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She might not pay for rent, but I got something money can’t buy: a staunchly loyal, highly trustworthy, disgustingly talented Irish ballerina with a gutter mouth who would defend me to the death.
I’m hoping he’s broken something or announced his permanent retirement or gone missing on a solo hike in the Alps, but I’ve never been that lucky.
In fact, there was only one other dancer in the world who, in the safety of my own soul, I would call better than me. And he had gone on hiatus.
“Oh, it is fucking on. I’m going to make his life a fucking misery for this.” “Savini’s? Ben’s?” “Both. I’m going to make both of their lives an abject nightmare, just you fucking watch.”
I’d quickly found out that the name was disgustingly fitting. He’d masturbate four times a day and leave tissues, dried with his namesake, all over our room. He’d even used a pair of my tights once.
“He’s on a call, Felix,” Noah says, stepping in front of me. Like this cherub-nosed, shirt-and-tie-wearing twink has a hope in hell of fighting off 122kg of enraged dancer.
My opening monologue isn’t having quite the effect I was hoping for. I’m wondering if I should go again.
“Do you want to dance in the greatest ballet company in the world, Felix?” I roll my eyes. I won’t even answer that.
“I know this will come as a terrible shock to you, darling, but this decision wasn’t about you. I can honestly say, you did not even enter my head when I pushed that contract across the table. It was about this company.
It’s just that I don’t do well with sharing, and that applies to most things—I don’t do threesomes for exactly this reason. I’m the main event, the headline act. And I’m certainly not going to share the fucking spotlight with Nicoló Savini.
It’s not like I can’t be fucking impossible when I want to be, ask literally anyone. Even Ava would agree.
Because in all of the realities where I’m better and I’m healed and I’m allowed to have the life I want, it’s him who’s there next to me. It’s Felix Taylor-Brooke holding my fucking hand and looking into my fucking eyes and telling me how I’m his and he’s mine. He’s not getting cream-pied by twinks he meets in Ibiza. He’s mine. And I fucking hate him for it. I hate that I’ll never get to fucking have it. But mostly, I hate myself—for being infatuated with my biggest fucking rival since I was fifteen years old. For being so embarrassingly and stupidly in love with him all these years.
Why on earth would I ruin that with something as boring as love and monogamy? I wouldn’t.
“This must be a walk in the part for you,” he says. I blink, then raise an eyebrow speculatively. He goes on, “Posing, having people tell you how good you look, being stared at.” “A walk in the park,” I say. “It’s a walk in the park not a walk in the part.” I have to fight against some weird urge to find that cute. He looks faintly embarrassed. Which, to my absolute horror, is also sort of cute.
This is, in fact, the truth. I do hate people. I hate Felix, too, it just so happens that I’m in love with him at the same time. Which isn’t something I’d recommend to anyone who likes being sane.
Without another thought, I press my mouth hard against his. When he moans, delicious and submissive, I groan.
It’s surreal. It’s the most bizarre thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s Nico. Savini. It’s… fucking wonderful.
He can hate me all he wants. I’ll fuck him however he wants. Then, when his defences are low and he’s grown complacent, I’ll get him to fall in love with me.
“This is a means to an end. I’m not having dinner with you.” I point at his bowl. “Dinner.” And then at myself. “Me. Sorry, princess, but you’re very much having dinner with me.”
Like every time he does this, I melt, I melt right into his arms like some swooning princess in a Disney film.
Sergio fucking Cina who I wanted to exhume, piss on, and stomp into dust. Vile shitting prick.
“I want you to shut up for a minute and let me think. Jesus fucking Christ.” I glower.
