Since Natasha had an apartment full of dancers, she dragged Kevin and Lori away from the salads—everyone had chosen a different favorite—and hustled them all outside to the tiny courtyard the building boasted. It mostly held a few giant trashcans and some plants, but it caught the late afternoon light, and it had space.

Kevin stood at one end with Natasha’s camera on a tripod. The other women set their phones to video, to catch different angles.

“You’re sure you’re okay to do this?” Lori asked.

“The doctor cleared me to dance again.” Thanks to Dimitri. If left to her own devices, she would have pushed it too hard, too soon, and likely injured herself again. Now, she felt stronger than ever, thanks to physical therapy and a break from her soul-crushing work schedule. Sitting on a bench off to the side, Natasha powdered and tied on her oldest pair of pointe shoes, then popped in her wireless headphones.

Gina gaped in horror. “You’re wearing pointe shoes on concrete? You’re going to ruin them!”

“For this? Worth it.”

Gina pursed her lips like she wasn’t convinced, then glanced at the sky. “I think we only have enough light for one take.”

“Aww shit, Gina, look at you,” Kevin teased. “Spend some time in Alaska and you can tell time by the clouds.”

Gina stuck her tongue out at him.

Natasha took her mark.

“You sure your ankle is healed enough?” Lori called out. Lori was in charge of controlling the music on Natasha’s phone, which she held in one hand, her own phone in the other.

“It’s fine.” Natasha tuning them out, wrapping her head around the choreography she’d been tweaking for months. Of course, she would have loved more time to perfect it, to fine tune each turn and leap. Or better yet, to work on it with Dimitri, to get his unique take on the movements. But there wasn’t time. The meeting was in two days.

Now or never.

She gave Lori the nod. A second later, the music pumped into her ears, starting with dramatic violins. She launched into the dance, starting with classical ballet moves. The pop beat joined in. Natasha picked up the tempo. I am a masterpiece, the singer declared. Natasha spun, arms outstretched. The chorus came to an end, and the singer cried out, You ain’t seen nothing yet. Just watch me fly.

Natasha flew.

A flurry of leaps and spins she’d learned in ballet, body rolls she’d learned on the pole, elements of paso doble learned in the ballroom, and when the music paused for a beat, a perfectly executed arabesque that felt like coming home.

She put everything she was into this dance. All of who she was. She’d never done well in school, but she’d studied dance forever, learning different styles every step of the way.

Maybe the question was actually, “Who are you if you can’t dance?”

She was Natasha. And she was a motherfucking dancer. Mind and body, heart and soul. She was a dancer. Her muscles held a lifetime’s worth of dance training. Her history and worldview informed the pieces she created.

No one could take this from her. No injury, no disapproving mother, no asshole producers. This was hers.

You ain’t seen nothing yet. Just watch me fly.

Damn it, she was going to fly. Fuck failure. She was over it.

Time to do things her own way.

The song and the dance came to an end. In the last spears of light from the setting sun, Natasha untied her ruined pointe shoes and hurled them across the courtyard.

And Kevin, Lori, and Gina, because they were good friends who followed instructions, kept the cameras rolling until she gave them the slashing hand signal to cut.

When the cameras were off, Lori and Gina screeched, and Kevin clapped his hands over his ears.

“Oh my god, that was amazing,” Lori gushed.

Gina passed Natasha her flip-flops. “You have this choreography job in the bag.”

“Killer dance, babe.” Kevin folded up the tripod.

Their praise warmed her, but even better, she knew she’d killed it. Her thoughts drifted to Dimitri. Once, she’d wanted his praise like she’d wanted her mother’s. Now, she just wished she could share this moment with him. And all moments. Damn it, she loved him. She loved dancing with him, fighting with him, cooking with him. The man was infuriating at times, but his passion for life stirred her up and made her want more. For once, she wondered if wanting more wasn’t a bad thing, like she’d been raised to believe.

If she played her cards right, they could have lots of moments together. “Whoever I’m meeting doesn’t know what they’re in for.”

As she headed back upstairs with her friends, for the first time in . . . who knew how long, she knew exactly who she was. And nothing that had happened before or would happen in the future would take that away from her.

Two days later, Natasha strode into the casting office where her meeting was set to take place. She had her laptop tucked into her shoulder bag, with her reel and her latest piece, which she’d spent every waking minute editing until it was as perfect as she could get it.

She wore a slate blue silk blouse, stretchy black pants with a cool stitching pattern, and silver stilettos, one of the few pairs of fancy shoes she’d kept. Her hair was pulled back in a high, thick braid, and after spending most of the summer fresh-faced, she’d gone heavy on the dark eye makeup.

She looked fucking awesome as hell, and her videos were going to knock them on their asses. She was so ready for this meeting, it wasn’t even funny.

Still, nerves threatened to eat into her confidence. This meeting had the potential to turn things around for her. Not just for her career, but the rest of her life.

She was days away from meeting her next partner for The Dance Off—Rocky, a guy she’d already “met” in every sense of the word. What her agent didn’t know was she’d already decided to quit the show. She didn’t want Penelope to flip out, so she’d decided to tell her after the meeting, regardless of how it went.

And after that was done, she’d give Dimitri a call. The thought of it gave her the same mix of excitement and nerves as the meeting.

Natasha took a deep breath and stopped before the admin’s desk. Before she spoke, she sent up a tiny prayer to the dance gods. I ask for this or something better.

Even if this didn’t work out, she’d book something else. She had the talent and the skill, and a unique perspective lots of other choreographers didn’t have.

No matter what her mother said.

The receptionist directed her to the correct room. Down a short hallway, Natasha paused with her hand on the knob, took another deep breath to clear her mind.

Now or never.

She clasped the knob and turned.