TODAY IS GOING to be hell. Fucking hell. Every season, the show does a clip where Benny coaches each couple, and today I get to spend two hours with my husband teaching my lover and me how to rock step. Could it get more horrible than that?

Tony and I cruise to the studio in his custom Range Rover. Benny will be meeting us there so the camera can capture our reaction when he walks in the door. Surprise! Oh, yeah! What a shock! Give me a break.

Tony has a really weird grin on his face. Like he stole a pickle from the jar. I don’t have a good feeling about today at all.

“Tony, seriously,” I plead, “when we get there, please act normal.”

He laughs and starts air drumming on the steering wheel. Maybe we’ll get lucky and get into a crash. Nothing major, just enough to get me out of today.

“Relax, babe,” Tony says. “I’m not just going to say on camera, ‘Hey Benny, thanks for the jive tips. By the way, I’m fucking your wife.’” He starts pumping the gas like a bass drum. “But I’m still gonna have me some fun.”

I put my hand on his thigh and squeeze—more than a little meanly, I know. “I mean it, Anthony Nicholas Zavetakis. No games. Or else.”

“Or else what?” His body moves with the beat. “What’s in this for me, anyway?”

“Anything. Just let’s get through today.” I take a swig of Starbucks. Tony had his barista make me a Venti Marble Mocha Macchiato. Normally, I wouldn’t touch it because it has way too much sugar and three shots of caffeine. Today, though, it’s about the only thing that will calm my nerves.

Tony whips the wheel left, nearly climbing a curb, then slams on the brakes and turns to me. “Leave Benny,” he says. “I’ll play your game for now. But when we wrap the Dancing under the Stars tour, I want you all to myself.”

We size each other up. Cars whiz past, oblivious to our Moment of Truth. Have I lost my mind even thinking I can find true love with an old tattooed rock star? My baba always says, “A sparrow in the hand is better than a cock on the roof.” But Baba clearly doesn’t know the size of Tony’s . . .

“Is that a yes?”

Finally, I say, “You fuck up today, and it’s over. That’s ‘I’ll think about it.’” I point my finger at his face. “I mean it, no fucking up.”

He licks my fingertip. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Antoshka!” I laugh and wipe my finger on my Lululemon pants. “You’re nuts.”

“About you.” He whips back into traffic. Horns blaring from the cars we cut off. A metal ballad blasts from the speakers.

We pull up to my studio. Fans are hanging out on the street. No time for smiles today, people. I run up the stairs and head to our practice room. Tony’s still down below signing some girl’s chest. The cameraman is already set up. Tony bounds up the stairs.

The on-location producer sets up a shot. “Alright. Benny is downstairs. I need you to be struggling with a step.”

So not realistic. Vika never struggles with a step. “Whatever. Let’s do toe heel swivels.” Tony starts following me, deliberately stepping on my heel. On cue, Benny bursts through the door.

“Well, mates! What’s going on here?” I run over to Benny and give him a big kiss. He smacks my bum.

Tony looks like he’s going to deck him. Instead, he forces a smile. “Hey, Benny. I’m really glad you came to help. I just can’t get these toe heel swivels.” He’s such a horrible actor.

Benny grabs my arm and swings me into him. He leads me through our entire jive routine, which he knows perfectly because he choreographed it. There’s a reason Benny’s where he is in life. Even at his age, he knows his stuff. We’re perfect. Still, the damn producer makes us do it three times so he can get shots from different angles.

“So Tony, my good man,” Benny says when we finish the third act, “the key with the Jive is the bounce action. If you don’t have that, you’re one snag short of a barbie.” Benny takes Tony’s hand and starts bouncing up and down with him. “That’s it. Come on. Like a boomerang.” Tony’s wobbling side to side. It isn’t pretty. I owe Tony big time. “Alright, then, try it with my Sheila.” Benny gives my hand to Tony with a flourish. “Go on.”

I try not to look at Tony. This is too weird. Benny’s taught me with other dancer partners that have had their hands all over me, but this time it’s no act—I’m guilty. I can’t look at him. I almost jump when Benny steps in to guide us. God, Vika, keep it together, for Christ’s sake! We practice the routine, smooth and natural now, and I can feel Benny’s eyes penetrate me. He looks at the way Tony’s watching me.

He knows.

The cameraman gets what he needs and packs up for the day. Benny makes us continue rehearsing while the producer is there. “That’s it. A little more hips, Tony. Like you mean it, chap. Theeeere you go . . .”

The producer leaves. Once the door slams shut, Benny comes out swinging.

“Stop already!” he booms and rips across the room to jam his finger into Tony’s chest. Tony’s lips turn pale as he tries not to say anything. “Don’t think that I don’t know that you’re having a naughty with my ol’ lady. No one puts a swiftie over me.” Stabbing out his arm, he yanks my hair and shoves me over to Tony.

“Ow! Venya!”

“Dude!” Tony blurts, catching me in both his arms.

“You can have her if you want. She may be a good root but she’s a wanker.” Benny lurches my way and tugs my wrist until I yelp. “Don’t come home tonight,” he spits. “Or ever again.” Then he turns and walks out of the studio, like a dancer after the music ends. Jive over. Next!

Without a sound, Tony pulls me to him and embraces me. I look in the mirror and see our reflection multiplied in the hall of mirrors.

“Oh, my God,” Tony finally says. “I can’t believe him.” Then he starts laughing. “A wanker? You’re a wanker?” He really busts up then. “That dude’s fucking hilarious!” He lifts me up in his arms and kisses me hard, right between my breasts. “Me and my widdle wanker.”

I am not laughing. “We don’t have to hide anymore. I’m yours now,” I say flatly. Tony kisses me, but he might as well be kissing cardboard. This is not what I wanted. I don’t have my own bank account, the car and house is in Benny’s name. I’ve worked so hard over the past six years and now I’ll have nothing to show for it. My competitive dance career is now over. Benny will never allow his son to dance with me again. And no judge will give me good marks.

Benny’s a producer of Dancing under the Stars. What if they don’t ask me back next season? Or what if they do and the show tanks? It’s reality television. Nobody watches American Idol anymore. How will I support my baba! Poor Babula! Her retirement home is so expensive. And my darling Cha-Cha is at home! What if Benny hurts her? In an instant, everything I’ve sacrificed my life for is gone.

Shit.

Tony takes my upper lip in his mouth and bites it. “Don’t worry, babe. You’re my problem now. I’ll take care of you.”

Woozy, I look around the studio. My studio. At least, it was until five minutes ago. I pick up my Hermès handbag and get my phone. Better use it quickly before Benny turns it off. I make a call to the one person in the world I can turn to.

“Hi, Babula. Don’t panic but I just left Benny . . . I know. Don’t worry.” I take a deep breath and try to sound like I mean it: “Everything will be okay. I’ll take care of you.”