Revenge Marriage: The Jilted Ballerina's Comeback

They pulled up to the curb at Lincoln Center.

It was a zoo.

Paparazzi were swarming the entrance. News vans were parked illegally.

"How did they know?" Daphne asked.

"Kandice leaked your schedule," Charlton deduced instantly. "She knew you'd come for your things."

He turned off the engine.

"Ready?" he asked, offering his arm.

Daphne took a deep breath. She put on her sunglasses. She straightened her spine, engaging her core like she was about to step onto stage for Swan Lake.

"Ready."

She took his arm.

They stepped out.

The flashbulbs went crazy. A wall of white light. A cacophony of shouting.

Charlton didn't flinch. He guided her through the crowd like a bulldozer in a tuxedo. He kept his body between her and the cameras.

A reporter with a slimy grin shoved a microphone forward.

"Is it true you're a homewrecker, Ms. Flynn?"

Charlton stopped.

He turned to the camera. He pulled Daphne close, his hand splayed wide on her waist, possessive and protective.

His eyes were cold steel.

"Ms. Flynn is my fiancée," he growled. The sound was low and dangerous. "Watch your mouth."

The crowd gasped. The shutter clicks went into overdrive.

Charlton turned and swept her into the building.

The silence inside the studio was deafening.

Daphne walked down the familiar hallway. Other dancers were stretching. They stopped. They stared. Some whispered. No one said hello.

Daphne walked to her locker.

Her nameplate-Daphne Flynn, Principal-had already been removed. The sticky residue remained.

It hurt more than the glass in her foot.

She opened the locker. She packed her pointe shoes. Her leg warmers. Her lucky rosin box.

Madame Dubois, the artistic director, walked out of her office.

She stopped when she saw them.

"Daphne," Madame said stiffly. "This is... unfortunate."

"It's a misunderstanding, Madame," Daphne tried one last time. "The allegations are false."

"The Board has spoken," Madame said, checking her watch. "We cannot have the drama. It distracts from the art."

Charlton stepped forward. He towered over the petite French woman.

"When she's cleared," Charlton said, his voice echoing in the hallway, "you'll beg her back. And it will cost you double."

Madame looked at Charlton. She recognized the money. She recognized the power. She swallowed nervously.

"We shall see, Mr. Bernard." Madame turned and walked away.

Daphne zipped up her bag. She slung it over her shoulder.

She looked around the studio. The barre where she had bled. The floor where she had cried. This wasn't just a room; it was the only home she had ever truly built for herself. And now she was being evicted.

"I have nowhere to go but up now," she said softly.

Charlton squeezed her hand.

"City Hall is open until five," he said.

Daphne looked at him. She looked at the man who had picked her up off the floor, who had given her a shield when the world threw stones. The man offering her a new, albeit temporary, home.

"Let's go get married."