Chapter 5 The 48-Hour Burn
I don't go home. If I go home and look at Lumi's legs, or my mother's tired eyes, I'll break. I'll sign whatever paper Arthur Thorne puts in front of me.
Instead, I walk back into the Academy. I don't look like a student. My hoodie is damp with sweat and my eyes are red from the wind, but I walk straight to Studio A.
The music is already playing. It's the same haunting piano track from the duet. Inside, Caspian is dancing alone. He isn't doing the choreography. He's just moving, jumping and spinning with a violence that looks like he's trying to punch a hole in the air.
He spots me in the mirror and stops. He's gasping for air, his chest heaving.
"You're supposed to be gone," he says. His voice is raw.
"I don't take orders from men in cars," I say, dropping my bag. I kick off my sneakers and pull the lost-and-found ballet slippers onto my feet. The silver duct tape on my toes is already peeling.
Caspian wipes sweat from his forehead. "He'll do it, Zoe. My father doesn't make empty threats. He'll take your house. He'll take your mom's job. He'll bury you."
"Then let him bring a shovel," I snap. I walk to the center of the floor and stand in the starting position. "Are we practicing or are you going to keep acting like his messenger boy?"
Caspian stares at me. For a second, I think he's going to walk out. Then his face hardens. He walks over and grabs my waist. His grip is tighter this time. Not cold, but desperate.
"Positions," he mutters.
We start the duet. Without Coach Elias watching, the energy is different. It's sharper. Every time Caspian lifts me, I feel the tension in his arms. Every time I lean against him, I feel his heart racing against my back.
"Why do you stay?" I ask as we move through a sequence of turns. "You hate this place. You hate the pressure. You could leave."
"I have nowhere to go," he says, spinning me out. "I'm a Thorne. Outside of these walls, I'm just a bank account with a name attached. Here, at least the pain is mine."
"The pain is everyone's, Caspian. You're just the only one who gets to suffer in silk."
I catch his hand and pull him into a close hold. This is the part of the dance where we are supposed to look like we are falling in love. Instead, we look like we are trying to survive a wreck.
"He offered me money to leave," I whisper.
Caspian freezes. The music continues, but we stop. "How much?"
"Enough to fix everything. Enough to get my sister the best doctors in the country."
Caspian lets go of me. He looks at the floor, his blonde hair falling over his eyes. "You should take it."
The words feel like a slap. "What?"
"Take it and run, Zoe," he says, finally looking up. His eyes are full of a strange, dark light. "Don't be a martyr for a dance. This world will eat you alive and forget your name by dinner. Take the money and save your family."
"Is that what you'd do?" I ask, stepping closer. "You'd just give up?"
"I already gave up years ago," he says with a bitter laugh.
"Well, I haven't." I grab his hand and force it back onto my waist. "We have forty-eight hours. My mom is going to lose everything because of your father. If I'm going down, I'm going down dancing. And you're going to help me."
We dance for three hours straight. We don't talk about the lawsuit. We don't talk about the crash. We just move until the mirrors are fogged with our breath and the floor is slippery.
By the end, we are both collapsed on the floor, staring at the ceiling. The only sound is the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The first twelve hours are gone.
"Zoe?" Caspian's voice is small in the big, empty room.
"Yeah?"
"I have a key to the archives," he says. "In the basement. My father keeps his old records there. He used to be the lawyer for the Academy before he became a donor."
I turn my head to look at him. "So?"
"So, he never deletes anything. If he's suing your mother for distress, the paperwork for the original settlement, the one your mother signed, is probably in those files. If we find proof that he manipulated the insurance claim..."
"We could stop the lawsuit," I finish, my heart leaping.
"Or we could get caught and expelled," Caspian says. "He'd disown me. And he'd make sure you never dance again."
“And why on earth would you help a janitor over a Thorne, your father?” I ask, my eyebrow raised with suspicions.
“Let's just say I'm rewriting my life and this time I choose to uphold the truth over a family name.” He says
I look at my hands. They are covered in callouses and dust. I look at the silver tape on my feet.
"He's already trying to make sure I never dance again," I say. "What's the difference?"
Caspian stands up and reaches out a hand to me. This time, it isn't part of a dance. It's a choice.
"The basement is guarded after ten," he says. "We have to go now."
I take his hand. His palm is warm and sweaty, and for the first time, he doesn't pull away.
We slip out of the studio and head for the service stairs, the stairs I used to mop every Tuesday. We move through the shadows, avoiding the security cameras. Caspian knows the blind spots. He's been hiding in this building his whole life.
We reach the heavy iron door of the archives. Caspian pulls a silver key from his pocket and slides it into the lock. It turns with a heavy clink.
The room inside is cold and smells like old paper. Rows and rows of filing cabinets stretch into the dark.
"Start with the V section," Caspian whispers, handing me a small flashlight. "I'll check the insurance logs."
I move to the back of the room, my heart hammering against my ribs. Vane. Vane. Vane. I find the drawer. It's jammed. I tug on it, my muscles straining, until it finally pops open with a loud screech that sounds like a scream in the quiet basement.
I freeze, holding my breath. Somewhere down the hall, I hear the heavy thud of boots.
"Security," Caspian hisses, grabbing my arm. "Hide."
He pulls me into the narrow gap between two filing cabinets. We are pressed chest to chest in the dark. I can feel the heat of his body, the smell of his sweat, and the frantic beat of his heart. His hand is over my mouth, his fingers smelling like the silver key.
The flashlight beam from the guard sweeps across the door. It lingers on the lock.
I close my eyes, praying to a God I haven't spoken to since the crash.
The footsteps come closer. Then a radio crackles.
"Level one clear," a voice says. "Heading to the loading dock."
The footsteps fade away.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Caspian doesn't move. He's still holding me, his eyes inches from mine in the dark.
"You're shaking," he whispers.
"I'm fine," I breathe, though I'm not.
His hand moves from my mouth to my cheek. His thumb brushes against my skin, a soft, light touch that feels more dangerous than the guard.
"We should go," I say, but I don't move.
"Zoe, I—"
Before he can finish, the light in the archives snaps on.
Standing in the doorway isn't a guard.
It's Sloane. She's holding her phone up, the camera lens pointed straight at us. A nasty, triumphant smile is spreading across her face.
"Well, well, well," she says, her voice echoing. "The janitor and the Prince. I wonder what the Board will think of this.”