Chapter 1
My heel snaps sideways on live television.
The music doesn’t stop.
The lights don’t soften.
Someone yells my name in my ear like it’s a command.
“Sarah—keep going.”
Not pain.
Not fear.
Humiliation.
Millions of people watching me almost fall on a stage that isn’t mine.
I recover. Barely. Muscle memory kicks in where confidence doesn’t. I hit the next count late. I feel it. So does everyone else.
The judges’ table is a blur of teeth and judgment.
My partner—Damien—doesn’t look at me. He’s already correcting. Already moving on. Already proving this is my mistake, not his.
I follow. I always do.
God why is the sequin dress so tight.
When the camera sweeps past us and I catch my own reflection in the mirrored wall.
I don’t look like a dancer.
I look like a girl who wandered onto the wrong stage.
The routine ends.
Applause crashes down. Loud. Manufactured. Brutal.
The host smiles her big white fake teeth too wide and says,
“Sarah Shar—America’s sweetheart—survived her first stumble.”
Survived.
Like I was supposed to fall.
Backstage smells like fake tan and cheap holiday perfume.
Embarrassment clings to my skin. Someone from hair pats my arm like I’m fragile. Someone else whispers, “You did great,” which means I didn’t.
Isolation thickens when I check my phone.
Janet.
My agent.
I don’t.
He shows up instead—uninvited.
Enrique.
He’s leaning against the wall like gravity doesn’t apply to him. Black tank. Damp hair. Eyes that know exactly where every camera is even when there isn’t one.
America’s bad boy pro dancer.
He doesn’t smile.
He looks at me like I’m something unexpected.
“That was rough,” he says.
Honest. No sugar. Great. Not.
I nod.
“Yeah.”
Silence stretches.
Then he leans in just enough that only I can hear him.
“You weren’t supposed to be with Damien.”
My stomach drops.
Betrayal lands clean and sharp.
“What?” I ask.
He straightens. The moment disappears like it never happened.
“Nothing,” he says. “Good luck next week, Sarah Shar.”
And then—because the universe hates subtlety—Damien screams.
A real scream.
We all turn.
He’s on the floor. White-faced. Hands gripping his leg. The medic swears under their breath.
Someone says, “It’s broken.”
The producer’s eyes snap to me.
Calculation.
Opportunity.
How do they sell this moment.
And suddenly I understand something terrible.
This show didn’t cast me by accident.
And Enrique didn’t say my name by coincidence.
Because as Damien is wheeled past me, and the cameras scramble, and the audience noise spikes—
The host’s voice booms from the stage.
“Looks like America is about to get a brand-new pairing.”
And Enrique looks straight at me.
Like he already knew.I don’t.
He shows up instead—uninvited.
Enrique.
He’s leaning against the wall like gravity doesn’t apply to him. Black tank. Damp hair. Eyes that know exactly where every camera is even when there isn’t one.
America’s bad boy pro dancer.
He doesn’t smile.
He looks at me like I’m something unexpected.
“That was rough,” he says.
Honest. No sugar. Great. Not.
I nod.
“Yeah.”
Silence stretches.
Then he leans in just enough that only I can hear him.
“You weren’t supposed to be with Damien.”
My stomach drops.
Betrayal lands clean and sharp.
“What?” I ask.
He straightens. The moment disappears like it never happened.
“Nothing,” he says. “Good luck next week, Sarah Shar.”
And then—because the universe hates subtlety—Damien screams.
A real scream.
We all turn.
He’s on the floor. White-faced. Hands gripping his leg. The medic swears under their breath.
Someone says, “It’s broken.”
The producer’s eyes snap to me.
Calculation.
Opportunity.
How do they sell this moment.
And suddenly I understand something terrible.
This show didn’t cast me by accident.
And Enrique didn’t say my name by coincidence.
Because as Damien is wheeled past me, and the cameras scramble, and the audience noise spikes—
The host’s voice booms from the stage.
“Looks like America is about to get a brand-new pairing.”
And Enrique looks straight at me.
Like he already knew.
