Chapter 263
Chapter 263:
I stood. My shirt dripped. I picked up the glass of fresh orange juice from my special tray.
“You missed a spot,” I said.
I threw the juice. Not at her clothes—at her face.
Pulp and liquid splashed into her eyes. Whitney screamed, clawing at her face, blinded.
“My eyes! It burns p>
“Oops,” I deadpanned. “Gravity p>
The room erupted. Chairs scraped back. Miles rushed forward to hold Whitney as she flailed blindly.
“That’s enough!” Grace blew her whistle, stepping in at last. She looked at me, and there was a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. This was the drama she wanted.
“Clean this up,” Grace ordered. “Sterling, go change. Training starts in ten minutes p>
I wiped my sticky hand with a linen napkin, then dropped it onto Whitney’s sobbing form.
“Keep the change,” I said.
I walked out of the cafeteria, my heart hammering, adrenaline flooding my system.
Back in my room, my hands shook slightly as I peeled off the wet shirt.
I reached under my pillow for a fresh hair tie.
My fingers brushed paper.
I froze and pulled it out.
It was a small, folded note. It must have been slipped into the medicine bag Felix delivered.
Watch your six. The blonde is the least of your worries. – A Friend.
I recognized the handwriting immediately—the sharp, angular strokes.
Felix Carter.
Alistair hadn’t just sent Felix to deliver pills. He had flexed his power as a new shareholder to place his own people on the security detail, or at least to ensure they had access.
I crushed the note in my hand, a sudden wave of warmth flooding my chest. He was here. He was watching.
I wasn’t alone in the shark tank.
I had a shark of my own in the water.
𝗥o𝗆𝖺ո𝘤e n𝗈𝗏е𝘭𝘴 𝗈𝗻 𝖻el𝗇о𝘷е𝘭𝘀.cо𝘮
The afternoon session was in the dance studio. One wall was entirely mirrored, reflecting the sullen, angry faces of the trainees.
Whitney had washed her face, but her eyes were still red and puffy. She stood at the front, glaring at me in the reflection.
“You think money buys talent?” she hissed as we stretched. “You think because you can run, you belong here p>
“I am the investment,” I said, checking my nails. “I bought the stage, Whitney. I didn’t buy the talent. I brought it p>
The arrogance of the statement made Tiffany gasp.
The instructor clapped his hands. He was a famous choreographer, a man known for making grown men cry.
“Today we do high-tempo,” he said. “Precise. Sharp. Like a knife fight p>
He demonstrated a complex routine: fast footwork, sharp isolations, a difficult spin.
“Group one p>
Whitney, Tiffany, and three others stepped up. The music started—heavy bass, fast beat.
Whitney was good. I had to give her that. Her movements were sharp, aggressive. She danced with anger, and it worked. She finished with a flourish, chest heaving, looking triumphant. She smirked at me.
“Top that, Investment p>
“Sterling!” the instructor called. “Center p>