Trapped By My Sister's Billionaire Fiance

Alyssa Medina's fingers tightened around the satin ribbons of her pointe shoes until her knuckles turned white. She was trying to slip past the dead end of the backstage corridor at Lincoln Center when an arm shot out from the shadows and blocked her path. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she felt it in her throat.

"Going somewhere, little swan?"

Gregg Ashley stepped into the dim light. The smell of expensive cologne mixed with bourbon hit her first. Then his body. He moved closer, crowding her until her spine pressed against the cold brick wall and there was nowhere left to retreat.

"Mr. Ashley." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "I have five minutes to curtain."

Gregg reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a plastic hotel keycard. He held it toward the neckline of her costume. Alyssa's hand shot up and smacked his wrist hard. The card clattered to the concrete floor.

His face darkened. He grabbed her chin, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath her jaw. Alyssa didn't think. She lifted her foot and brought the hard box of her pointe shoe down on his leather oxford with all her weight.

Gregg howled and released her.

She didn't wait. She grabbed her skirt and ran, her breath ragged, her ankle screaming from the impact. The stage manager's voice echoed through her headset. "Places for Act One. Five minutes."

Alyssa forced the air into her lungs and pushed it down. By the time she reached the wings, her eyes had gone professional cold.

The curtain rose. The stage lights hit her retinas like physical blows. She took one breath and launched herself into the opening sequence. Her muscles obeyed. Her fingertips stopped trembling. No one in the audience could see the pain shooting through her left ankle with every landing.

Tchaikovsky swelled. She entered the fouetté turns, spotting a fixed point in the darkness beyond the footlights to keep her balance. Her rotation was perfect. Muscle memory carried her through sixteen counts.

Then her gaze drifted to the front row.

The VIP section sat in shadow, but she could make out the silhouette. A man in a dark suit, legs crossed, holding a program he wasn't reading. He was looking directly at her.

Alyssa's spot faltered. Her ankle twisted on the landing. White-hot pain lanced up her calf, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. She finished the sequence, held the final arabesque, and smiled through her teeth as the applause thundered.

The man in the front row never looked away. His eyes were dark, flat, predatory. He watched her like she was a painting he was considering buying.

She knew that face. She'd seen it on the front page of The Wall Street Journal. Cornell Knight. The name attached to more zeros than she could count. Something flickered in her memory, a ghost from ten years ago, but the pain in her ankle and the lights in her eyes made it impossible to hold onto.

She held the smile until the curtain fell.

The moment she was backstage, the smile dropped. Alyssa limped toward the prop storage corridor, her leotard soaked through with sweat, her chest heaving. She needed ice. She needed to breathe. She needed to get out before Gregg found her again.

She turned the corner into the dimly lit storage area.

A hand shot out from behind a stack of painted flats and seized her hair. Alyssa's scream died in her throat as Gregg yanked her backward into the shadows. His face filled her vision, twisted with rage.

"You little bitch."

The back of his hand connected with her left cheek. The impact snapped her head sideways and sent her sprawling across the concrete floor. Her palms scraped raw. Her mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood. A high-pitched ringing drowned out the voices in the hallway beyond.

Gregg crouched over her. His breath was hot and sour against her face. "You think you're special? You think you can humiliate me?" He grabbed her hair again, forcing her to look at him. "You're nothing. A disposable little dancer. I could end you tonight."

Alyssa said nothing. She stared up at him with every ounce of hatred she could summon, her jaw locked, her body trembling with the effort not to cry out.

The silence enraged him more than words could have. Gregg raised his foot, aiming for her injured ankle, for the joint that held her entire career.

Laughter echoed from the main corridor. The theater manager's voice, oily and obsequious, accompanied by the click of multiple dress shoes on tile.

Gregg froze. His foot hovered in the air. Then he lowered it, slowly, his eyes never leaving Alyssa's face.

"This isn't over." He straightened his jacket, smoothed his hair. "I'll see you again, swan. Count on it."

He slipped out of the storage area and was gone.

Alyssa lay on the cold concrete until her breathing steadied. Then she pushed herself up, using the flat for support. Her left cheek throbbed in time with her heartbeat. She touched it with the back of her hand and came away with blood.

She limped toward the dressing rooms. The full-length mirror in the hallway caught her reflection. Her makeup was smeared. Her cheek was already swelling, purple blooming beneath the skin. But her spine was straight. Her shoulders were back. She looked into her own eyes and made herself a promise. Not tonight. Not ever.

She pushed open the dressing room door.

The chatter stopped. Six dancers turned to look at her. Alyssa walked to her station without meeting anyone's gaze. She sat down and reached for the ice pack in her bag.

Dina Mccoy's heels clicked across the floor. She stopped behind Alyssa's chair, close enough that Alyssa could smell her perfume. Dina's eyes traveled over the swollen cheek, the split lip, the blood that Alyssa hadn't quite managed to wipe away.

"Oh, honey." Dina's voice dripped with false sympathy. "Did you fall? You really should be more careful. These old stages can be so dangerous."

Alyssa didn't answer. She pressed the ice pack against her face and stared into the mirror. Dina's smile faltered, then sharpened. She turned back to the other dancers, her voice rising.

"Speaking of dangerous, you'll never guess where I'm going tonight. The Apex Club. Private party. Only the top one percent, you know how it is." She laughed, tossing her hair. "Some of us have sponsors who actually appreciate talent."

Alyssa watched Dina's reflection. The hunger in her eyes. The desperation barely hidden beneath the bravado. She felt a twist of something that might have been pity if she had any pity left to spare.

Her phone buzzed in her bag.

She pulled it out. The screen lit up with a notification from Mount Sinai Hospital. Final notice. Outstanding balance for Elena Voss. The number had too many digits. Alyssa's finger hovered over the screen. She turned the phone face down on the dressing table and closed her eyes.

When she opened them, she reached for her makeup remover. She had thirty minutes to make herself presentable enough to leave through the front door without attracting security. Then she had to figure out how to keep her soloist spot for next month. The soloist spot meant hazard pay. Hazard pay meant she could make a payment on Elena's bill.

She changed into her street clothes. Black leggings. An oversized sweater she'd bought at a thrift store in Brooklyn. She pulled a black surgical mask over the lower half of her face and slung her canvas tote over her shoulder. The tote was fraying at the straps. She'd been meaning to replace it for six months.

The stage door opened onto West 65th Street. The November wind cut through her sweater like it wasn't there. Alyssa hunched her shoulders and started walking toward the subway.

She made it three steps before she stopped.

A black Maybach was parked at the corner, half a block away. The kind of car that cost more than her lifetime earnings. The rear window was rolled down exactly halfway.

Alyssa couldn't see inside. But she knew, with the certainty of prey sensing predator, that someone was watching her.

She pulled her mask higher and walked faster, her injured ankle screaming with every step. She didn't look back. She didn't dare.

Behind her, the Maybach's engine purred to life.