Tempted by Deception (Deception Trilogy #2) - Rina Kent Page 0,63

my life for it. I survived my parents’ deaths and relocating from one country to another with it.

When people went clubbing, I went to rehearsals. When they slept, I timed my stretches and the care of my ankles. When others ate real food, I settled for apples or a salad.

I never considered it a sacrifice or a chore, because I was doing something I loved. Something I was damn good at. I was living my dream and getting rid of my excess energy through flying where no one could catch me.

Now, my wings are broken.

Now, the dream is over.

And I can’t bring myself to force those feelings to the surface. Not a single tear leaves my lids as I stare at the hospital room’s white ceiling.

There’s a soft knock on the door before it opens. Philippe and a teary-eyed Stephanie walk inside.

I stare at them as if they’re in a snow globe and I’m looking through blurry glass.

“Oh, Lia!” Stephanie rushes to my side, holding my limp hands in her trembling ones, the tears now running freely down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, so terribly sorry.”

“Chérie… ” Philippe sounds pained, on the verge of breaking as well.

Their compassion and emotions bounce off my chest and disappear. They’re not able to penetrate my numb state or provoke the grief that needs to be let out.

“We can get a second opinion…” Stephanie trails off when Philippe shakes his head at her.

“Can I please be alone?” I whisper in an apathetic tone that I don’t recognize.

“Are you going to be okay?” Stephanie asks.

I give a perfunctory nod.

“Call us if you need anything,” Philippe says in a voice filled with sympathy.

I can’t bring myself to move any of my limbs, so I stare at them until they go out and close the door behind them.

My gaze flits to my cast leg supported in the air. My useless broken leg that ended everything.

I never got to show the world my Giselle. She was killed before she was even born.

And with her death, all of my dreams and my coping mechanisms perished.

I tug on the leg until it falls from the wedge onto the bed. Pain explodes from it, but it’s like I’m caught in an alternate reality.

My movements are robotic—mechanical, even—as I sit up and yank the IV tube from my wrist. Droplets of blood trickle down my arm, but I can barely feel the sting.

I swing my good leg to the floor and stand on it, letting my broken one drop with a painful thud.

Dragging it behind me, I gingerly limp to the window and open it. Cold winter air flips my hair back as I pull a chair over and use it to climb onto the ledge, bringing my cast with me. Bursts of pain pulsate harder with every move, but I ignore them.

It’ll all end soon.

The freezing air filters through my flimsy hospital gown as I stare down at the moving cars. They look like ants from this height. At least ten stories up.

It’d be easy enough to finish everything, for me not to feel numb and desensitized.

One step.

One breath.

And it’ll be all over.

I’ll be free.

“Lia.”

The sound of my name with that voice scatters my thoughts for a fraction of a second. I stare over my shoulder to find Adrian standing a short distance away from me.

At first, I think he’s an illusion. That all of this is my brain’s way of seeing him one final time before everything ends.

But the pain in my cast proves this is real. The fact that he’s here, looking larger than life, as usual, with his calm expression and his black clothes and brown coat.

“Come down, Lia.” His voice is tender, gentle, in complete contradiction with the shadow casting over his face.

I shake my head once. “For nearly twenty years, I’ve only lived for ballet. Now that it’s gone, I have nothing to live for. You said it yourself, I’m lonely and have no friends or family. I only had ballet.”

“You can find other things to live for.”

I scoff. “No, I can’t.”

“You can. Circumstances shape you, but they don’t dictate your fate.” His voice lowers with a soothing undertone. “You do.”

I shake my head again as a single hot tear slides down my cheek. “It’s over.”

“Not if you have a say in it. Whether it’s ballet or anything else, you can always rewrite your own story.” He reaches a hand out, the corners of his eyes softening for the first time since I’ve met him. “I’ll