19. Cameron

CHAPTER 19

CAMERON

"Mr. Stevens, my office, please?"

Halfway through rehearsal, and he needs to talk to me right now? And he called me Mr. Stevens?

This can't be good.

I hide my mortification at getting called out in front of the whole company by wiping my face with a towel when I go to my bag to retrieve my water bottle. I'm not about to run out of here like my ass is on fire, which I'm pretty sure is what he expects me to do.

He hasn't been getting what he expects out of me lately, though. At some point, he should get used to having new expectations.Maybe he’s finally getting the memo that I don’t belong to him.

Daphne meets my eye when I pass her, looking worried. It's the same expression she's been wearing since our opening night performance on Thursday, when her entire dressing room was filled to the brim with red and pink roses. I suppose we know why Emile found it so important to have his wallet at the florist last week. There had to have been thousands of dollars’ worth of long stem roses, crystal vases, and silk ribbon. I witnessed her shock and discomfort at the gesture, and worried when I caught her gaze as Emile entered her dressing room and closed the door behind him.

I was wrong about her. Daphne is not like me at all. I walked into Emile's web willingly, half begging for his attention and approval. I voluntarily got on my knees for him because I wanted to show him how thankful I was. I let him fuck me because I wanted him to feel something for me. Eventually, it all became an obligation and expectation that I followed through with because it wasn't worth whatever troubles would arise if I didn't. I didn't want him to be snippier than usual with me, or to hear him complain about how stressed he was. So I just let things happen, and it became the norm.

I let it happen. And I wanted it, in the beginning at least.

Daphne doesn't. She might have been curious and enjoying the flirtations in the beginning, but now he's moved full speed ahead and she looks like a deer trapped in headlights.

The moment that door closed, I marched right up to her dressing room and banged on her door with a falsified emergency. And Friday and Saturday, as exhausting as it was, I found ways to distract him without also compromising myself.

He might not have figured it out yet, but I'll never get on my knees for him again. Although, he might be catching on, as I haven't once allowed myself to be alone with him. I’ve only spent the mandatory class and rehearsal hours in the studio and not a moment more. I've also left directly after the meet and greets, telling him I was far too tired to attend any after parties with him, and making my escape when others are around so he couldn’t demand answers from me about where I’ve been.

I’ve been with Dom. Training, watching him box, dancing for him, teaching him ballet, teaching him other things…

He's a quick study, and willing to do things I’ve never experienced with any other so-called straight or questioning guy. In almost every case, they want to top me, but Dom refuses. Not because he doesn’t want to. He definitely wants to, but he doesn’t want to hurt me. It’s both infuriating and heart achingly touching. I’ve never been with someone who cared this much about my wellbeing. In fact, now that I have something to compare it to, I’ve never been with anyone who cared at all. Outside of my string of once-offs, the few relationships I’ve had have been one sided and short-lived stints with cruel men who made me feel bad about myself.

Dom, on the other hand, makes me feel like I can fly. It’s because of him that I can walk out of this room with my head held high and the knowledge that I am strong enough to withstand anything Emile says to me.

Speak of the devil…

"Took you long enough," he snaps when I make it into the hallway to follow him onto the elevator.

"What is this about, Emile? Is there an emergency?"

"Yes, there is actually. An emergency that will likely determine your future as a dancer."

When the elevator doors open, he stomps to his office like a petulant child. I notice Belinda isn't at her desk, and for once, I wish the judgy bitch was here to witness whatever is about to happen.

Flinging the door to his office open so hard I'm afraid the frosted glass will shatter, he snaps and points to a seat. "Sit."

Pick and choose your battles, Cameron. Pick and choose your battles.

I clench my jaw and sit. And wait. While Emile leans on his desk and stares at me.

I know he knows. I'm not sure how, but he knows I met with Marissa.

"Meet up with any old friends lately?"

Bingo.

"She is my friend. She's maybe the only friend I've had here, since you've ostracized me from the rest of the company. I wanted to check on her, see how she's holding up."

"She is no friend of yours."

"You ruined her life. Over a perceived slight. She just wanted to go home to be with her family."

"She wanted to turn my dancers against me."

"No. She wanted to warn a very green, impressionable young woman about the viper's pit she was walking into. She never once mentioned your name. You're the one that assumed she was talking about you."

"Is that what she told you?"

"She has no reason to lie about this."

"And I suppose you also believe whatever poison she is filling your mind with, too?"

I sigh heavily. "No one is trying to fill my mind with poison, Emile. You are being paranoid."

"What about Heath, then? What did Mr. Marshall have to say about his circumstance. What was his sob story?"

My gaze narrows on Emile's knowing glare. He could infer that I would have met with Marissa based on our being friends, but how does he know Heath was there?

Emile picks up a folder and tosses some photos at me. Photos of Marissa, Heath, and me at a coffee shop on the other side of the city. I can just make out the full-leg brace around Heath’s right leg, the one he had to have put back together with a metal rod and several pins. He’ll never dance again.

"Which one of us are you having followed?" I ask.

Without removing his hard glare from mine, he throws some more photos at me. Photos of me running with Dom. Photos of us sneaking a kiss behind some trees in the park. Photos of us through the windows of his apartment. Not much can be seen in those, but I know what was happening when those photos were taken, and anyone could make an educated guess.

My entire body flushes hot, not so much out of embarrassment, but out of rage.

"I don't even know where to begin," I say.

"Why don't you start with whatever Heath told you? And then we can move on to how long you've been fucking your uncle."

"Heath didn't tell me anything. And Dom is not my uncle. He's my step uncle. It's… different."

"If you say so, Cameron. Either way, you are cheating on me with a much, much older man who is part of your family, is he not?"

"Cheating on you? We'd have to be in a relationship for it to be considered cheating."

"And what has this been to you?"

"Manipulation. Warped intimidation. Exploitation. Degradation."

"Degradation? Please. As if you weren't willing to give it up to anyone who so much as looked at you twice."

"You use your position as the owner of this company to exploit people."

" C'est n'importe quoi . Prove it."

"You're paying off Heath. He didn't tell me that, by the way, that was something I figured out on my own. Also, by the terms of our own contract, you should have been paying me for the performances where I was listed and performed as principal dancer. Yet you refuse to call me anything other than an intern because you are trying to get away with not paying me as a means of control. You sent thousands of dollars of floral arrangements to an eighteen-year-old girl's dressing room and hover around her like a predator?—"

"You are jealous."

"No. I feel sorry for her. If she wasn't so young and innocent, I'd be glad to let someone else have your attention."

"Glad? After everything I have done for you? I gave you a job, a life! You were nothing but a low-rent slut before I found you. I should have taken you up on your offer that night, and then left you with the rest of the trash. It would have been a better use of my time." He assesses me for a moment, a cruel grin spreading over his face. "Although, who else could I have used as a—how do you say it?—a cum dumpster? Yes, that you are good at. Oh, don't be so uptight, Cameron. Everyone knows. I make sure they do. It's how I keep you in your place."

Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.

"It's time for you to get back to rehearsal, Mr. Stevens. I expect you in my office and on your knees where you belong the moment you are showered, otherwise these photos might find their way to the paparazzo. What a shame that would be for Mr. Connor's reputation, would it not?"

I walk away sick to my stomach.

I nearly drop Daphne three times during what remains of rehearsal, and fumble through the steps I know by heart. Everything feels like too much. It's too loud, too bright. My skin is itchy. My thoughts are too much, but not decipherable at all.

The plan I had formed in the back of my mind is nothing but a jumbled mess. I can gamble with my own future, but to risk Dom's? I need to talk to him.He’ll know what to do, or at least be able to talk me down from the edge I feel like I’m standing on.

In the locker room, I search through my bag but can't find my phone. I didn't take it out during rehearsal. Maybe I left it in the car?

I glance towards the showers. It's unusually quiet in here. On performance days most people go home to rest before warmups, but usually everyone showers first. There are only seven men in our dance corps, enough that an empty locker room seems suspicious.

Alarm bells are going off in my head.

I need to go to Dom and let him know about the photos before I do anything too rash. Maybe I'll leave now, text Emile from the car and tell him I'm not feeling well. He'll know it's a lie, but at least then I can pretend that I'm not outright ignoring his instruction. Hopefully, within the next few hours I can make a new plan.

I'm just pulling my bag over my shoulder when the door slams open. Mark and Theo thunder in like they're on a mission.

"What's going on?"

"Emile sent us to make sure you're a good boy and follow his instructions. We thought you'd be done showering by now." Theo looks me up and down. "Apparently not." He looks at Mark and nods.

They come at me from both sides, each grabbing an arm. I'm not weak. Even being several inches shorter and far thinner, I could take either of these guys on their own, but both at the same time?

With their arms hooked under mine, they haul me into the showers, ripping a curtain off one of the wide stalls. The water comes down in a harsh, freezing cold stream that beats against my face. I sputter and force myself not to panic like I'm being waterboarded, but not panicking doesn't mean I don't shout for them to get the fuck off me and leave me alone. They don't though. They hold me under the cold spray, and at some point, even try to strip me out of my workout attire, but they give up when my kicking and screaming, plus the difficulty of removing wet lycra, deters them. I'll be damned if they're going to humiliate me in that way. When they're satisfied that I'm clean enough, they drag me out of the locker rooms. I struggle to get out of their hold as we're getting on the elevator, but my face gets smashed into the wall for my efforts. It jars my already shaky sense of balance, and I give up fighting. Despite my cooperation, they both keep a rough hold on my arms and practically drag me into Emile's office.

Belinda's desk is still empty. When is the last time I remember seeing her? Thursday, maybe? After the flower incident. She and I made eye contact after Emile walked into Daphne's dressing room and closed the door. She looked down at her phone and said, "Oh, look at that. It looks like the Mayor needs to talk to Mr. Alistar about the special performance." And then she left.

Mark all but kicks the door open and they push me into the office. Whether they meant to or not, they push me a bit more forcibly than I can handle in a weakened state, and I land on my hands and knees. Blood drips on the fibers of the plush, white rug. My gym bag thuds to the ground next to me.

" Merde . Are you serious? I asked you to retrieve him, not bloody him."

"That was an accident."

"And why is he wet?"

"You wanted him to shower."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"He put up too much of a struggle. It wouldn't work."

What the fuck are they talking about?

"You are both useless idiots. Get out!" he barks, exaggerating his French accent. He does that when he's really pissed, or trying to put on a good show. So which is this?

"What the hell was that?" I demand, getting to my feet.

"A simple misunderstanding. Come, let me check your nose," he says, gesturing for me to sit.

"You hate blood."

"Yes, but I have to check that you are alright," he says exasperatedly. This whole conversation is eerily normal. After sending Mark and Theo to manhandle me and force me to come here, he's acting like everything is exactly as it should be. I let him examine my face, if only because I don't know how to react. I'm frozen in self-preservation. He wipes the blood away with a tissue and holds my chin to look at him. "I do not think it is broken. Makeup should cover this fine for tonight."

"Tonight?" I'd assumed that having me forcibly dragged in here was to fire me and make threats.

He sighs and sits down in the seat next to me. "I am sorry I overreacted. Things have not been going my way and, as you know, I do not respond well to conflict."

"So you sent goons to beat me up and waterboard me?"

Emile tsks. "I swear to you, that was not what I sent them to do. I only asked them to check on you and make sure you come to see me directly—so I could apologize. I acted like a monster in my jealousy. It is not excusable."

I look away, my eyelashes fluttering closed. I don't want to look at him. "Why would you care how your personal cum dumpster feels about anything?"

"I said that in anger."

"That doesn't excuse that you said it. It doesn't excuse anything."

"You are angry with me."

"Yes!" I yell. "Yes, I'm angry with you. You've acted reprehensibly. You're doing shady stuff simply because you can get away with it, treating people poorly, treating me poorly."

"Come, mon cheri ," he says soothingly, getting to his knees in front of me. I flinch away from him when he tries to hold my hands, so he rests his hands on my thighs instead. It's unlike him to grovel. The strangeness of the gesture has me paying close attention to his expressions and mannerisms, trying to figure out what it is he wants from me. "I am sorry. Truly. Let me make it up to you. Come with me, please."

Forehead creased with confusion, I look down at myself. "I'm not exactly fit to go anywhere, Emile." I'm still soaking wet, and there's blood soaked into the front of my shirt.

Emile makes a face. "Yes. Why don't you use my private bathroom to clean up first? Then we will go for a little walk." He notices my hesitation. "Please, Cameron. Believe me, I do not want things between us to be like this. We have much to talk about. Some fresh air will help us to keep our tempers, yes?"

I nod warily and get up to walk towards the bathroom. My bag is still on the floor where the assholes left it, so I take it with me for a change of clothes. Even though I lock the door behind me, I don't feel comfortable taking a shower. Instead, I settle for cleaning my face and hair in the sink, put on extra deodorant, and quickly change my clothes. When I step out, Emile is waiting for me with a smile on his face, and an envelope in his hand. I steal glances at the envelope all the way out of the building and into the nearby park. Emile is right. It is a nice day and the walk is refreshing in a way, but I'm incredibly on edge. He hasn't said a word, and I don't want to be the one to break the silence. I feel a bit like I'm walking a tightrope, waiting for the man I saw earlier today to make a reappearance. Hopefully, being in public puts us on safer ground.

Finally, Emile gestures to a bench, guiding me over with a hand on my lower back, then sitting too close. I'd like to put space between us, but I'm terrified to set him off.

"This is for you."

I stare at the envelope for several long moments before taking it from his hand. He gestures excitedly, encouraging me to open it.

Inside, there are two sheets of paper. The first is my application for the World Dance Competition. The second is a handwritten letter, written on De Pointe Elite stationery.

"I don't understand…"

"That is a personal recommendation letter from me. I have hired a videographer to make sure you have a professional recording of what I have no doubt will be your most spectacular performance tonight."

"You…" I'm actually speechless. "What made you change your mind?"

"You would not be dancing in my company if you were not talented enough. It was my own selfishness and pride that caused me to react so poorly. I…" he looks away, thinking of the right words to say. "I was afraid you would leave me. Seeing that picture of you and Mr. Connor—it made me feel very bad. I am not used to being the jealous one. I don't like it."

Involuntarily, a huff of laughter escapes me. "What about Daphne? All the intimate moments I've walked in on, filling her dressing room with roses? Why are you chasing her if you're worried about me leaving you?"

"I am not interested in that little girl, mon cheri . I was stupidly trying to make you jealous. But instead of spicing things up, it drove you into another man's arms."

"You thought making me jealous would spice things up?"

He purses his lips. "You have not been as enthusiastic as you once were."

"Maybe because I was feeling used."

"How is that possible? Do I not take you to nice places, give you presents? Have I not made you my star?"

I sigh, my thoughts jumbled. It's not that I don't appreciate what he's given me. I recognize I am spoiled in a lot of ways, but how do I explain to a man whose ego is so fragile that he doesn't give me what I need on a physical or emotional level?

My hands trace the edge of the envelope. "I don't like the way you parade me around in front of others," I tell him in a small voice. "It makes me feel cheap and worthless. Exactly how your words made me feel this morning."

"I have apologized for that already! How long will you hold this over my head?"

Swallowing, I nod down at the ground. "You're right. I just need some time and space to process."

Emile stands and holds his arm out to me, like we're two genteel members of society out for a promenade. Keeping my eye roll to myself, I humor him, and we walk back to the De Pointe Elite building in silence. There's not much time before the company class and warmups for tonight's performance. I barely ate breakfast this morning since I'd rolled out of bed so late, and there's not been a chance to eat lunch during all this drama. Hopefully, I have time for a power bar or at least a protein shake when we get back.

When we make it back, I try to excuse myself to go to my locker, but Emile herds me into the elevator with him. He doesn't try anything inappropriate, but he keeps his arms wrapped around me from behind, pinning me to his chest. I don’t fight it. My bag is in his office. I'll need to get it before I head back to the dressing rooms, anyway.

The elevator comes to a stop, and Emile covers my eyes.

"What are you doing?" I ask, trying to disguise my irritation. I thought cold Emile was hard to deal with, but clingy Emile is making my skin crawl.

"Shush," he laughs. "Just trust me."

I can't see anything other than some fuzzy streaks of light through his hands over my eyes, but I hear the commotion as he guides me around. When he uncovers my hands, I startle back against his chest as a loud chorus of "Surprise!" is shouted at me. Emile laughs and holds me around the waist, kissing the side of my head and my cheek and neck. The majority of the company is here, clapping and cheering with varying levels of fake enthusiasm. They're standing around a large sheet cake that says, "Congratulations!". It doesn't say congratulations for what, though, and I have no idea what is happening.

A woman in a skirt suit steps forward with a folder, and I recognize her as part of Emile's legal team. Julia, I think her name is? She was present when I signed my first contract. What is she doing here?

Emile takes the folder from her with an exaggerated bow and presents it to me. Inside the folder is an employment contract for a principal dancer. He's making it official?

After everything that happened this morning, this feels out of nowhere. It looks like a standard contract, but I can't help but have doubts about whether this is really happening, or how much of myself I'll be signing away if I go through with this. And if I don't, will I ever dance on a stage like this again?

Emile brandishes a pen at me. I plaster a fake smile on my face and lean up to kiss him lightly on the cheek. "Thank you. I'm going to read and sign this when it's a little less overwhelming," I tell him. Before he can look too disappointed, I hug it to my chest. "It means so much to me." Hopefully, that covers up any doubts I might be having.

He lets it go, but there's a glimmer of something in his eye that feels dangerous. A warning not to cross him. A reminder of what he's capable of?

Pieces of cake get passed out. When a large piece is passed my way, I take it gratefully, but at the first taste of the overly sweet frosting, I know it'll just make me sick. When I set the plate down after only one bite, Emile nods approvingly. The distinctive pop of a bottle of champagne startles several people. There's laughter and glasses are passed around. A glass is put in my hand. None of the glasses are quite half full.

"Just a little taste for now, as we must get ready for the production. Afterwards the real celebration will begin," Emile promises and then gestures for everyone to raise their glass. He takes my hand, kisses it, and brings me into the middle of the crowd of people. "To our own Cameron Stevens, a talent unlike any other, and our newest principal dancer at De Pointe Elite !"

"To Cameron!"

Somehow the empty champagne bottle ends up in my hand, and camera phones are flashing everywhere. It's a whirl of people, and laugher, and activity. And then suddenly, it's just me, Emile, and Julia left in the conference room.

"I should go get ready for the show. Makeup is going to need extra time."

"I thought you'd want to sign first, since Julia is here to witness. Make it official so you can get your first official paycheck for your first official performance, and all that."

"Oh… Um… I, uh, I'm still feeling a bit overwhelmed. I haven't eaten much today, so I admit I'm feeling a little fuzzy. Even that one sip of champagne is making me feel a little off kilter." I swallow nervously. "I'd really like some time to read this with my full attention. I totally understand that I wouldn't be paid for tonight's appearance."

"You still don't trust me?" Emile says, looking somewhere between stricken and incredulous.

"It's not that at all," I stutter. "I just want the moment I sign my first real contract to be special. Something I can remember properly."

"The contract is valid for thirty days," Julia says curtly, then gives both me and Emile a friendly nod.

"I will see you out, Julia. I have another matter I'd like to bend your ear about," Emile says. He gives me a short, assessing look. "Cameron, I suggest you hurry to class and warmups. You'll be tardy if you don't run now."

And just like that, I'm dismissed.

Midway through the performance, and I'm struggling.

I should have eaten something. Or maybe gone for another banana bag.

The moment the curtain drops for intermission, Daphne is by my side. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just… I’m so sorry. I know that was a close call on that last lift."

"I could feel your arms shaking. And you’re really pale, Cameron." Her heavily lined eyes are wide and afraid. And while she could be pissed that I almost dropped her not five minutes ago, she's worrying over me instead.

"Can we get some water over here, please?" She leads me to my dressing room and sits with me on the small loveseat.

"What is going on in here?" Emile demands, rushing through the door just as one of the crew hands Daphne a bottle of water. "Daphne, darling, you must go change. I will look after Cameron."

She hands me the blessedly cool water bottle before patting my shoulder and making her way out. My hands are shaking so badly, I struggle with the water bottle.

"Here, let me," Emile says, taking the bottle from me.

"Sorry. I think I forgot to eat lunch in all the excitement today."

"You'll need more than just this, then. One moment." He shouts out the door while I gulp the water down. A few minutes of tense silence later, someone hands him a sports drink and a protein bar. "Don't eat it too fast or you'll be sick."

He watches me for a moment before stepping just outside the door again. I overhear him tell someone to get Travis, my understudy, ready in the wings. Shit. This can't be happening.

I eye the black blouse I'm supposed to change into, hanging on a rack next to the couch. I reach for it, feeling the gauzy fabric while I think about what I'm going to do. This entire day has been a clusterfuck, but I'm determined to have one thing go right. I can finish this show, and then I’ll have the next few days to rest. There's only one more really hard piece left, and it's the piece I most wanted to use for my audition tape. The professional videographer is here and everything.

When Emile steps back inside, I've already changed. I finished the sports drink and the protein bar, and I'm already feeling a little better.

"I think my blood sugar was just low. I'm fine now."

He eyes me dubiously. "You are sure?" His stare conveys the seriousness of the situation. If I go back out there and screw this up, it could be career-ending. Worse than that, I could hurt someone. But the sugar and protein seem to have done the trick. I've stopped shaking, and my heart rate has slowed. I think I'm okay.

Except I'm not.

As soon as I've stood up and taken the three steps it takes to get to the door, I stumble. The entire room spins as I lurch forward. There are gasps and screams as I fall flat on my face.

The last thing I see before the room blurs is Emile looking down at me, shaking his head in disappointment.