Chapter 37 The Friction in the Silk
The stage lights are a white-hot interrogation.
I can’t see the Board. I can’t see my mother in the back row or Elias in the wings. All I can see is the dust motes dancing in the light and the silhouette of Caspian Thorne standing three feet away from me.
The cello starts, that low, guttural groan that Elias calls music. It sounds like a secret being told in a dark room.
I move.
My ankle screams the moment I put weight on it, a jagged spike of pain that travels all the way to my hip. I don't hide it. I use it. I land hard, my shoulder hitting the floor with a thud that echoes through the silent theater. This isn't the graceful, weightless flight the Academy teaches. This is a struggle.
Caspian meets me in the center. He reaches for me, and for a second, the "script" of the dance disappears. His hands are warm, gripping my waist to steady me as I lean back into a precarious arch.
"You're shaking," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear as he spins me.
"Shut up and dance, Thorne," I grit out through a fixed smile.
"If you fall, I’ve got you," he says. It’s not a line from the piece. It’s a promise.
We move in a blur of friction. Every time our skin touches, it feels like a spark. I’m the concrete, he’s the silk. I’m the girl who cleans the floors, he’s the boy who owns the building. And for the first time, the audience isn't looking at our technique. They’re looking at the war between us.
I see Arthur Thorne in the front row. His face is a mask of stone, but his knuckles are white as he grips the arms of his chair. He sees it. He sees his son, his perfect, polished heir, getting "stained" by the Janitor.
As the music reaches its crescendo, Caspian pulls me into the final lift. It’s a dangerous move, one that requires absolute trust and a perfectly stable ankle. I feel my joint give way, a sickening pop echoing in my own ears.
I start to go down.
Caspian’s arms tighten around me like iron bands. He doesn't let me hit the floor. He pivots, absorbing my weight into his own body, turning my stumble into a desperate, beautiful embrace. We end on our knees, chest to chest, gasping for air in the sudden silence.
The theater is dead quiet.
I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. I’m staring into Caspian’s eyes, and for a heartbeat, I forget there’s a Board. I forget there’s a hospital bill. I just see him.
"You did it," he breathes, his forehead resting against mine.
"We did it," I whisper back.
Then, the applause starts. It’s not the polite, rhythmic clapping of a recital. It’s chaotic. It’s shocked.
I stand up, leaning heavily on Caspian’s shoulder, and look at the Board. Madam Sterling is standing, her face a pale shade of grey. But it’s Arthur who moves first. He doesn't clap. He stands up and walks out of the theater without a word.
The locker room is a madhouse.
"That was... I’ve never seen anything like it," one of the junior leads says, looking at me with a mix of awe and fear.
I don't answer. I’m sitting on the bench, frantically unwrapping the tape from my ankle. The skin underneath is a terrifying shade of blue.
"Zora."
I look up. Sloane is standing by my locker. She’s changed out of her performance gear, but she still looks like she’s seen a ghost.
"The Board is deliberating," Sloane says, her voice flat. "But it doesn't matter. My father just left with the Saint Jude’s representative. They’re heading to the clinic."
"What?" I stand up, the pain nearly sending me back down. "The midterm results aren't even out. He can't move her yet."
"He doesn't care about the results, Zora," Sloane says, and for the first time, there’s no venom in her voice. Just a hollow, tired truth. "He realized today that he’s losing Caspian. And when my father loses a piece of his collection, he breaks it so no one else can have it."
"Where are they taking her?" I demand, grabbing her shoulders. "Sloane, tell me!"
"The mountain facility," she whispers. "The one Caspian told you about. They’re moving the surgery to the private lab. If she goes there, she never comes back."
The door to the locker room bangs open. Caspian is there, his hair messy, his blazer gone. He looks at me, then at Sloane.
"The car is waiting," Caspian says, his eyes burning. "Jax is at the side gate. We have twenty minutes before the transport leaves the clinic."
"Caspian, if you do this," Sloane starts.
"I know," Caspian says, looking her dead in the eye. "Tell my father I’m done being his shadow."
He grabs my hand, and we run. We run past the trophies, past the marble statues, past the life I thought I wanted.
As we hit the side gate and dive into Jax’s idling car, I look back at the Academy one last time.
"We have the logs, right?" Jax asks, slamming the car into gear.
"I have them," I say, clutching the satchel to my chest. "But Arthur isn't playing for the logs anymore. He’s playing for blood."
Caspian reaches over and takes my hand, his grip crushing mine. "Then let's give him a show.”