Divorce After His Madness

The flashbulbs outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art were a firing squad, and I was the target. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of lilies and old money, a suffocating perfume that clung to the back of my throat. I adjusted the strap of my silk gown, my fingers trembling—a subtle vibration only a dancer would notice. I needed air. I needed silence.

I slipped away from the cacophony of the gala, finding refuge in a dimly lit VIP lounge draped in velvet and shadow. The relief was short-lived. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind me, the sound echoing like a gavel striking a block.

"Hiding, Amaya?"

Zayne Bradley. The name alone made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. He leaned against the doorframe, loosening his bow tie with a slow, predatory grace. His eyes, usually a sharp, calculating blue, were glazed and dark, swimming in a haze of bourbon and something chemical.

"I'm just taking a break, Zayne," I said, my voice steady despite the sudden erratic rhythm of my heart. "Please, move."

He didn't move. He pushed off the doorframe, the space between us shrinking with every step. "You always run," he slurred, the charm in his voice curdled into something jagged. "Tonight, you don't run."

I backed up until my calves hit the edge of a velvet sofa. "Zayne, you’re drunk. Let me leave."

"I’m not drunk," he whispered, trapping me, his hands slamming into the cushions on either side of my hips. The smell of him—expensive scotch and musk—was overwhelming. "I’m just... focused."

His hand grazed my cheek, a touch that should have been gentle but felt like a claim. I tried to shove him away, but his grip was iron. My body, trained for the grueling discipline of ballet, was useless against his brute, intoxicated weight. The protest died in my throat as his mouth crushed mine, silencing my scream. In the dim light of that lounge, the world tilted on its axis, and the music from the ballroom became a distant, mocking hum.

***

Six weeks later, the morning sun felt like an insult. I sat on the cold tile of my bathroom floor, the porcelain sink digging into my spine. The plastic stick in my hand was light, but it weighed a thousand tons. Two pink lines.

I hadn't told anyone. Not my father, whose laughter still echoed in the hallway downstairs. Not my instructors. I could barely admit it to the face in the mirror.

I gathered myself, shoving the test into the bottom of the trash, and walked into the living room. The air shifted the moment I crossed the threshold. Zayne was there. He sat in my father’s favorite leather armchair, looking entirely too comfortable, a manila folder resting on his knee.

"You look pale, Amaya," he said, his voice smooth, the monster from the gala hidden beneath a veneer of concern.

"What are you doing here? Where is my father?"

"He's at the office.