Chapter 7 The Weight of a Secret
The studio is silent as I walk in. The smell of floor wax and expensive perfume hangs in the air. Caspian follows me, his presence at my back feeling like a shield I am not sure I can trust.
Sloane is standing by the barre, her face a mask of fury. She doesn't say a word as we pass, but her eyes promise a war. I ignore her. I have bigger monsters to fight.
"Alright, everyone! Center floor!" Coach Elias's voice booms through the room.
He looks at me, then at Caspian. He doesn't ask why I am late. He doesn't ask why Caspian is wearing a suit. He just points to the mark on the floor.
"We are running the lift sequence. From the top. And I want to see connection, not just mechanics. Move!"
The piano starts. The melody is haunting, a slow build-up of tension that mirrors the knot in my stomach. Caspian steps toward me. He has shed his suit jacket, leaving him in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
He reaches for my waist. This time, his touch isn't cold. It is steady.
"Don't think about Sloane," he whispers as he preps for the first lift. "Think about the music."
"Easy for you to say," I breathe back. "You didn't just dump a five-hundred-dollar phone in a toilet."
A small, genuine smirk touches his lips. It is gone in a second, but it changes the energy between us.
We move. I feel lighter than I have in days. Maybe it is the adrenaline of the archives, or maybe it is the fact that for the first time, I am not alone in the lion's den. When he lifts me, I don't fight him. I let my weight settle into his hands. We flow through the choreography like two halves of a whole.
"Better!" Elias shouts. "Now, the drop!"
This is the hardest part. I have to lean back into a blind fall, trusting Caspian to catch me inches from the floor.
I lean back. The world tilts. For a split second, I see the ceiling lights blurring. Then I feel his arms. Strong. Solid. He catches me perfectly.
We are inches apart. I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes and the way his breath hitches. The music fades out, but neither of us moves.
"Exquisite," Elias says, his voice unusually soft. "That was the fire I was looking for."
The spell breaks. Caspian pulls me upright and steps back, his face turning neutral again. Sloane lets out a loud, theatrical sigh from the corner, but I don't care about her.
The rehearsal ends an hour later. My muscles are trembling, but my mind is racing.
"I need to go back to the archives," I say to Caspian as we walk toward the lockers.
"Are you crazy? Sloane is watching us like a hawk. And the guards will be on high alert now."
"I don't care. My forty-eight hours are almost up, Caspian. I need that paperwork. I need to know what your father did."
Caspian leans against the lockers, looking around to make sure we are alone. "I can't get you back in there today. But I can do something else."
"What?"
"I have a dinner tonight. A charity event at the Thorne estate. My father will be busy playing the perfect host." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small plastic card. "This is the keycard to his home office. The insurance files for the firm are backed up on his private server."
I stare at the card. "You want me to break into your house?"
"I'll leave the side gate open. Ten o'clock. If you can get to the office, you can download the files onto a thumb drive."
"Why are you helping me this much?" I ask, looking him in the eye. "If you get caught, you lose everything. Your inheritance, your spot at the Academy, everything."
Caspian looks away. He grips the strap of his dance bag until his knuckles turn white.
"Because for nineteen years, I've done exactly what he told me to do," he says quietly. "I've been the perfect son, the perfect student, the perfect heir. And I've never felt less like a person."
He looks back at me, a flash of pain in his gaze. "You're the only thing in my life that isn't a script, Zoe. I'm not letting him harm you."
He shoves the card into my hand and walks away before I can respond.
I stand there, the plastic card feeling hot in my palm. I am a janitor from the Flats. I am supposed to be mopping floors, not running corporate espionage against the most powerful man in the city.
The bus ride home feels like a countdown.
When I get back to the apartment, my mom is sitting at the kitchen table. She isn't crying this time. She is staring at a stack of bills, her face blank.
"Zoe," she says as I walk in. "The legal aid office called back. They found a conflict of interest. They can't help us."
"It's okay, Mom," I say, putting my hand on hers. "I have a lead. Something that can stop this."
"What kind of lead?" she asks, her eyes narrowing with worry.
"Just a friend at school. His dad knows the case. He thinks there was a mistake in the filing."
My mom sighs, shaking her head. "Don't get your hopes up, baby. Men like Arthur Thorne don't make mistakes. They make examples out of people like us."
I go to my room and check my bag. Thumb drive. Check. Keycard. Check. Dark hoodie. Check.
I look at Lumi. She is drawing in her sketchbook, her tongue poked out in concentration. She is drawing a girl dancing. The girl has wings.
"I'm going out for a bit," I say.
Lumi looks up. "Practice again?"
"Something like that."
I leave the apartment at nine. The air in the Flats is thick with the smell of exhaust and rain. I take the bus as far as the hills, where the streetlights are brighter and the grass is perfectly green.
I get off three blocks away from the Thorne estate. The houses here are like castles, hidden behind tall iron gates and stone walls.
I find the address. It is a massive white mansion with pillars and a fountain in the front. There are rows of expensive cars parked in the driveway, valets in red vests moving back and forth.
I move to the side of the property, sticking to the shadows of the tall hedges. I find the gate Caspian mentioned. It is a small wooden door hidden behind a trellis of roses.
I push. It creaks open.
My heart is beating so hard I think it will burst out of my chest. I slip inside and move toward the house. The windows are glowing with warm light. I can hear the muffled sound of a string quartet and the clinking of champagne glasses.
I find the French doors to the study. I hold the keycard up to the electronic lock.
Red. I try again. Red.
Panic flares in my throat. Has he lied? Is this a trap?
I try one last time, pressing the card firmly against the sensor.
Green.
The lock clicks. I slide the door open and step into the room. It smells of old books and expensive scotch. The walls are lined with dark wood shelves. In the center of the room sits a massive mahogany desk.
I run to the computer. I plug in the thumb drive and hit the power button.
"Come on, come on," I whisper.
The screen flickers to life. A password prompt appears.
I bite my lip. What would Arthur Thorne use? His birthday? The firm's founding date?
I look at a photo on the desk. It is a picture of a woman, Caspian's mother, I assume. She is beautiful, but she looks sad. Under the photo, there is a date engraved in the silver frame.
I type it in. “Access Denied.”
I try the date of Caspian's first major performance. I have seen the trophy in the Academy lobby. “Access Denied.”
I look around the room, desperate. My eyes land on a small bronze statue of a lion on the bookshelf. On the base, there is a Latin phrase. Vincit qui patitur. He conquers who endures.
I type the word Endure. “Access Denied”
I try again. Vincit qui patitur.
The computer chirps. The desktop opens.
I dive into the files, my fingers flying over the mouse. Case Files. Civil. Vane vs. Thorne.
I open the folder. My breath catches. There are scanned copies of the original insurance reports from the night of the crash. But there are two versions.
One shows. The other driver has been speeding.
My fingers slip on the mouse. I wipe my palm on my hoodie and try again.
“ Wait, what? I whisper, scrolling through the file. He planned this.”
The second version, the one filed in court, has been altered. The speed has been erased.
I hit Copy. The progress bar starts to move.
10%. 20%.
Suddenly, the door to the study opens.
I dive under the desk, my heart isn't beating, it is running. I can even hear the rhythm, ‘ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum’
"I tell you, the girl is a problem," a voice says. It is Arthur Thorne. He is not alone. "She's got that look in her eye. The kind that doesn't know when to quit."
"She's just a kid, Arthur," another man says.
"She's a Vane, same blood as her father," Arthur snaps. I can hear him walking toward the desk. His shoes click on the hardwood floor just inches from my face. "And I don't leave loose ends."
He sits down in the chair. I press myself against the back of the desk, praying the shadows are deep enough.
"I'll have the final papers ready tomorrow. Once she signs the NDA and leaves the city, the suit goes away. If not..."
He trails off. I hear the sound of a glass being filled.
"And Caspian?" the other man asks.
"Caspian will do as he's told," Arthur says, his voice cold. "He's a Thorne. He knows that family comes before some little janitor girl's feelings."
My thumb drive is still plugged into the back of the computer. The light on it is blinking a bright, rhythmic blue. It feels like a beacon in the dark room.
Arthur leans forward. I see his hand reach for the mouse.