Chapter 2: Maybe It's Just Beginning

Lily's POV

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I'll have nothing."

I walk toward him. For the first time in years, I look him straight in the eye.

"But that's still better than being invisible next to you. You know when I felt most lonely these five years? Not when you worked until midnight. Not when you forgot our anniversaries.

Not even when you ignored me at galas."

The burning in my eyes gets worse but I refuse to cry.

"It was lying next to you in bed. Twenty centimeters apart. Feeling like there's an entire ocean between us. You never actually saw me, Sebastian. I was always just a tool."

He stares at me. Smudged makeup, wrinkled gown, standing barefoot in his study. But my eyes are clearer than they've been in five years. More determined.

For the first time, he can't predict what I'll do next.

He adjusts his cufflinks. Back to business mode. "How much do you want?"

"What?"

"Compensation. Name your price. Five million? Ten?"

The laugh comes out of nowhere. Hard enough that tears form.

"You know what, Sebastian? This is exactly your problem. You think everything has a price tag."

"Then what do you want?"

"A hundred thousand dollars."

He goes completely still. "What?"

"A hundred thousand. That's what I earned these five years. Trophy wife market rate. Twenty thousand a year, five years total. Fair, right?"

Sebastian expected millions. Maybe company shares. New York divorce law favors wives. He was ready for that negotiation.

But a hundred thousand? It's insulting to both of us.

"Lily, don't be stupid. You know you should get more."

"I only want what I earned. Everything else is yours. The house, cars, jewelry, stocks. Keep it all."

"You're insane."

"No. I just want to travel light."

I pull out the divorce agreement, set it on his desk.

"Sign it, Sebastian. Easiest transaction you'll ever make."

He picks up the pen. His hand hovers over the signature line. Three full seconds pass.

I notice the hesitation. First time in five years I've seen Sebastian pause.

But it only lasts three seconds.

The pen comes down. His signature flows across the page in one smooth motion.

He pushes the papers back toward me. Voice cold as ice. "The lawyers will contact you."

I take the papers. "Thank you."

At the door, I hear him say something. His voice is too quiet to catch.

Sebastian watches her leave, fingers gripping the pen so tight his knuckles turn white.

What he said was, "I'm sorry."

But he knows it's too late.

Two days later, I pack. Leave all the designer clothes in the closet. Just grab a few t-shirts and jeans. The jewelry box stays on the dresser, unopened.

The only thing I take from my old life: a pair of ballet shoes from five years ago.

I leave the three-carat diamond ring on the marble counter. Sunlight catches it, throws cold light across the room.

One last look at this penthouse. Climate-controlled perfection. Always spotless.

Never felt like home.

The door clicks shut.

The Brooklyn apartment is eighteen hundred a month. One bedroom, one living room. Yellowing walls, creaking floors, a view of fire escapes and brick walls.

Maybe a tenth the size of the Manhattan place.

But for the first time, I can breathe.

I drop my suitcase on the floor, sit down, look around this tiny space.

On top of everything in the suitcase: those ballet shoes.

Pink satin faded to almost gray. Toe box hard as rock. Still has the tag from that Giselle performance.

I pick them up. My fingers trace the worn pointe.

Six years ago, I fell from a lift. Tore my ankle ligaments. The doctor said I'd never dance again. That moment felt like the end.

Then Sebastian appeared. Rescued my father's company, gave me a comfortable life. I thought I'd found new meaning. Be a good wife, raise children, live respectably in high society.

I was wrong.

I didn't just lose dance. I lost myself.

The L train rumbles past outside. Night falls over New York, lights blinking on across the city.

I stand up, place the ballet shoes on the windowsill. They catch the last light, glowing faintly.

Maybe it's not over, Lily. Maybe it's just beginning.

I don't know what tomorrow brings. I don't know if I can stand up again without Sebastian's resources.

But at least now I'm free.

The alarm goes off at six. I'm already sitting up before I'm fully awake, staring around the small apartment.

My shoulder aches when I stand. The L train shakes the windows again. I walk to the kitchen, open the fridge. Half a carton of milk. Two slices of bread. That's breakfast.

I check my phone. Bank balance: $4,237.89.

Three weeks since the divorce papers got signed. Sebastian's lawyers wired the hundred thousand. I paid three months' rent, bought basics. Now I watch the number shrink every day.

This has to last until I find something steady.

I bite into dry bread, grab my backpack, head out.

The coffee shop is already packed when I arrive. Tony, the manager, is a forty-something guy with a voice like sandpaper and zero patience.

"Lily! Table 7 wants a latte! Move!"

I grab the tray. My hands shake slightly. The cup tilts. I try to steady it.

Coffee splashes across the customer's white shirt. He jumps up, face going red.

"What the fuck! Do you know how much this costs?"

I freeze. "I'm so sorry. I'll pay for the cleaning."

He throws a twenty on the table. "Keep your pathetic tips. Get me the manager!"

Tony storms over. "Lily, this is the third time this week! You keep spacing out. If you can't focus, maybe you should find another job."

Behind the counter, the other servers whisper.

"I heard she used to be married to some rich guy."

"Yeah, and now look at her. Probably got dumped."

I bite down hard, keep my head low, wipe tables. There's coffee stains under my nails.

At two, my shift ends. Tony tosses me sixty dollars in crumpled bills and a disgusted look.

"Don't be late tomorrow."

Outside, my phone buzzes. Text message.

"Orpheum Theater needs stage crew tonight. $80. You in?"

I text back: "Yes."

The theater is small and worn. Marcus, the stage manager, throws me odd jobs when he can. Tonight I haul props and set pieces. My back screams by the time we finish.

"Thanks, Lily. You're a lifesaver." Marcus hands me eighty dollars cash.

I take the money, nod. He locks up and leaves.

The theater goes quiet. Just one stage light still burning.

I stand in the audience, staring at that empty stage. My feet move before I decide to move them. The wood floor creaks.

Six years since I've stood center stage.

I start humming. Swan's Lament. The last piece I performed. My arms lift, cut through the air. My body remembers. Every movement is still there.

Grand jeté. Arabesque. Then fouetté turns.

The crack is sharp. My right ankle screams. I crash down, curled around my foot.

The tears come. Not from pain. From the hopelessness of it all.

I don't know how long I lie there. Long enough for the tears to dry, for the cold to seep in.

I push myself up, limp toward the back exit. The door opens. Cold night air hits my face.

A week later, I stand in front of Lincoln Center. The fountain glows against the dark sky. There's a poster.

"Damien Cross: Ashes World Premiere"

Damien Cross. Five-time Tony winner. The guy who reinvented modern ballet. A legend.

Tickets start at eighty-five dollars. I've got a hundred and forty-six in my pocket from this week's shifts.

I buy a ticket anyway.

The theater is beautiful. I'm in the back corner of the last row, surrounded by designer clothes and expensive perfume.

Lights go down. Music starts. Dancers take the stage.

This isn't classical ballet. No princesses, no fairy tales. The dancers struggle, fall, rise again. Modern music crashes into classical strings. Broken and beautiful at once.

Every movement feels like it's tearing something open and stitching it back together.

I stand in the dark, tears streaming down my face.

This is art. Not perfect technique. Real pain.

When the lights come up, everyone's on their feet. I wipe my eyes, clap with the crowd.

I want to meet him. I need to know how he did this.

The crowd flows toward the exits. I follow, but this place is massive. People push past me. When I look up, I've somehow ended up in the backstage hallway.

The corridor feels like a maze. I'm lost, hoping the next corner leads to someone who can point me out.