Her Night Dance

They stripped me of my lead role just before the tour.

In a panic, I rushed to demand an explanation, but my mind was in such turmoil that I tumbled down the stairs. Gritting my teeth against the searing pain, I fumbled for my phone to dial 911. That’s when a notification lit up the screen—an update from someone I followed.

**[Crimson Plains Dance Troupe: A warm welcome to our new lead dancer @Dorothy, and our generous patron @Keith!]**

The attached photo showed two beaming faces: my husband of seven years—a secret marriage—and his pampered little songbird. Keith had an arm around Dorothy’s waist, planting a light kiss on her cheek. She, in turn, had her arms looped around his neck, her face a picture of bashful delight.

Wiping the blood from the corner of my mouth, I didn’t hesitate. I posted a photo of our marriage certificate in the comments.

**[Is your troupe's new production called 'The League of Bastards'?]**

Keith’s call came through almost immediately.

“Anna, what the hell are you doing? How many times do I have to say it? Dorothy and I are just putting on a show for publicity.”

I sniffled, my voice thick. “Keith, by what right did you have them take my lead role?”

A beat of silence. “You’re at Crimson Plains?”

Another pause, then a tone of utter indifference. “Dorothy wanted the lead spot for the tour as a birthday present. I didn’t realize that role was yours.” His voice hardened. “Go online right now and clear this up. Say the certificate was photoshopped.”

A sudden, hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up inside me. He didn’t even know where I worked, yet he remembered Dorothy’s birthday wish list.

“And then what? Why would I photoshop a marriage certificate?”

“You could say you’re just a fan,” he replied flatly.

“Keith, what do you take me for?”

A low sigh traveled through the line. “Anna, we’ve been married seven years. We’re practically an old married couple by now. Dorothy’s young. There’s no need to get into a fight with her.”

He seemed to have forgotten. I’d married him before I even finished university. Though it’s been seven years, I’m only a year older than Dorothy.

“Keith, I fell down the stairs. My leg… it really hurts.”

“Anna, it’s just an apology and a clarification. It’s not that hard.” He sounded… disappointed. “When did you become such a liar?”

*Plop. Plop.*

Tears as big as raindrops, mixed with the blood still trickling from my nose, splattered onto the back of my hand. I clamped a hand over my mouth and ended the call.

He called again. I just switched my phone to silent.

I called 911 myself. When the paramedics arrived, they asked if I had any family with me.

“No,” I answered numbly, staring at the ceiling. “They’re all gone.”

Halfway to the hospital, a text from Keith came through.

“Anna, Dorothy is so upset she fainted. Get your ass to the hospital right now and apologize to her face. Bring an appropriate gift. There will be reporters. Don’t worry about losing face. You started this.”

My fingers trembled as I typed out a two-word reply: **“In your dreams.”**

Then I powered off my phone, shutting out the world and sealing myself in my own private silence.

While waiting in the hospital corridor for my X-ray results, I heard a familiar voice.

“Dr. Donald, I’m Anna’s boyfriend. Please contact me directly if there’s anything she needs going forward.”

I looked up just as Keith, walking over, met my gaze. He faltered mid-step, his body going rigid for a moment. Then, as if he’d never seen me before in his life, he continued his conversation with the doctor and walked right past me without a second glance.

The faint scent of citrus on him twisted my stomach into a knot.

I was on the verge of fleeing when Keith turned and came back. He seemed to be in a hurry. Seeing me still there, an expression of exasperation crossed his face.

“Anna, have you come to your senses?”

“I said, in your dreams.” I shoved past him, limping painfully in the opposite direction.

I could feel Keith’s gaze land on my leg, lingering for a moment before turning icy.

“Anna, are you really resorting to self-inflicted injury just to avoid apologizing?”

I ignored him, desperate to escape this corridor that now reeked of Dorothy’s perfume.

A large hand clamped down on my shoulder, yanking me back. I stumbled, my injured leg screaming in protest.

“Ah!”

A cry of pain escaped me.

Keith’s frown deepened, his displeasure palpable. “You’re unbelievable.”

With practiced ease, he reached into my pocket and took my phone.

“Give that back!”

I lunged for it, but Keith pushed me away impatiently. “Alexander, hold her.”

The bodyguard was a mountain of a man. One firm grip, and I was trapped, powerless to break free.

“Keith!!”