Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,8

stands up from his desk. He comes over to me and puts his arm around my shoulder. I think he’s trying to comfort me, but then I realize that he’s steering me toward the door.

“Here’s the thing, Nessa,” he says. “You put in some work. But your work is not that original. It’s simplistic. The parts of the performance that bring it alive, that make it sing, are from me. So you’d only be embarrassing yourself, trying to insist on credit that you don’t deserve.”

My throat is so swollen with embarrassment that I can’t speak. I’m desperately trying to hold back the tears burning in my eyes.

“Thanks for stopping by,” he says as we reach the doorway. “Keep the program if you like.”

I didn’t even realize it was still clutched in my hand, wrinkled from how hard I’m squeezing it.

Jackson pushes me out of his office. He closes his door with a gentle snick, leaving me alone in the hallway.

I’m standing there stunned, silent tears running down my face. God, I feel like a fool.

Not wanting anyone else to see me, I stumble back down the hallway, heading for the front doors.

Before I can reach them, I’m intercepted by Serena Breglio. She’s a corps member, like me. She just stepped out of the conditioning class to visit the water fountain in the hall.

She stops short when she sees me, blonde eyebrows drawing together in concern.

“Nessa! What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s nothing. I was just . . . just being stupid.”

I wipe my cheeks with the backs of my hands, trying to compose myself.

Serena casts a suspicious glance back at Jackson’s closed door.

“Did he do something?” she demands.

“No,” I say.

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

“Well, have a hug at least,” she says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Sorry, I’m sweaty.”

That doesn’t bother me at all. Sweat, blisters, broken toenails . . . they’re all as common as Bobby pins around here.

Serena’s a classic California blonde. She’s got a lean, athletic frame, and somehow manages to maintain her tan even in the Midwest. She looks like she should be on a surfboard, not pointe shoes. But she’s good enough that she might move up to a demi-soloist position any day now.

She’s as competitive as they come in the studio, and a sweetheart outside of it. I don’t mind her seeing me like this. I know she won’t gossip to the other girls.

“Are you coming out with us tonight?” she says.

“Where are you going?”

“There’s a new club that just opened up. It’s called Jungle.”

I hesitate.

I’m not really supposed to go places like that. Especially not without telling my parents or my brother. But if I tell them, they won’t want me to go. Or they’ll send one of their bodyguards along to monitor me—somebody like Jack Du Pont, who will sit in the corner glowering at me, scaring away anybody who might ask me to dance. It’s embarrassing and it makes my friends feel weird.

“I don’t know. . .” I say.

“Oh, come on.” Serena squeezes my shoulders. “Marnie’s going, too. Come with us, have a drink, and you can be home by eleven.”

“Alright,” I say, feeling rebellious just by agreeing. “Let’s do it.”

“Yes!” Serena pumps her fist. “Okay, I better go back in before Madame Brodeur gives me shit. You gonna wait out here?”

“No,” I shake my head. “I’ll be at the cafe next door.”

“Perfect,” Serena says. “Order me a scone.”

3

Miko

Chicago

I’m sitting in my office at the back of the club, marking down numbers in my ledger.

I’ve got two nightclubs running now, as well as three strip clubs. They’re all profitable in their own right, even this one that I only opened a few weeks ago. But that’s not their real purpose. It’s a way to wash money.

Any industry with plenty of cash payments is a good receptacle. Laundromats, used car dealerships, taxi services, restaurants . . . they all serve as a basket in which to dump legitimate profits, as well as the illegal money earned through drugs, guns, larceny, and women.

In the old days, you could open any empty storefront without even bothering to stock it with equipment. Al Capone had a storefront like that, right here in Chicago. His business card said “Used Furniture Dealer.” Now, forensic accounting has gotten a lot more sophisticated. You need an actual thriving business.

The end goal is to get your dirty money into the bank. You do it slow and steady, with daily deposits mixing dirty money and clean. It’s best if