“Let yourself out when you’re done, I need to be somewhere,” I call over my shoulder as I leave and make my way into town. My father was rarely here, so no one other than Blythe would miss me tonight.
Every Friday night, Elena comes down to the dance studios in town and stays there until it's time to lock up. I first saw her a couple of months ago, by accident when I was leaving Blythe’s family's bookshop. I followed her because it was dark, and I was curious, but since then it’s become somewhat of an addiction.
I actually bought an apartment in the building opposite, dipping into the trust fund my mother left me when she died so that I could watch through the window as Elena unleashed everything she kept bottled up. Every plié, every pirouette was dripping in anger. With each sweep of her elegant arms, she regained her control and her composure but not before she lost it. She was completely absorbed in the music, in her emotions, and it was hypnotic. She was the perfect person on paper, beautiful, smart, poised, class president, cheerleading captain, on the debate team—everything the daughter of the mayor should be. But in reality, she was forcing herself to be something she wasn’t. She was desperate to lose control, to give into the dark side, but she couldn’t. For that, I hated Randolph Montgomery, he made her into a pretty little doll, a puppet dancing for him. I grin to myself, opening a can of beer as I watch her move into an arabesque position, with her leg in a straight line behind her. I was going to cut those pretty little strings soon enough, and then she’d be free.
She dances for hours, switching between ballet, street, and contemporary. Her body is slick with sweat and clearly exhausted, but her facade is back firmly in place as she closes up and locks the door. I can’t make myself leave. Instead, I wait, pulling on my jacket, tugging the hood up, and following her home in the darkness. I hate that she walks home alone, where is her overbearing daddy now when it’s almost one a.m.? I stay on her tail until she buzzes herself into the gate at her mansion and disappears behind the stone walls.
This town is fucked up in its priorities, and that’s why I refuse to be a good little boy for my father. It doesn’t matter if I fuck it up, I can just throw money at it and the problem goes away, so where is the incentive to work hard like Elena? Once I get home, I’m not ready to sleep, even though it's almost two a.m. instead I head up to the attic rooms.
My mother died when I was seven, leaving me behind with a man who couldn’t stand the sight of me. Kathleen Radcliffe had been an artist, painting, sculpting, and taking photos of anything that made her smile, and some would say that I’ve inherited her talent. I think that’s bullshit because art is hard work. It’s bleeding onto the paper, imbuing it with everything you have, and then hating it all anyway. It’s something I’ve been practising since I was a child, and whenever I see Lena dance, I want to paint.
I set up a blank canvas, light a joint and grab my oil paints. Turning on my music, I lose myself. The long lines of her body, the gentle slope of her neck, the way her back arches as she moves, the anger on her face. I paint her. I devour the memory of her. Her wispy blonde hair clinging to her damp skin as her chest heaves from the exertion. I catalogue it all in my mind. The fire in her eyes as she tries to keep her composure, the way her mouth twitches as she thinks about me. I always have that effect on her, and I knew when I stopped her in the coffee shop earlier she would need to dance tonight more than usual.
Elena was my friend once, when we were little kids. We were the children of two of the most influential families in Silvercrest, of course we were going to be thrown together at every major event, and in the beginning, I thought we had found solace with each other as we shared knowing looks and eye rolls at our parents. As we got older, it became more obvious what our families had in store for us, and that’s when she started pushing me away.
Dawn light filters in through the window, and I sit back to look at what I’ve created. I may not have painted all the facial details in, but it was her. Everyone in The Society knew that she was mine, but they didn’t seem to realize that I was hers too. I didn’t want Lena to marry me because she had to, I wanted her to want it, and that’s why I was changing the game a little. I was going to take that hate she had and turn it into something more. I started small, just hanging out where I knew she would be. Today wasn’t a fluke, I knew she’d be in the coffee shop, and as much as she pretended Blythe didn’t bother her, I saw the look in her eyes. I saw the rage simmering beneath the surface. I was going to keep bringing that temper out until Lena faced it and saw it for what it was.
Chapter Three
Elena
The week has been dragging painfully, and it’s only Wednesday. The need to head to the dance studio keeps calling me, making my skin itch as I try to hold out until Friday. My family owned the studio but rented it out to a dance school that allowed me to use it when I wanted. Fridays were the quietest days,
