Chapter 4: What if I Screw Up?

Lily's POV

Four months later, we're back in New York. My ankle's at seventy percent. Enough to start rehearsing Phoenix.

Damien's studio is in Chelsea. Underground warehouse conversion. Mirrors everywhere. Wood floors that creak when you walk.

I'm in practice clothes, standing center. He hits play.

"From the top."

I dance the opening sequence. Every fouetté clean. Every arabesque precise. Every grand jeté textbook perfect.

Music stops.

"Again."

I run it again. Still flawless.

"Stop."

I turn. "What's wrong? My technique was—"

"Your technique was perfect. That's the problem."

"I don't get it."

He walks toward me. "You're dancing like you're at some audition. Perfect positions, perfect lines, perfectly empty."

"I did exactly what you choreographed!"

"I choreographed movements. You're supposed to fill them with something real." His voice gets sharp. "Who are you dancing for? Judges? Your ex?"

That last word hits hard. I freeze.

He's right in front of me now. "Phoenix doesn't rise to impress anyone. She rises because she has no other choice. She burns because that's all she knows how to do."

His voice drops. "Forget everyone else. Dance for yourself. Dance like no one's watching. Dance like you're dying and this is your last breath."

Dance for myself. I don't even know what that means. At ABT, I danced for perfection. With Sebastian, everything I did was for his approval.

"Again."

The music starts. This time I close my eyes.

I stop thinking about technique. Stop thinking about the audience. I think about that night on the theater floor. Five years of silence. The sound of my ankle snapping. Every time I said I'm fine when I was screaming inside.

My movements get messy. Arabesque isn't high enough. Fouetté wobbles. But every move burns.

The music ends. I open my eyes, gasping.

Damien nods once. "That. That's Phoenix."

It's one AM. We're sitting by the window. One light still on. New York glowing outside.

Two water bottles between us. A towel. Exhausted silence.

"Why are you so hard on me?"

He's staring out at the city. "Because I know you can take it."

"How?"

Long pause. "Because I've seen that look before."

He pulls out a photo. Beautiful woman with dark hair, caught mid-leap on stage.

"Elena Rossi. My fiancée. Principal at La Scala."

I keep my voice quiet. "Was?"

"Leukemia. Three years ago. Eighteen months of fighting. Died two weeks before the wedding."

His thumb traces the photo's edge.

"Last thing she told me was to find dancers with fire. Not the perfect ones. The broken ones. They're the only ones who understand what art really costs."

"So you're helping me because of her?"

He turns to look at me. Something complicated in his eyes. "At first, yeah. When I saw you that night, I saw her fire. Same desperation, same hunger."

He stops. "But now... you're not her shadow. You showed me I can still feel alive. You're your own light, Lily."

Our eyes lock. The air gets thick.

He stands up fast, breaking the moment.

"It's late. Tomorrow we work on act two."

I'm still sitting, watching his back. "Damien."

He doesn't turn. "Yeah?"

"Thanks. For seeing me."

His shoulders tense for a second. Then he walks out.

The door closes. I sit alone by the window, hand pressed against my chest.

What is this feeling?

Two months blur together. Damien and I move in sync now.

He demonstrates. I get it immediately. He says again, I don't complain.

"Higher."

I grit my teeth. Leg goes up.

"Good."

Saturday afternoon at some modern art museum. We're standing in front of a dance exhibit.

"She choreographed pain," I say.

He's close behind me. "She choreographed truth."

Our shoulders almost touch.

Two AM in the studio. Music playing. I'm dancing Phoenix's climax.

Damien's recording with his camera. Through the lens, I'm on fire.

He lowers it. His eyes go soft.

Hunt Capital. Sixty-seventh floor. Sebastian sits by the windows, iPad in hand.

His finger stops on one photo.

Lily and Damien at the museum. She's smiling. Really smiling. Not the smile she wore for him.

Caption: "Art feeds the soul."

Five years of marriage and he never made her smile like that. Three months apart and she's a different person.

He picks up his phone. "Get me everything on Damien Cross. Projects, finances, backers. Especially his new production."

Rehearsal's ending. I'm on the floor untying ribbons. My fingers ache. Six hours straight today.

Damien walks over, phone out.

"Announcement's live."

He shows me the screen. Phoenix poster. Me in the red-gold costume, one leg extended in arabesque. Fire blazing behind me.

The title: Phoenix Rising. Orpheum Theater. October 15th.

Starring: Lily Morgan.

"It looks real."

I stare at my name. Six years since it's been on a poster.

My finger traces across the screen. Damien crouches beside me.

"You're ready."

He refreshes. Comments explode.

"Oh my god! ABT's genius is back!"

"Six years though... can she even stand?"

"Damien Cross plus Lily Morgan equals must-see."

Then the tone shifts.

"Washed-up dancer begging for attention."

"Married rich, failed at that, now playing victim?"

"How's Mrs. Hunt suddenly a dancer again? Money run out?"

My smile freezes. That last one cuts deep.

"They're still calling me Mrs. Hunt."

"Papers are signed."

"Internet never forgets."

Damien keeps scrolling. His face darkens.

"Wait."

He holds up the phone. Anonymous account. Black profile pic. Username: TruthSeeker2024.

"Lily Morgan married Sebastian Hunt for five years. His company saved her family's bankrupt business. Now divorced and suddenly 'miraculously recovered' to perform? Publicity stunt much?"

"Anyone check how much Damien Cross invested? What did Lily trade for the lead? You know what I mean."

"Sebastian Hunt's such a catch and she couldn't keep him. Now she's latching onto some arts guy? Poor Damien getting used."

Hundreds of likes. Retweets spreading.

My hands shake.

"They think I'm sleeping with you for the role?"

"Stop reading."

He reaches for the phone. I grab it tighter.

"No. I need to see what they're saying."

Five years ago I was ABT's youngest principal. Now I'm some woman who sleeps her way up. First Sebastian, then Damien. Like my talent doesn't exist. Like rehab meant nothing.

I throw the phone back at him. Stand up. Walk to the window, arms crossed.

The skyline glitters but I don't see it.

"Lily."

He comes up behind me. Voice low but firm.

"Real art speaks for itself. Opening night, you do one fouetté. All this noise shuts up."

"What if I screw up?"

"Then you prove them right."

I spin around. His face is blank.

"So don't screw up."

A week later. Rehearsal ends at two AM. Damien's organizing notes, tells me to leave first.

I walk out with my bag. Chelsea's empty. Just music drifting from some bar.

A black car sits by the curb. Engine running.

The door opens.

Sebastian leans against it. Dark suit. Tie loose. Sleeves rolled up. Fresh from the office.

I stop. Twenty feet between us.