Chapter 6 - The Ex-Partner
The loft in the West Loop was spacious, featuring exposed brick walls, polished concrete floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the industrial rooftops of the district.
Sitting on the leather sofa near the window, holding a crystal glass of bourbon, was a tall, handsome man in his late thirties. He wore an immaculate charcoal suit, his hair styled to perfection, a gold Rolex gleaming on his wrist.
Julian Mercer.
When the front door closed behind Ethan and me, Julian set his glass down on the glass coffee table and stood up. A familiar, oily smile spread across his handsome face—the exact same smile he used to give the judges before sweeping onto the floor.
"Clara," Julian said, his voice dripping with theatrical warmth as he took a step toward me. "Look at you. Twelve years, and you haven't aged a single day."
"Don't come near me, Julian," I said, my voice flat, holding my position near the door.
Julian paused, holding his hands up in a playful gesture of surrender. "Still fierce, I see. Always so dramatic, Clara. Though I must say, serving champagne to billionaires? Really? That’s where the great Clara Vance ended up?"
"She ended up there because you stole her life," Ethan said coldly, stepping beside me, his tall frame dwarfing Julian's lean build.
Julian looked Ethan up and down, his smile tightening into a subtle sneer. "Ah, the billionaire’s son. Ethan Ashford. Your father's fixer gave me a call last night. Five hundred thousand dollars for a three-page affidavit detailing Clara’s 'unstable behavior' in Vienna. That’s a lot of money, Mr. Ashford. Enough to secure the lease on my new dance studio in Manhattan."
"You haven't signed it yet," I said, looking into Julian's eyes. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be sitting in Ethan's loft."
Julian’s smirk vanished, replaced by the calculating glare of a predator evaluating its prey.
"You always were the smart one, Clara," Julian said, walking slowly toward the center of the room. "No, I haven't signed it. Yet. Because I wanted to see what you had to offer first."
"I don't have five hundred thousand dollars, Julian," I said calmly.
"I know you don't," Julian chuckled. "You don't have a dime. But you have something much more valuable. You have the spotlight."
He spread his arms, gesturing toward the windows.
"The entire world is talking about you today, Clara! The Grand Prix organizers called me two hours ago! They want us for an exhibition dance at the International Gala in London next month! The 'Reunion of the Decades'! We can demand a two-million-dollar performance fee! We can get back everything we lost!"
I stared at him in utter disbelief. He hadn't changed at all. To Julian, my pain, my broken ankle, my twelve years of hiding, and Walter Ashford's smear campaign were nothing more than promotional tools for his own resurrection.
"You dropped me, Julian," I said softly, every word laced with the iron weight of twelve years of truth. "In Vienna. You were high on prescription painkillers during our dress rehearsal. You missed the catch on the high lift, dropped me onto the hardwood floor, and then bribed the venue manager to destroy the security tape so your sponsors wouldn't find out."
Julian’s face went completely pale. He glanced nervously at Ethan, who was watching him with cold, predatory eyes.
"You... you can't prove that," Julian stammered, his confident posture fracturing. "That tape was destroyed twelve years ago."
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I reached into my trench coat, pulled out a small, silver USB drive, and held it up between my thumb and forefinger.
"The venue manager didn't destroy it, Julian," I said quietly. "He made a copy. And he sold it to me three years ago for ten thousand dollars—every single penny I had saved working as a dishwasher."
