Revenge Marriage: The Jilted Ballerina's Comeback

Sunlight was a weapon.

It streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, aggressive and blinding, burning straight through Daphne's eyelids.

She groaned. The sound was a croak, dry and painful.

She tried to roll over, to bury her face in a pillow to escape the assault, but her limbs felt heavy, detached from her body.

Her hand brushed against the sheets.

They were silk. Cool, slippery, impossibly high thread count.

Daphne's eyes snapped open.

Her sheets were cotton. Her sheets were from Target.

She shot up in bed, clutching the duvet to her chest. Her head spun violently, the room tilting on its axis.

This was not her apartment.

The room was massive. Modern art hung on gray walls. A sleek fireplace sat opposite the bed. Beyond the windows, the green expanse of Central Park stretched out below like a manicured map.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the hangover fog.

She looked down at herself.

She was naked.

Memories of the bar flashed in her mind like strobe lights. The taste of tequila. The smell of sandalwood. A car ride. The feeling of being carried.

The bathroom door opened.

Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of cedar and mint.

A man walked out.

He had a towel wrapped low around his hips. Water droplets clung to his chest, tracing the definition of his abs, disappearing into the white terry cloth.

He was rubbing his hair with a smaller towel.

Daphne stopped breathing.

It was Charlton Bernard.

Her high school best friend. The heir to the Bernard fortune. Manhattan's most notorious playboy.

"Charlton!" Daphne screamed.

Charlton winced. He lowered the hand towel, rubbing his left ear.

"Morning, Sunshine," he said. His voice was raspy, deep. "Volume, please. My head is pounding."

Daphne checked under the covers again, just to be sure. Still naked.

"Charlton! What did you do?" she accused, her voice cracking.

Charlton walked to the dresser, completely unbothered by her hysteria. He picked up a bottle of water and tossed it toward the bed.

Daphne caught it reflexively.

"What did I do?" Charlton turned to face her. "I believe the question is what we did."

"We're friends!" Daphne argued, horrified. She uncapped the water and downed half of it in one gulp. "Platonic friends! We have a handshake!"

Charlton leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms over his bare chest. A small, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips.

"Tell that to the scratch marks on my back," he said.

He turned around.

Daphne gasped.

Four angry red welts raked down his left shoulder blade. They were fresh. They were undeniable.

Daphne's face burned crimson.

A memory surfaced. A flash of heat. Skin against skin. Her hands gripping onto muscle.

She buried her face in her hands.

"Oh god," she moaned into her palms. "This is a disaster. Campbell..."

The name hung in the air, foul and unwelcome.

Charlton's posture stiffened. The muscles in his back tensed, just for a second, before he forced them to relax.

He turned back around, his expression unreadable.

"Campbell is engaged to Kandice," he said. His voice was cold now, stripped of the earlier teasing. "You're free, Daphne."

The reality of the previous night crashed back onto her. The ballroom. The announcement. The smirk.

The pain hit her in the chest, heavy and suffocating.

Tears pricked her eyes. She hated herself for crying in front of him.

"I just lost my fiancé," she whispered. "I can't lose my best friend too."

Charlton stared at her. His jaw tightened. He looked away, pulling a pair of boxers from a drawer.

He stepped into them, hiding a flash of something that looked like disappointment.

"You haven't lost me, Daph," he said, turning back to her. "But things have... shifted."

He walked over to the nightstand and picked up his phone.

"You should see the news before you panic about us."

"I don't want to see the news," Daphne said. "I want to go back to 24 hours ago."

"You can't," Charlton said. He held the phone out to her.

Daphne took it. Her hands were shaking.

She saw her own phone on the nightstand. The screen was lit up with notifications. 50+ missed calls.

She looked at Charlton's screen. Twitter was open.

Trending Topic 1: DaphneTheMeltdown

She clicked the tag.

A video played. It was shaky footage from outside the hotel.

It showed Daphne stumbling out of the service exit, rain plastering her hair to her face. She looked deranged. She looked broken.

Then, she tripped. In the video, she fell to her knees in a puddle, then scrambled up and ran down the street.

The caption read: The ex-ballerina couldn't handle the truth. Sad.

Daphne dropped the phone on the duvet.

"I'm a joke," she whispered. "The whole world is laughing at me."

Charlton sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't touch her. He just sat there, a solid, warm presence.

"Not the whole world," he said. "Just the parts that don't matter."

"My career matters," Daphne said, her voice hollow. "ABT won't keep a principal dancer who is a viral meme for public intoxication."

Charlton didn't answer immediately. He looked at the floor.

"We need to fix this," Daphne said, wiping her eyes. "I need to go. I need to explain."

"Explain what?" Charlton asked. "That you were heartbroken?"

"That it was a mistake!"

Charlton looked at her then. His eyes were dark, intense.

"Was last night a mistake too?" he asked.

Daphne looked at the scratch marks on his shoulder.

"Yes," she lied. "I was drunk. I didn't know what I was doing."

Charlton stood up. The warmth vanished from his face, replaced by a cool, unreadable mask.

"Get dressed," he said flatly. "Breakfast is in ten minutes."