Five, six, seven, eight!
I turned on the balls of my feet, following the rhythm as Paolo's hand settled against my waist. He pulled me closer, spun me around, and caught me just as the music reached its climax.
For a second, I forgot everything.
The bills stuffed inside my bag. The tuition I hadn't paid. The fact that I had exactly twelve euros to my name and a mother who would probably ask me for every last cent of it before the night ended.
None of it mattered when I danced.
There was something about the music, the movement, the way my body seemed to understand things my mouth could never explain. On that floor, I wasn't Lauren Morano's disappointing daughter. I wasn't the girl who worked double shifts and still couldn't afford to live comfortably.
I was just Sofia.
And I was good at what I did.
The music stopped.
Applause erupted around us, and I straightened with a breathless laugh as Paolo bowed dramatically.
"Thank you, thank you. I know. I'm magnificent."
I rolled my eyes. "You nearly stepped on my foot."
"Nearly. That's what matters."
"You have the survival instincts of a cockroach."
"And yet, you keep choosing me as your partner."
"Mrs. Smith chooses our partners."
"Details, sweetheart. Details."
I laughed, shoving his shoulder before bending to collect my bag.
"Miss Morano."
My smile disappeared.
I closed my eyes briefly.
Please, God. Anybody but me.
Turning around, I found Mrs. Smith standing beside her desk, a familiar folder tucked beneath her arm.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Could you come here for a moment?"
I could practically hear my bank account laughing at me.
I walked over, trying to look less nervous than I felt.
Mrs. Smith opened the folder.
"Your outstanding tuition fees, Sofia."
I swallowed. "Yes, ma'am. I know."
"You've been saying that for three weeks."
"I know. I'm sorry."
She took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
"Sofia, you're a talented dancer. You know I wouldn't have recommended you for the national competition if I didn't believe you had potential. But this institution has expenses. I cannot keep making exceptions for you."
My stomach twisted at the mention of the competition.
The national competition.
The one I'd been working toward for years. The one that could finally get my name in front of the right people, maybe even earn me a place in a professional company.
I couldn't lose it.
Not now.
"Please, ma'am. Just until Monday. I'll get paid this weekend, and I'll bring the money first thing Monday morning."
She regarded me silently.
"I mean it. I swear I'm not trying to take advantage of you. I'm working as much as I can, but sometimes things happen, and I just need a little more time."
"Everyone has problems, Sofia."
"I know."
"Then you understand why I can't keep doing this."
My throat tightened.
"Yes, ma'am."
She closed the folder.
"Monday. That's the last extension I can give you."
Relief hit me so suddenly that I almost smiled.
"Thank you. Really, thank you so much. I won't let you down."
She nodded and walked away.
I stood there for a moment, watching her leave.
Monday.
I had until Monday to find the money, pay the rent, buy groceries, and somehow convince my life to stop falling apart.
Easy.
Absolutely bloody easy.
"Hey."
Paolo appeared beside me, holding my jacket.
"You okay?"
"Perfect."
He raised an eyebrow.
"That sounded convincing."
"I've always been a convincing liar."
"Clearly." He handed me the jacket. "Come have a drink with me."
I slipped it on. "I can't."
"Why?"
"Because I have to work."
"After work, then."
"Paolo."
"Thirty minutes, Sofia. One drink. You can even talk about how much you love me."
I snorted.
"You're delusional."
"Handsome and delusional. It's a dangerous combination."
I laughed despite myself.
He stepped closer, his expression becoming a little more serious.
"Come on. Let me take you out. You work too hard."
For a moment, I considered it.
A drink sounded lovely. So did sitting somewhere with nice music, eating something that didn't come from a cheap takeaway box, and talking to someone who didn't want money from me.
But Paolo was looking at me in that way again.
And I had a boyfriend.
"You're sweet," I told him. "But I have George."
His smile faltered.
"Right. George."
"Yes, George."
"The boyfriend who never comes to watch you dance?"
I frowned.
"He's busy."
"Of course."
"Paolo."
He held up his hands.
"I'm not saying anything."
"Your face is."
"My face is naturally expressive, sweetheart."
I shook my head, fighting a smile.
"Goodbye, Paolo."
"One day, Sofia Morano. One day, you're going to realize I'm the love of your life."
"One day, I'm going to realize I need new friends."
He laughed as I hurried toward the door.
"Monday, then! Don't forget you owe me a drink!"
I waved without turning around.
If only all my problems were as simple as rejecting a handsome man.
I was twenty minutes late to work.
Again.
My manager looked like he was preparing my funeral.
"Sofia."
"Good evening, sir."
"Don't."
I stopped beside the counter.
He pointed at the clock.
"Do you see that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Wonderful. Then perhaps you can explain why you're twenty minutes late."
"My class ran over, and I had to—"
"Your class always runs over. Your bus is always late. Something is always happening."
I pressed my lips together.
"I'm sorry."
He stared at me.
"Do you know how many people are willing to take your position?"
My fingers curled around the strap of my bag.
"Yes, sir."
"Then perhaps you should start behaving like someone who actually wants it."
"I do want it."
"Your actions suggest otherwise."
The words stung, mostly because I couldn't afford to lose the job.
I was already behind on my tuition. If I lost my salary, Monday would become a disaster, and I couldn't even imagine what my mother would do when I failed to produce the rent.
"Please," I said quietly. "I know I've been late, and I know it's frustrating. But I'm trying. I can work extra hours to make up for it. I'll come in on Sundays if you need me. Just please don't fire me."
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he sighed.
"You're a good worker when you actually show up, Sofia. That's the only reason you're still standing here."
I released a breath.
"Thank you, sir."
"Go change. And don't make me regret this."
"I won't."
I hurried into the staff room before he could change his mind.
The next few hours were hell.
A couple complained because their food arrived two minutes later than expected. An old man snapped his fingers at me every time he wanted something. Someone spilled red wine across a table I'd just cleaned, and I nearly cried when I discovered that the kitchen had run out of the one meal I'd been planning to buy for myself.
By the time my shift ended, my feet were throbbing.
I changed out of my uniform, collected my bag, and said goodbye to my colleagues.
Outside, the night air hit my face.
I checked my phone.
One message from George.
Hey, baby. Sorry, been busy. Talk tomorrow? Love you.
I stared at it.
Then I typed, Okay. Love you too.
I hesitated before sending it.
When was the last time we'd actually spoken properly? Two days ago? Three?
I couldn't remember.
I shook my head and slipped my phone into my bag.
He was going through a difficult time. He'd lost his job, and he was trying to get back on his feet. I knew that. I wasn't going to be the kind of girlfriend who abandoned someone the moment things got hard.
Besides, I loved him.
That had to count for something.
Home was only two streets away, and I didn't have enough money for a taxi.
So I started walking.
The streets were still busy, with people spilling out of bars and restaurants. Music drifted from an open doorway, and a couple passed me laughing, the woman holding a bouquet of flowers against her chest.
I watched them for a second longer than necessary.
Then I looked away.
My life wasn't going to be like this forever.
One day, I'd have my own apartment. I'd wake up whenever I wanted, make breakfast in a kitchen that belonged to me, and spend my days doing what I loved.
I'd buy beautiful clothes without checking the price tags three times. I'd travel. I'd dance on stages so big that the audience would look like a sea of stars.
And I'd never have to ask anyone for permission to live.
I was so busy imagining my future that I almost missed the footsteps behind me.
"Hey, beautiful."
I kept walking.
"Beautiful, I'm talking to you."
My fingers tightened around my bag.
I glanced over my shoulder.
Three men.
One of them grinned when our eyes met.
"Where are you going in such a hurry?"
"Home."
"Let us keep you company."
"No, thank you."
I turned away.
A hand caught the strap of my bag.
I jerked backward.
"I said no."
The man's smile disappeared.
"Don't get smart with me, sweetheart."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I yanked my bag free and ran.
"Hey!"
Their footsteps thundered behind me.
"Stop, you little bitch!"
I ran faster.
My sandals slapped against the pavement, and my bag bounced painfully against my side. I turned down a narrow street, nearly collided with a man carrying a crate, and stumbled into an alley.
Behind me, the men were still shouting.
I didn't stop.
I couldn't.
My lungs burned, my eyes watered, and I could feel tears gathering as panic tightened around my throat.
Finally, I darted behind a building and crouched beside a stack of crates.
I clamped a hand over my mouth.
Footsteps approached.
"Where the hell did she go?"
"Check the other side."
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Please.
Please, please, please.
The footsteps lingered for what felt like forever before finally fading into the distance.
I remained crouched long after the street went quiet.
When I finally stood, my knees nearly gave way.
My palm was bleeding.
I stared at the thin scratch, then at my trembling fingers.
And I laughed.
It was an ugly, breathless sound.
Because what else was I supposed to do?
Cry?
I'd already done enough of that this week.
I wiped my face, adjusted my bag, and started walking again.
Two streets.
I was only two streets away from home.
I could do this.
I always did.