Chapter 32 The Anatomy of a Traitor
The air in Studio C is colder than the rest of the Academy, but maybe that’s just because Elias is in the room. I stand at the barre, my hand trembling against the cold wood, watching him through the mirror. He hasn’t said a word since we left the foyer. He hasn't looked at me once. He’s just pacing the perimeter of the room like a wolf checking the fence for holes.
"The power of attorney," I say, my voice cutting through the hum of the overhead lights. "When did my mom sign that?"
Elias stops. He looks at his reflection, then shifts his gaze to mine in the glass. "Three days ago. Right after the Gala. She’s not as blind as you think she is, Zora. She knew Arthur wouldn't just let you walk away after you embarrassed him on national television."
"And you just happened to be there? In our apartment in the Flats?"
"I never left the Flats, Zora. Not really," Elias says, walking toward me. "I’ve been watching that building for twenty years. I knew the moment your mother brought you and Lumi home from the hospital after the crash. I knew when you started taking those community centre classes. I’ve been waiting for you to get through those gates since the day you were born."
I pull my hand off the barre, spinning to face him. The sudden movement sends a lightning bolt of pain through my ankle, but I don't flinch. "You’ve been stalking us? For twenty years?"
"I’ve been protecting an investment," he counters, his eyes narrowing. "Arthur Thorne destroyed my career. He took my legs, my reputation, and the woman I was supposed to marry. I wasn't going to let him do the same to your mother’s daughters."
"Who was she?" I ask, my heart hammering. "The woman you were supposed to marry."
Elias stiffens. His jaw works for a second, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "That’s not part of the curriculum. Turn around. First position."
"No," I snap. "You don't get to save my sister and then treat me like a puppet. You said she kept receipts. You said there was an accident on 4th Street. Tell me what happened."
The door to the studio doesn't just open, it bangs against the wall. Sloane Miller stands there, her face a mask of calculated fury. She’s still in her pristine white silk, but there’s a smudge of mascara under her left eye that tells me she’s been unraveling in the bathroom.
"Get out, Vane," Sloane says, her voice trembling. "Coach, tell her to leave. This is my private rehearsal time."
Elias doesn't even turn around. "The schedule changed, Miller. Vane is the lead. You’re the alternate. Alternates don't get private time in Studio C."
"My father is the primary donor for the Saint Jude’s surgical wing!" Sloane screams, stepping into the room. "I know what happened in the foyer. I know about the frozen money. She should be in a police car right now, not a leotard!"
I walk toward her, my limp barely noticeable through the sheer force of my anger. "Your father’s money couldn't buy a lock strong enough to keep me out, Sloane. And clearly, it couldn't buy you enough talent to keep the Board interested."
Sloane’s hand flies out, a sharp, desperate slap aimed at my face. I’m faster. I catch her wrist mid-air, my grip tightening until she gasps.
"Don't," I whisper, leaning in until our foreheads are almost touching. "I’ve been hit by people a lot tougher than you for a lot less than this. You touch me again, and I’ll show you exactly how we settle things in the Pit."
"You're a monster," Sloane hisses, her eyes welling with tears. "You're ruining everything. This school, the Thorne name... you're a virus."
"Then I guess you better start looking for a cure," I say, releasing her arm.
Sloane looks at Elias, her lower lip trembling. "Are you really going to let her talk to me like that? My family pays your salary."
"Actually, Arthur Thorne pays my salary," Elias says, finally looking at her. "And right now, Arthur is very interested in seeing if Zora can actually deliver the performance he’s paying for. If you want to be useful, Sloane, go to the infirmary and fetch a fresh roll of compression wrap. Zora’s ankle is bleeding through her tights."
Sloane looks down at my foot, her eyes widening at the dark red stain blooming through the black fabric. A look of pure, sickly satisfaction crosses her face. "You're broken. You can't even stand properly."
"I can stand better on one leg than you can on two," I snap. "Now get out. I have work to do."
Sloane turns on her heel and vanishes, the sound of her sob echoing in the hallway. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and lean against the mirror. The adrenaline is fading, and the pain is rushing back in like a tide.
"She’s right about one thing," Elias says, walking over to the sound system. "You are broken. If you try to do the Academy’s choreography for the midterm, you'll snap that tendon by the third bar."
"Then what am I supposed to do? Arthur said if it isn't perfect, he pulls the support."
"We change the definition of perfect," Elias says. He hits a button, and a track starts to play. It isn't the orchestral Fusion. It’s a heavy, distorted cello, the rhythm jagged and unpredictable. "This is 'The Anatomy of a Traitor.' It’s the piece I wrote twenty years ago. The one I was supposed to perform the night of the crash."
"You want me to do your dance?"
"I want you to do the dance," Elias says. "The Academy wants lines. The Pit wants power. This piece... it’s about the friction between the two. It doesn't require high jumps or traditional landings. It requires weight. It requires you to use the floor like it’s the only thing keeping you alive."
I listen to the music. It sounds like a heartbeat in a panic attack. It sounds like the way my life has felt since the day I found that scholarship letter in the trash.
"Show me," I say.
Elias moves. Even with the limp, even with the years of rust, his movement is terrifying. He doesn't look like a dancer, he looks like a man trying to claw his way out of a grave. Every gesture is sharp, intentional, and weighted with a history I can only guess at. When he stops, he’s breathing hard, his face pale.
"Your turn," he pants. "From the top. Don't think about the steps. Think about the hospital room. Think about the red tape on your locker. Think about the twenty years they stole from your mother."
I move.
The music takes me. I stop being Zora the Janitor. I stop being Zora the Ward. I become the friction. I drop to the floor, my bad ankle tucked under me, using my arms to propel my body in a low, sweeping arc. It’s messy. It’s raw. It’s the exact opposite of everything Madam Sterling taught me.
"Good," Elias says, his voice a low growl. "Again. And this time, put more weight on the transition. Don't protect the ankle. Trust the floor to catch you."
"It hurts, Elias," I grit out, my vision blurring with sweat.
"Pain is just information, Zora! Use it!"
We work for three hours. No breaks. No water. Just the cello and the sound of my sneakers slapping against the linoleum. By the time the door opens again, I’m vibrating with exhaustion.
Caspian is standing there, holding two bottles of water and a bag of ice. He looks at me, then at the sweat-slicked floor, then at Elias.
"Rehearsal is over," Caspian says, his voice firm. "She’s trembling, Coach. You’re going to kill her before she ever gets to the stage."
"She’s fine, Thorne," Elias says, but he shuts off the music. "Take her to the basement. Get that ankle elevated. And Zora?"
I look at him, my chest heaving.
"Don't tell Caspian the name of that song," Elias says. "His father wouldn't like the ending."
Caspian frowns, looking between us. "My father is in a board meeting. He’s distracted. Come on, Z. Let’s get you out of here."
He puts his arm around my waist, taking my weight. I lean into him, the smell of his expensive soap a strange comfort in the middle of this nightmare. We walk out of Studio C, leaving Elias standing in the shadows of his own past.
As we reach the elevator, Caspian leans in, his voice a whisper. "The Saint Jude’s rep is still in the building. I saw him talking to my father in the private dining room. They weren't talking about surgery, Zora."
"What were they talking about?"
Caspian looks at the closing doors, his expression grim. "They were talking about a 'transfer of assets.' They aren't just taking guardianship of Lumi. They’re trying to move her to a private research facility in the mountains. A place where Arthur can keep her hidden forever if you don't do exactly what he says."
I look at my reflection in the elevator doors. I look at the girl who just learned how to dance with a traitor.
"He thinks he can keep us in the dark," I say, my voice steady and cold. "But he forgot one thing."
"What's that?"
"Ghosts don't need the lights to see.”