POV Bella
Professor Williams tapped the podium, silencing the lecture hall.
"Before you all escape, a reminder about the graduation gala. The traditional waltz is mandatory—no exceptions."
Groans erupted around me. Camila rolled her eyes. "Kill me now."
"Partners will be assigned randomly," Williams continued, his voice cutting through the complaints. "Lists are posted outside. Find your partner, arrange rehearsals. Mrs. Meyer expects perfection."
The exodus began immediately, students crushing toward the door. I hung back, organizing my notes with deliberate slowness. The pool incident from last week still burned fresh—videos had circulated for days before finally dying down.
"Avoiding the inevitable, Sinclair?"
Ajax's voice struck like lightning. He leaned against my desk, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. The official assignment paper dangled from his fingers.
"What are you talking about?" I kept my voice steady, though my pulse betrayed me.
"Looks like we're dance partners, starlight." He set the paper down with theatrical precision. "Fate has a sick sense of humor."
I snatched the sheet. Our names glared back in undeniable black ink.
"No." I stood abruptly, papers scattering. "Absolutely not."
"Not really your choice." His eyes tracked my movement with predatory focus.
"I'll switch partners. Anyone would trade—"
"Already tried." He pushed off the desk, closing the distance between us. "Seems nobody wants to cross the Spencer family. Or maybe they just don't want my sloppy seconds."
"You're disgusting."
"And you're stuck with me." His smile sharpened. "First rehearsal's tomorrow. Seven sharp. Don't be late."
He vanished before I could respond, leaving his order hanging in the air like a threat.
* * *
The dance studio gleamed with polished floors and floor-to-ceiling mirrors that reflected my anxiety back tenfold. Other couples had already begun—their laughter echoing as they fumbled through basic steps.
Ajax arrived exactly at seven, looking devastating in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt. Every female head turned. Several girls whispered behind their hands.
"Ready to dance?" He extended his hand with mock gallantry.
"Let's get this over with." I ignored his hand, moving to the center of the floor.
Mrs. Meyer clapped sharply. "Positions, everyone. Gentlemen, left hand to the lady's waist. Ladies, right hand in his left. Now, the basic box step—"
Ajax's palm pressed against my waist, burning through the thin fabric of my dress. His other hand captured mine, fingers interlacing with disturbing intimacy.
We stood frozen, neither willing to move first.
"Closer, Mr. Spencer," Mrs. Meyer commanded. "This is a waltz, not a restraining order."
He pulled me against him. Our bodies aligned perfectly—a cruel joke of compatibility. His breath fanned across my temple.
"One, two, three," Mrs. Meyer counted. "One, two, three."
We moved like broken machinery. I stepped on his foot. He pulled when he should have pushed. Our rhythm existed somewhere between catastrophe and comedy.
"Relax, Bella." His voice dropped low, meant only for me. "It's just a dance."
"Nothing with you is just anything." I tried to pull back, but his grip held firm.
"Still hung up on the pool thing?" His thumb traced a small circle on my waist. "You looked good wet. Bet you look even better when completely ruined."
I stomped on his foot hard—deliberately this time.
"Bitch," he hissed through his smile.
"Bastard," I returned sweetly.
"Mr. Spencer, Miss Sinclair!" Mrs. Meyer's voice cracked like a whip. "This is a waltz, not a battle. Either dance properly or leave my studio."
"Sorry, Mrs. Meyer," we chorused, not meaning it.
She demonstrated the next sequence—a series of turns that required complete trust. Ajax's hand slid higher on my waist, steadying me as I spun. For one moment, we moved in perfect synchronization. The room blurred. Only his eyes remained in focus—dark, intense, unreadable.
Then I stumbled, and he caught me, pulling my body flush against his chest.
"I've got you," he murmured, and something in his voice made my stomach flip.
"I don't need you to—"
"Yes, you do." His certainty infuriated me. "You need to learn to follow for once in your perfect little life."
I wrenched away. "I'm done."
"We've got thirty more minutes—"
"I said I'm done." I grabbed my bag, ignoring Mrs. Meyer's protests. "Find another partner, Ajax. I'm sure Laila would love to press herself against you for an hour."
"Running away again?" His voice followed me to the door. "That's your signature move, isn't it?"
I slammed the door behind me, my hands shaking with rage and something else—something that felt dangerously like want.
The hallway stretched empty and fluorescent. I leaned against the wall, pressing my palm to my chest. My heart hammered erratically—too fast, too hard, wrong wrong wrong.
My medication. I fumbled in my bag, fingers closing around the familiar bottle.
Empty. The last pill taken this morning. Then the palpitations worsened and my vision sparked at the edges.
Not now. Please, not now.
I pulled out my phone, fingers trembling as I found Zane's number.
"Bella?" He answered on the second ring. "What's wrong?"
"I need—" My voice cracked. "Can you pick me up? Now?"
"Where are you?" The jangle of keys filled the background. "Bella, talk to me."
"University. Dance building." I slid down the wall, knees weak. "Bring my medication. The backup bottle."
"I'm coming. Five minutes." His voice sharpened with fear. "Do you need an ambulance?"
"No." I closed my eyes, focusing on breathing. "Just hurry."
"Don't move. I'm on my way."
The line went dead and I sat on the cold floor, counting heartbeats that refused to steady. Through the studio door, I could hear music continuing, couples laughing, Mrs. Meyer's counting.
Normal people living normal lives.
Ajax's voice drifted through—explaining my absence, probably painting me as dramatic, weak, pathetic.
If only he knew how right he was.