We’re in the third period, just the start of it, with eighteen minutes left on the clock. The score is two to three, with the other team in the lead. Greyson has scored once, and my heart is in my throat. Two more, and I’ll be at his mercy. Until midnight anyway.
But I think I’ll be at his mercy anyway.
My phone vibrates, and I glance at the screen.
Mom
We need to talk.
I scowl.
Higher above us, Senator Devereux is in attendance with an entourage. They’ve taken over one of the suites. I’ve avoided looking up there—avoided turning around in general, for fear that he’ll see me and the ruse—the one where I stay away from his son—will burst.
My phone goes off again.
Mom
Violet, please. I’m outside the stadium.
She’s… what?
I nudge Willow and show her the two messages.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She scoffs. “No. Just pretend you didn’t see them.”
“Oh my god!” Amanda screeches, grabbing my arm.
Greyson has the puck, and he charges across the ice. He’s a force to be reckoned with. He passes it to Knox and darts around one of the defenders. Knox passes it to Erik, who gives it right back to Grey.
He shoots and scores, and the Hawks come barreling toward him in celebration. We all jump to our feet, cheering and screaming as his teammates skate around him and clap his back.
Three to four.
He skates past and points at me. He grins, holding eye contact, and then raises his index finger up. One more to go.
I blush and grin back. It’s hard to beat back the team spirit. The dance team embedded that in me, if nothing else. I want our school to win—to go all the way to the finals, even. And I definitely want to know what Grey is going to do to me after he makes another goal…
My phone buzzes, more insistent.
Mom’s calling me now.
“I’ve got to take this,” I say to Willow.
She grimaces. “Do you want me to go with you?”
I pause and meet her eyes. “Really?”
“Of course.” She’s decked out in blue and silver, just like me. We sprayed some blue glitter in our hair, and some of it has flaked off on our skin.
I’m about to tell her not to bother, that I’ll be okay, when she rises.
“Not going to give you a choice,” she says. “Let’s go.”
We slip out of the row and hurry up the steps. I make the mistake of glancing up as we’re about to go through the tunnel out into the hallway. Senator Devereux stands at the glass, his gaze on me.
Fuck.
Greyson was planning on talking to him tonight.
Willow pulls me away, and I take a deep breath as soon as we’re out of sight. He freaks me out more than Greyson ever did.
We exit the stadium and step onto the sidewalk. I check both ways, trying to find my mother. I finally spot her across the street, pacing in front of a sleek black car.
“Violet!” she calls. She waves her hands.
Willow and I cross the street together, but I make the last few steps alone.
Even though time has passed, she appears… the same. People always said we looked similar. Like you could see us and tell we were related. Sisters, people often said, because Mom’s skin is smooth. Her hair is perfectly coifed, golden blonde. The features we share are those she can’t alter with Botox. The shape of our eyes, our noses, lips. The heart-shaped face.
Where I try to keep myself lean for ballet, she has curves. Hips and an ass that used to catch all the guys’ attention, her breasts—well, those are fake, at any rate. Not that anyone cares.
I don’t know what I expected. New wrinkles at the corners of her eyes maybe, or streaks of gray in her hair.
Whatever I think I might see… I don’t.
“What’s up?” I internally cringe at the question.
She twists her hands together, then sticks them in her pockets. “What’s been going on with you, Violet?”
I let out a choked laugh. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not this girl.” She steps closer, and her eyes dart over my shoulder. “You know the agreement we made.”
“I signed the NDA. What more is there?” My skin prickles. I sense there is more. The senator’s secretary let something slip that had me wondering—but this confirms it. “What did you do, Mom?”
She straightens. Her expression turns stony. “Come with me.”
She grabs my arm and tows me back toward the stadium. I stumble along with her, glancing over my shoulder. Willow trails us, her brows drawn down in confusion.
We get inside, and she drags me up the stairs. My stomach is in knots. We go around the corner, heading for the row of suites. I have a feeling I know exactly where we’re going. And yet, I can’t seem to slam on the brakes.
I need to know what kind of deal with the devil she made.
This moment is inevitable. It has been inevitable since my mother pushed me to file a lawsuit. Brought in the shiny, expensive attorney who sat next to my hospital bed and took notes, took pictures. It was invasive. The whole thing made me sick to my stomach… but I did it because I trusted her.
Somewhere along the line, my trust in her broke.
Maybe it was when she dropped me off at CPU and didn’t look back. Maybe it was earlier than that, when the light in her eyes dimmed when she watched me. Like I was the failure because my dance career shattered worse than my leg.
Either way, this distrust gnaws at me.
All the way to the senator’s suite.
She pushes the door open and goes inside. No hesitation. I keep my focus on her quick, short stride. Her body is tense. She raises her hand to fiddle with her hair, then drops it before touching a strand. Her mouth is pulled into a wide, fake smile.
My muscles tremble.
Willow is stopped at the door. I don’t realize it until a suited man moves in my peripheral, shutting the door with a quiet click right in her face.
I’m on my own.
Ahead of us and to the left are rows of chairs for viewing the game. A long table with white tablecloths is set against the right wall with a buffet-style assortment of finger foods. Behind us, against the wall, is a mini bar. So the rich don’t have to travel far for their liquor.
The senator is holding a mini conference toward the front, right by the glass. He and his friends don’t notice us enter. Their conversation continues, loud and boisterous. Below, the game continues. The clock ticks down. The Hawks are in the lead by one.
Something must’ve happened, because there’s a Knight in the penalty box.
Mom pinches the inside of my arm, and I snap back to attention.
“Senator,” she calls, guiding me with her.
Her arm is wrapped around mine now, and her nails are lodged in my skin. She gives me another pinch when I put up the slightest resistance. The pain is localized, but it still hurts.
Grey’s dad turns our way. His expression shuts down.
Not good.
I can’t tell if it’s me or my mother who causes it, and I swallow past a thick lump in my throat. I don’t like him. For six months—seven, now, actually—he’s been the boogieman in my mind. The one who has the power to ruin me. Financially, socially. I have no doubt that he could make it so no ballet company gave me a contract.
He’s got the reach and the incentive.