Chapter 110
1641words
My toes are perfectly pointed as I strut across the stage. A simple ankle-turn and I'm pivoting, another and another and I'm a flurry of motion, my white tutu fluffing like a dandelion on the breeze. I was born to dance. I know this in my soul.
Curtains flutter around me, brushing me as if they want to hold me close. The only person I want a hug from is the man sitting in the audience.
Dad beams proudly, never taking his eyes off of me.
I'm so glad I decided to do this performance! I'd been terrified when Mom suggested it, the moves were advanced for a ten-year-old like me, but she would always click her tongue and insist that she did ballet like this when she was my age.
But Dad?
He caught me fretting in the studio, staring at myself awkwardly in the tall mirrors. He'd come to me, knelt, and told me not to be afraid of the stage. Even if you make a mistake, it won't matter to me. If you get nervous, just look for me in the audience, malyshka.
Lunging forward, I hold my breath, chest high. Every time I've tried the Fouetté, I've failed. Days of practicing it have filled me with confidence. Dad is watching, you can do it! I start the spin, hands held high, one leg whipping forward. For a moment I'm weightless, perfectly pointed from toe to fingertips.
My ankle flexes wrong, sending me stumbling off balance. Crying out, I hit the stage on my knee, skidding a foot on the polished wood.
"No!" I whisper furiously, hanging my head low. My hair is bound back in a scalp-tingling bun. I grab the elastic, yanking at it until my dark tresses tumble everywhere. "No, no, no!"
Footsteps thud heavily on the stage. "Camila, are you alright?" Dad asks, kneeling beside me.
Tears boil in my eyes; I wipe them away roughly, but more replace them.
"Why do I keep messing up? Why can't I do it?"
"Everyone makes mistakes, malyshka" he chuckles kindly.
"But I shouldn't make that mistake! It's not fair!" I challenge him with a petulant glare, my cheeks as fiery as my shout.
He watches me for a moment, the depths of his dark eyes warming with love. "Oh, malyshka." Taking my messy hair in his hands, he carefully winds it back up, tying it into a bun as he speaks. "It's not about fairness. Sometimes life just doesn't go the way we want it to."
"That's happening a lot, lately," I complain.
"It happens to the best of us. Even you."
Pouting, I cross my arms and look pointedly at everywhere but him. I don't want to accept that it can happen to me. All my mistakes... all the lies I've told... all the ways I've hurt people.
Something loops through my brain. The scent of roses... a black tattoo... a ballet stage, like this one, but bigger. It's a memory that's trying to hook into my brain. But before it can, I shake it off and raise my head to find Dad smiling at me.
"What should I do?" I ask in a quiet hush.
His hands leave my hair. The bun is tight, but random strands have escaped it. It isn't perfect. "Just get back up. That's all anyone can do. Don't think about your mistakes, just think about trying again. That's what matters the most."
I try to stand, but my legs are numb, like they've fallen asleep. My father coughs into his fist. I squint at him, noting the hollows shadows around his eyes, the yellow tinge to his skin. He's sick. But he'll get better. He has to! He always gets better.
I brush my hands over my tutu, but it's gone now, and all I see are rose petals. They look like the ones in Asher's garden. My heart staggers in my chest. Lurching, I hug my body with a whimper. "Daddy, why does everything hurt?"
"You're alright, malyshka," he soothes me, cradling me closer. "You're okay, I'm here."
The curtains flutter around me again. But this time, I can tell that something's not right. The stage doesn't look as real as I thought. And Dad… his face continues to change. His eyes sink deeper into hollow pits. His face becomes sallow and stretched.
I'm no longer a ten-year-old girl.
And the pain. Oh God, the pain. It hurts so much.
"None of this is real," I whisper as realization hits me. 'You died."
And then a worse realization hits me.
"You're not my real father," I whisper. "You never were. I am Camila Yannickevna... And I can't change that." Hot tears roll from my eyes even as I try to stop them from falling.
His gentle hands brush my temples. Familiar wide fingers that belong to strong hands tuck my hair behind my ear. He's worked himself to the bone from the moment he arrived in this country until the day he passed away. Gently, he plants a kiss on my forehead.
'It doesn't matter, malyshka. You know who you are in your heart," he says. 'And nobody can take that from you. As far as I'm concerned, you will always be Camila Marakov."
I blink back a heavy shower of tears.
"Asher says that, too," I sniffle. "I wish you could've met him."
"Tell me about him," he says.
"Where do I start? He's selfish but protective. Smart yet bone-headed. Kind in his own way yet terribly jealousy. He does what he thinks is best and it's not always right. But he'd die for me, he'd burn down the world for me, even if I begged him not to." I place my hand on my stomach. There's a strange twinge of pain—the world around me wobbles like steam has entered my eyes. "And I'm going to have his baby."
My father considers me in curious silence. "Does he love you?"
I don't have to think, I simply nod.
"As long as he loves you," he says. "That's the only thing that matters, malyshka."
Falling forward into his arms, I embrace my father with my full strength. The roses have vanished; all I smell is his familiar stringent soap, the shaving cream he used that I'd sometimes steal to make a fluffy beard on my face.
His grip loosens against me.
"There's not much time left," he whispers sorrowfully. 'You'll have to go back soon."
"I don't want to go." I beg, my hands burying into the front of his shirt. I loop them around his shoulders, gripping my own wrist, locking in. "I don't want to lose you again."
"You must, malyshka." Gently, but firmly, he pries my arms off of him. There are tears in his eyes, but he's smiling. "I'll see you again, and when I do, I want to hear more about Asher and all the wonderful things you've done together."
His face begins to glow. So bright that I have to squint. The pain I felt before returns, but it's dulled now. Swallowing, I try to call out for my dad. I manage a weak groan. The curtains swirl around us, and soon they fade into the light as well.
Along with Dad.
"Camila, you're awake!"
Turning slowly, I see Asher watching me intently. His handsome face is a welcome sight, though his features are etched with worry.
"Where am I?"
"The hospital. How do you feel? Are you in pain, do you need anything? Let me get the doctor."
He starts to move, but I manage to grab his wrist. I see mine for the first time—the medical bracelet clipped into place.
"No, wait, stay. Just sit and stay. Please."
Hesitating a bit, he eventually sits back beside me. "I thought I'd lost you. You were hurt... bleeding... and it was me who put you in that situation. I'm so sorry, Camila. You should never have experienced any of that."
I shake my head. 'You saved me."
Placing his other hand on top of mine, he hangs his chin, not responding.
"Oh, you're up!" a cheerful voice calls. A man in green scrubs with a cloth mask on has entered the room. He holds a clipboard, flipping the papers and reading them quickly.
"You should have told me immediately, Mr. Volkov." I try to shift his way and he shakes his head. "Don't move around, please, you're lucky to be alive."
That's right. The shoot out. Gazing down hurriedly at my belly, I cross my fingers on top. "My baby, is..."
"The baby is okay. You're okay," Asher assures me. He's lifted his head, and for the first time since I've woken up, he's managed to smile.
"What about Mom and Roman?"
"Everyone is okay, Camila. Because of you."
I exhale through my nose, closing my eyes to calm myself down. My mind has cleared up, giving me the ability to remember everything that happened. The fear is smothered by relief with this news.
Looking at the doctor, I ask, "Can I have a moment alone with my husband?"
For a second, he seems to want to argue. After eyeing Asher, then the chart again, he acquiesces. "Yes, yes, of course. Press the button if you need anything."
Once we're by ourselves, I make a desperate grab for Asher. "Come here." He hugs me back, leaning over the hospital bed, making it hard for me to breathe. I don't care. I don't care at all. Against all the odds we made it out of this mess alive.
"I love you, I love you, I love you," he murmurs into my neck. My skin is damp, but I'm not the one crying.
With one hand on my belly, the other on his cheek, I sink into his warmth. "I love you, too."
