I step outside into the bright sunlight. Heat rises off the asphalt, shimmering. L.A. traffic hums beyond the walls, with horns and sirens blending into one long warning.
Syvannah’s still by the fence, her hand resting on one of the dogs’ heads. Peanut prowls nearby, tail high, acting like she’s the queen of the lot. When Syvannah glances over her shoulder, she sees me. Her smile softens, becoming private, like she saved the real one just for me.
That smile steadies me in a way nothing else can. It slows my blood, cuts through the static, and reminds me why I stay when every instinct says to ride. For half a heartbeat, I let myself believe peace might be possible. I let myself imagine what we would look like if I believed I was enough.
But even as I walk toward her, I notice the way she checks the street beyond the fence. How her fingers flex as if she’s fighting something only she can feel.
The storm isn’t just coming for the club.
It’s coming for her.
And if my past is crawling back to life, it’s going to find us both standing here in the open.
2
SYVANNAH
By the time I reach Royal Dancers studio, the sun’s already high enough to make the windows glow. Los Angeles buzzes with horns, heat, and music pounding from cars, but inside it’s just wood floors, mirrors, and the soft slap of bare feet on varnish.
Nadia stands by the stereo, her tank top clinging to her back. “You’re late,” she says without turning.
“I’m early for me,” I answer, dropping my bag by the wall.
She laughs. “Progress.”
Progress. Everyone loves that word. It sounds hopeful. What they mean is still alive, still breathing, still pretending everything’s fine.
I lower myself to the floor with the girls and guide them through slow movements, reach, breathe, and hold, reminding them to feel their bodies rather than fighting them. The youngest one trembles as she bends forward, and I rest my hand lightly on her shoulder until her breathing steadies beneath my palm.
“That’s it,” I whisper. “You own your body. It doesn’t own you.”
She nods, trusting me like I know what I’m doing. Half the time, I’m just repeating what Nadia told me when I crawled out of my own hell, but sometimes that’s enough.
When class ends, laughter fills the room. The girls talk about dates, kids, and shifts at work, and they smell of vanilla lotion and hope. I stand there a second longer than I need to, watching them, trying to decide whether I belong in this version of my life.
The door opens with a squeak that slices through the noise. Pearl stands there like she owns the place. She‘s in tight jeans, heavy eyeliner, and a sneer that curves her mouth. Her perfume is thick and sweet, a scent that makes my stomach turn. It’s a scent I associate with dark rooms and bad decisions.
“Well,” she says, drawing out the word, “if it isn’t our miracle girl.”
“Class is over,” I say evenly, reaching for a towel. “Unless you’re here to volunteer.”
She laughs under her breath. “Volunteer? Honey, I don’t do charity. That’s Tiny’s job.”
My pulse quickens. “You drunk?”
“Not enough.” She leans against the wall like she owns it. “He’s got a type, you know. Damaged. Quiet. Grateful. Makes him feel like a hero.”
“Careful,” I warn, even though my voice sounds thin.
“Why? You think he’s gonna fix you?” Her voice softens into something sweetly venomous. “He doesn’t fix anyone, babe. He collects them. And when they think they’re healed, he lets them go.”
I focus on folding the towel, on making the edges even, because if I look at her too long, I might say something I can’t take back.
“You done?” I ask.
“For now.” She gives me one last look, slow and deliberate. “Enjoy your dance class. It’s the closest you’ll get to grace.”When she leaves, the door slams hard enough to make the mirrors tremble.
The craving doesn’t creep in. It hits. It rises from my stomach to my throat, sharp and urgent, and suddenly my hands don’t feel like mine. I tell Nadia I’ve got errands to run and step into the heat before she can read the truth in my face.