clung to her. She’d started act two with every hair lacquered in place, her skin powdered to a ghostly white—but now her bun had loosened, and her cheeks felt flushed, sparkling with sweat. “You too,” Jack panted, sounding unenthused. He tugged on the bottom of his royal blue velvet jacket, straightening the line of shining silver buttons at the front. “Your arabesque was low just now. We’ll work on it.” Her smile faltered a little, but then he flashed her a dazzling grin, and she hiked it back up. Jack always picked the wrong time to give her feedback, but Heather knew he meant well. She glanced over his shoulder and saw the stage manager holding up his fingers, counting down from five. She hastily arranged her feet in first position and stood up straight as the curtain rose to reveal the source of all that gratifying sound. No matter how many times she’d done it, taking a solo bow at the front of the stage was thrilling. Jack had told her that the awe had worn off for him years ago, because he’d been promoted to principal just two years after he joined the company. But even though Heather had been doing it more lately, especially since she’d been made a soloist, it still felt like the first time every time. To stand before the audience and know that they were cheering for her specifically—not for the corps de ballet as a unit, but for her alone? It was what she and Carly had been dreaming about since they were eleven-year-olds at the company school: the kind of shining, surreal moment that all ballet dancers imagined but so few got to experience. As she swept one arm in front of her, pliéd into a deep curtsy, and bowed her head, Heather’s legs trembled, and it wasn’t only because the second act of Giselle was an exhausting marathon of dancing. From the corner of her eye, Heather saw someone walk onto the stage with a large bouquet of flowers in their arms. She stood and turned. It wasn’t the orchestra conductor, as was customary for curtain calls, but Mr. Koenig, the company’s longtime artistic director. He strode toward her, his suit jacket unbuttoned and flapping around his middle, his pale face split by a wide smile. Then she noticed the microphone in his hand. Heather’s stomach dropped in shock, and she willed herself to keep the smile fixed on her face. Since she’d joined the company a decade ago, she had seen Mr. K, as the dancers called him, do this enough times to know what that microphone meant. And if she was right, her life was about to change forever. Heather glanced over at Jack, raising her eyebrows as the question passed between them, and he cocked one eyebrow mysteriously. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. K said, stopping at Heather’s side and looking out into the packed theater like a duke surveying his lands, the bright stage lights bouncing off his polished bald head. The applause ended as audience members settled back into their seats. “I’m