“I will,” I say on a sigh. “But I’d like to hear your stalker theory first.”
Diverting. Again.
He nods. “Right. I saved this.”
He pulls out his phone and brings something up on the screen. I peer over it, upside down, and catch the all-too-familiar headline that haunted us for months. He swipes, and I realize they must be screenshots.
Smart.
He gets to the end and turns the phone around. I scan the page, and my eyes catch on the second to last paragraph. When I was hurt and angry and scared, I read those words and thought it was a blessing. I also thought,YES, he took away my career. Someone else gives a shit. But now, with suspicion—and a heavy dose of reality—it’s chilling.
Though the world will soon forget Greyson Devereux’s role as the antagonist of Ms. Reece’s life, she has supporters who won’t. The ballet community stands behind her.
“Who are these so-called supporters who won’t forget what you did?” I look up. “I was dancing in Crown Point when I got injured. It was a fluke that I was in Rose Hill at all.”
He presses his lips together.
I’ve connected the dots, though. It means whoever is angry enough about this—whoeverwas, I should say—is in Crown Point. They have to be. Maybe not one of the dancers, because we’re cutthroat about roles. But in the community maybe?
And how did they hear about my accident that happened hours away?
“CPB is ruthless,” I whisper. “If this person was in it, they’d know my spot would’ve been filled in a minute. Mia sought me out because she’s known me forever and cares about me. That’s the only reason I’m coming back.”
I cover my mouth with my hand.
Obviously, it isn’t Mia. She’s the artistic director with far too much to lose—and my injury doesn’t significantly impact herorthe company.
But… is she tied to it?
Could she know who wrote that?
“That article is six months old,” Grey points out. He gently pulls my hand from my face. “Maybe I’m wrong—”
“Someone broke into my room,” I blurt out.
He gives me a weird look. “I know.”
“Before that.” My face heats. “They trashed my room. I had a wall of photos, and they wrotewhoreacross it in paint. Everything was destroyed.”
He freezes. I see the moment it sinks in, because it hits me, too.
This is happening. What started as a simple break-in and the feeling of being watched—that I blamed on Greyson—seems to be exploding.
He pulls me down from the counter. “You and Willow aren’t safe in that apartment,” he declares. He taps a message on his phone, then stows it. “You’re going to get your things. Right now.”
“And…?”
“And move in with me.”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”
Is he nuts? We literallyjustmade up, and it was rather violent. I’ve still got bruises in a ring around my neck. The cut on my breast is scabbing over slightly. There are more bruises on my wrists, too, from the laces he used to tie me up.
There’s stillevidenceof our anger and hatred clashing together—and my body has suffered the consequences.
His phone chimes, and I peek over his shoulder again.
Knox