Page 104 of Punishing His Runaway Bride
I stopped in front of that door. Checked the number on the gate. Double-checked the address.
Correct.
I pressed the doorbell.
Chapter Fourteen
Olivia
The woman who opened the door was young, maybe early forties, wearing a tailored light gray shirt. Her hair was pulled back neat, and the way she stood there made me assume she owned the place—until she spoke.
"You must be the ballet instructor? I'm Carmen, the housekeeper." She stepped aside. "Please, come in. The young miss is getting ready. Won't be long."
I followed her inside, adjusting the strap of my dance bag, correcting my first impression.
The foyer was huge. Dark wood floors, polished mirror-bright, absorbed our footsteps. A few paintings hung on the walls—the kind you could feel the weight of just glancing past, not random decoration. Fresh white flowers sat on the entry table, still beaded with water. Changed today. A faint sweetness hung in the air.
I followed Carmen down the hallway, past a half-open study door, past a tapestry I couldn't place but knew cost a fortune. Thick carpet swallowed every sound.
That's when it hit me.
Something deep down twitched. Like a nerve I'd forgotten aboutgetting plucked, vibrating at a frequency I couldn't name. Something under my skin trying to surface, slipping away the second I reached for it.
I told myself the houses in this neighborhood were all the same. Built around the same time. The hallway proportions, the flooring—typical of the era. This familiarity was just a trick of the mind.
Nothing more.
Carmen led me upstairs.
The practice room was on the second floor. One entire wall was mirror. Professional sprung floor underneath, the right amount of give when you stepped on it.
Curtains pulled halfway back. Morning sun cut in from the side, laying a diagonal stripe of light across the floor, splitting the room into bright and shadow.
Posters covered the opposite wall—Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty, The Nutcracker, Giselle. All the classics. All high-quality prints. Swan Lake hung center, the dancer mid-spin, skirt billowing.
"Just a moment," Carmen said. "She'll be right in."
She left.
The room went quiet. Just me standing in front of these posters. I set my bag on a corner chair, changed into soft shoes, walked over, stopped in front of Swan Lake.
I was four when Mom took me to my first ballet. After the show, I tiptoed all the way back to the parking lot. She walked behind me, laughing the whole time. She said she'd never seen a kid keep it up that long. Two years before she died.
I cut the thought off. Walked to the mirror, tightened my hair tie, checked my posture in the reflection.
Straight back.
Good.
Then the door opened behind me.
Light footsteps, quick. That unstoppable momentum only kids have—charging in, skidding to a halt, shoes scraping soft against the wood.
I turned around.
A little girl stood in the doorway, breathless from running, frozen at the threshold. Big eyes staring at me. Blonde hair, fine curls, loose around her shoulders, a few strands stuck to her cheeks. White tank top, pink dance shorts, pink ballet slippers already on, ribbons wrapped twice around her ankles.
My heart stopped.
