BACKSTAGE AT THE San Diego Sports Arena, it is the final night of the Dancing under the Stars tour. Thank God. I can’t wait to start my life with Tony. We are waiting in the wings for our grand entrance. I have skin-tight, yellow-fringed, low cut pants on and a matching backless top. Tony is wearing black pants and a yellow satin shirt—a far cry from the leather Speedos he wears at his concerts. Tony did NOT want to do this tour. It wasn’t in his contract. But I convinced him it would be a great way to spend time together and he’ll do anything for me. When last year’s winner offered to go in his place and dance with me, Tony signed on the dotted line.

“I remember playing here on the Chicks, Chicks, Chicks, tour,” he says. “Man, I was so fucked up.” He rubs my back and looks around the wings nervously.

“Aww. Does someone miss their groupies?” ‘Cause the only groupies Tony would have at this show would be men.

“Naw. I’m totally stoked just to have you.” He leans in for a kiss and the stage manager interrupts us.

“You’re on in five minutes.” The guy runs up the black stairs leading to the stage. Tony and I follow him and see Dolla and Salomé doing their samba. They look awesome together. She’s already given Genya and me some brilliant routines for our first competition. And Salomé made a perfect call in partnering the two of us up: Genya’s dark and sultry, and I’m blonde and seductive. It’s my dream partnership. We’re both madly in love with other people, so it’s just about the dancing, which has got to be a first in this biz.

Tony’s twisty and twitchy next to me.

“Antoshka, what’s wrong? Come on, you’ve been on stage more times than anyone. Did you forget your lines?” The show has this lame scripted comedy bit that is supposed to entertain the audience.

“Uhm, yeah. That’s it, Vika. The lines.”

I don’t understand. He’s being weird. The stage manager beckons us.

“And now, the winners of the eighteenth season of Dancing under the Stars. Tony Zave and Vika Brooks,” the announcer says.

We walk on holding hands. I look at the ten thousand screaming fans. Uh oh. Some of Tony’s groupies are in the audience. I spy a topless girl in the front row holding a sign that says, “Tony, fuck dancing. Let’s fuck.” Bitch. That’s the shirt he wore for me when we first met.

Shakira’s song “Whenever, Wherever” starts and we jump into our first dance—samba. We start with samba walks in shadow around the stage and the crowd loses it. But Tony is a little off the music. This is his best dance. I save the day and back lead myself into the routine. In the middle of the floor, I plant him then dance around him, shaking my cucarachas and rolling my hips. He recovers and does our signature butt bongo routine. Finally the song ends.

“Are you okay?” I whisper.

He nods. We glide into our hustle routine. We just do the exact number from Saturday Night Fever. I love that movie. I used to watch it with my mama back in Odessa. Tony spins me to the right and then back to the left. He lifts me above his head and then slides me into his arms. Our lips melt together and he kisses me even longer than usual.

The music dies and Tony walks over to the microphone stand to say his lines for our skit. “So, Vika, you’ve won this show three times. I know everyone’s curious. First you took a hockey player to the top, then a member of a boy band, now a rock star. What’s your secret, girl?”

“Well, I just like being on top!” The crowd busts out laughing.

“I know you do, babe. And I love you being on top.”

What the hell is he doing? This is not part of the script. He must be confused. I’ll just start dancing again. I try to take his hand to start our waltz but he’s rummaging through his pocket. Before I can rip his hand out, he drops down on one knee. The audience flips out.

What—oh my God . . .

“Vika, you’ve completely changed my life,” he starts. Nickelback’s song “Far Away” plays over the sound system. A montage of Dancing under the Stars clips of Tony and me are showing on the Jumbotron. I can see Salomé watching from the side of the stage.

“Vika, ti viydesh za menya?” He opens the ring box and pulls out the biggest ring I’ve ever laid eyes on. Twice the size of my ring with Benny. It’s a square cushion cut set in pink and black pave diamonds. I can’t tell how many carats, but it looks like it’s at least four.

Yes, Tony, yes! Out loud, you idiot, poor boy’s still on his knees—“Da, Antoshka. Yes. I love you. I’ll marry you.”

“Yeah!!!” Tony jumps to his feet as thousands of rose petals rain on the stage. He slips the ring on my finger and lifts me into his arms. “I love you, baby,” he breathes into my ear. Then he starts spinning me around but slips on some rose petals and we go crashing to the ground. “Oh, geeze, babe, sorry . . .” I scoop up a handful of petals and blow them at his face.

He laughs then smashes my lips with a big, sloppy, happy dog kiss. Helping me up, he grabs the microphone off the rosy floor.

“Meet the future Mrs. Tony Zave,” he yells into the mic. “Can I get a hell yeah?”

I give Tony a big kiss that lasts an eternity. When I pull away, I hold his sweaty, grinning face between my hands.

“This is happiest day of my life,” I tell him. “Antoshka, you really are my prince.”