Chapter 4
I pull away first.
The shame like heat rash. My lips still buzz. My hands shake.
Enrique doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t chase. He just looks… furious.
“Cut it,” he snaps at the producer.
She laughs.
“Relax. America loves authenticity.”
Betrayal lands when she adds,
“And contracts.”
I back up.
“No,” I say. “That wasn’t—”
Janet appears like she’s been summoned from the shadows.
Her smile is sharp.
“You kissed a national fantasy,” she says. “Do you have any idea what you just did for your numbers?”
I stare at her.
Enrique steps in front of me. Protective. Unplanned.
“She didn’t consent to being filmed,” he says.
The producer raises a brow.
“She consented to the show.”
Silence.
That’s when I realize something worse than being used.
I signed this.
They don’t air the kiss.
Not yet.
I’m still scared. Because I know it exists. Somewhere. Waiting.
Fear creep back in during rehearsal the next day. Enrique is distant. Controlled. Professional to a fault.
A monitor flickers on.
Footage rolls.
Not the kiss.
A slowed-down clip of my stumble from week one.
The judges’ voices layered over it.
“She’s not a dancer.”
“She’s lucky to still be here.”
Janet doesn’t look at me.
