Page 216 of The Bittersweet Bond

Bas. Her Bas.

Tall, broad-shouldered, carrying that natural air of superiority and an intensity you couldn’t ignore. His gaze could disarm her—sometimes playful, sometimes challenging. He knew exactly how to get under her skin, how to drive her crazy with just one word or a raised brow. But then there were those other moments. The quiet ones. When he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room.

Though a shiver ran through her, a small doubt lingered in the back of her mind. Why had he been so quiet since yesterday? And now, just a short text—a casual-sounding message that meant so much she wasn’t sure it meant anything at all.

She bit her lip, feeling her stomach tighten for the briefest second before she pushed the thought aside. Not now. She didn’t have time to get lost in him, in everything that was between them.

She read the message one more time, as if it could bring her a spark of his presence, then set the phone down without responding.

Not now.

Today belongs to me.

__________

Sebastian

The door closed behind him with a soft, echoing thud, the sound resonating through the stillness of the house. For a moment, Bas just stood there, wrapped in the deep, all-encompassing silence that felt like a heavy blanket pressing down on him. The flight had dragged on, leaving his muscles stiff and aching.

He ran tired hands over his face, feeling the rough texture of his palms. The sensation was almost comforting, pulling him out of his thoughts for a fleeting second. With a single practiced motion, he pulled his hoodie over his head. The fabric brushed against his skin before he tossed it onto the chair by the door, where it crumpled into a haphazard pile. His gaze drifted to the mirror across the room, catching his own reflection—dark, shadowy rings under his eyes, one of them made worse by the fresh, purple bruise spreading across his cheek. “Fuck, I still look like shit,” he muttered under his breath. It looked even worse than it had in the morning.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs as if trying to sort through the tangled mess of thoughts. Stretching his stiff muscles, he felt the tension in his shoulders before heading to the bathroom. Warm water streamed down his neck, easing the knots in his shoulders somewhat, though it did nothing for the heavy weight in his chest—that unshakable, unwelcome burden he couldn’t seem to let go of.

Back in his room, his eyes immediately went to the clock. Not much time left. His outfit lay neatly spread out on the bed, carefully chosen the day before. The dark, finely textured shirt felt smooth under his fingers. The perfectly tailored gray jacket and matching wide-leg trousers exuded effortless style. He slipped on the trousers, fastened the belt, and buttoned the shirt halfway, leaving the top two buttons undone so the fabric fell loosely across his chest. His gaze flicked to the mirror, and his reflection met his critical stare head-on.

His hands moved to the accessories on the dresser—a simple gold chain, a ring with a dark stone, and a slim gold bracelet he’d worn for months.

Finally, he reached for the jacket, running a last glance over himself to make sure everything was in place, that everything looked exactly as it should.

And if her eyes scanned the crowd after the performance, he wanted them to land on him.

He grabbed his keys, picked up his phone.

Then he left the house.

__________

Evin

Backstage, the air was charged with expectation. Her chest thrummed with nervous energy, matching the rhythm of the buzzing stage lights, the soft rustle of costumes around her, and the muted whispers of the other dancers. Through the thick stage curtain, she could hear the audience—a sea of voices, tense, muffled, waiting. In just a moment, the house lights would dim. In just a moment, it would all begin.

She closed her eyes, trying to steady her thoughts. It didn’t work. There was something tightening her chest, something that had nothing to do with stage fright.

This felt different. Bigger. Final.

Like taking one last deep breath before plunging into cold water.

All these years, she’d danced. With discipline, with iron control, with a passion she sometimes couldn’t even explain. But she had always danced with purpose. For structure. For that feeling of having something that was hers, something no one could take away. But now, here, with the spotlight about to fall on her, with the knowledge that so many eyes would be watching—now, it was more than that.

Evin stood in the wings, her heart beating like a drum in her chest.

The murmurs ofthe audience faded to silence as the house lights dimmed, filling the space with a charged stillness. It was almost tangible, a crackling anticipation in the air that coursed through every fiber of her being. A raw energy pulsed in her veins, ready to burst forth.

As the music began, she stepped into the spotlight, her body taut, prepared to pour all her training, all her emotions, the pain of the past months, onto the stage. The familiar strains of Minkus’ La Bayadère flowed through her, guiding her like an invisible force. Her costume floated around her, light as a bird’s wings, as she transformed—into the temple dancer, a figure from another world, weightless and suspended beyond space and time.

Every breath, every step, every movement was infused with precision. Her arms swept like water through the air, each arc painting a picture that existed only for a moment before dissolving into nothingness. With every turn, every leap, she defied gravity, hanging suspended for fleeting seconds before touching down with featherlight grace.

But it wasn’t until the pas de deux with Rafael that she felt truly alive. Their bodies moved in perfect harmony, the trust between them palpable in every lift, every turn. In those moments, there was no fear, no doubt—only the freedom to surrender completely to the music.

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