Page 4 of Masked Sins
“Don’t do this,” I say slowly.
“Ri,” she growls, chest still heaving.
“Don’t move to Paris.” My voice cracks on the last word.
The words startle her, but before she can even rear her head back, the music stops completely.
“Excuse me,” the woman repeats, her French accent thick and judgmental.
“Sorry, please give me one second to start over,” Layla says gracefully. Her eyes begin to water as she glares at me again. “Leave.Now,” she urges, her voice low enough for only me to hear.
I hold my hands up, but in doing so, I stumble to the side.Fuck.
Her eyes widen even more before she lets out a cruel laugh. “Oh my God. You’re drunk, aren’t you?” she whispers, though it sounds more like the hiss of a viper.
“Layla,” I whisper, an unknown emotion filling every cell in my body. I can’t place what it is. It’s a mix of guilt, shame, and desperation for her to stay. To not move five thousand miles away from me.Especiallynot when these fucking assholes can’t even appreciate her. “You can do better than this,” I say, even though I know the words are ash on my tongue.
The Paris School of Ballet is the most elite dance school in the world.
And they were making fun of her.
I can’t tell her that, though. I’d never be able to forgive myself if I did.
IfIcaused her pain.
At least right now, she just thinks I’m drunk and stupid. I’d gladly take the blame to keep her from getting hurt. If she knew what they said about her, she’d give up. She’d get more restrictive with her food. It would break her because I’d heard her mutter those same sentiments about her body after eating.
“We’re going to have to ask you to leave,” the man bellows from the judges’ table.
“Fine,” I growl, looking at him. “I’ll go.”
“Both of you,” the woman adds, crossing her arms.
Layla lets out a tiny gasp before looking at the judges’ table. “Please. I can start over?—”
“I’m afraid the audition is over, with or without this blatant interruption,” the woman says simply, looking back and forth between us. “Not only is your song choice unconventional and inappropriate but you simply don’t fit the image of a Parisian ballet dancer.”
Shame, embarrassment, and anger flit across Layla’s face. Tears gather in her eyes, and she storms past me. My reflexes must be slow because even though I reach out for her, I miss grabbing her wrist by half a second. Turning back to the judges, I narrow my eyes.
“You’re going to regret this decision for the rest of your life.”
I don’t wait for their response. Following Layla through the backstage door, I stop walking and stumble into a nearby garbage can just as she whirls around and snarls at me.
“You ruined everything,” she hisses, tears streaming down her face.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, stepping closer. Her smell—God, she always smells so fucking good, like wild strawberries—invades my senses, and I use my hand to press her body into the wall.
She’s all skin and bones—and would collapse if she lost another twenty pounds.
I’ve taken time to learn about her restrictive eating habits, trying to understand the emotional and psychological challenges involved. I wanted to be more informed. I wanted to be compassionate. And I know her well enough to know exactly what triggers her—and that’s any negative comment about her body. I’ve been so mindful of avoiding those topics or situations, and I try to create a safer environment for her.
The thought of her hearing those words when I know how sensitive she is cuts somewhere deep and dark inside me, and I’m fuckinggladshe wasn’t able to audition. Fuck them—fuck all those people.
To me, she’s flawless.
“Sorry?” she cries, her voice cracking. “You fucking asshole.” She shoves me, but I hardly move. I’m too surprised. In the ten years I’ve known her, I’ve only heard her swear a couple of times.
“You never would’ve been happy there,” I tell her, even though I know my words are empty.Trust me,I want to say.Youdeserve better than a company that would tell you to starve to death.
