Daphne waited on the curb. She was wearing the red suit. She had pulled her hair back into a severe, sleek bun.

An engine roared.

A sleek, silver Aston Martin pulled up to the curb. It looked like a missile on wheels.

Charlton stepped out. He was wearing a fresh tuxedo, crisp and perfect.

He stopped when he saw her. His eyes widened slightly. He looked her up and down, lingering on the sharp lapels of the suit.

He opened the passenger door.

"Red suits you," he said. "It's aggressive."

"I'm done being passive," Daphne replied, sliding into the low leather seat.

Charlton got in and buckled up. "Where to first?"

"ABT," Daphne said. "I need to clear my locker before they throw my things out."

Charlton nodded. He didn't ask if she was okay. He knew she wasn't. He just put the car in gear and drove.

They wove through traffic toward Lincoln Center. The silence in the car was comfortable, heavy with shared purpose.

Daphne's phone rang.

It was connected to the car's Bluetooth. The name CAMPBELL flashed on the dashboard screen.

Charlton saw it. His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.

"You can answer," he said through gritted teeth. "I don't mind."

Daphne pressed 'Answer' on the dashboard.

"Daphne, finally," Campbell's voice filled the cabin. It was patronizing, annoyed. "Stop this tantrum."

Daphne stared at the dashboard.

"I saw you used the AMEX at the pharmacy," Campbell continued. "It declined. You're broke, Daphne."

Daphne flinched. He was tracking her. He was watching her fail.

"Come to the hotel," Campbell said, his voice softening into a fake concern. "I can help you with ABT. I know people on the board. We can fix this."

It was a bribe. He wanted her as a mistress. He wanted to keep her on the side while he married Kandice.

Charlton's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek.

Daphne looked at Charlton. Then she looked at the phone.

"I don't need your help, Campbell," she said. Her voice was steady. "I have a new manager."

"Who?" Campbell scoffed. "That loser agent of yours?"

"No," Daphne said clearly. "My fiancé."

Silence on the line.

"Fiancé? Who?" Campbell laughed nervously. "You don't have a fiancé."

"Charlton Bernard," Daphne dropped the bomb.

"Charlton?" Campbell's voice went up an octave. "The guy you friend-zoned in high school? He's a joke, Daphne. He's a mess."

Charlton didn't say a word. He just kept driving, his eyes fixed on the road, but his grip on the wheel was lethal.

"He's the man I'm marrying," Daphne said. "Goodbye, Campbell."

She pressed the red button.

The call ended.

The car was silent. The engine purred.

Charlton looked over at her. His eyes were dark, intense, and burning with something that looked like pride.

"You enjoyed that," he noted.

Daphne leaned back in the seat. A slow, genuine smile formed on her lips.

"I really did," she admitted.

They pulled up to the curb at Lincoln Center.

It was a zoo.

Paparazzi were swarming the entrance. News vans were parked illegally.

"How did they know?" Daphne asked.

"Kandice leaked your schedule," Charlton deduced instantly. "She knew you'd come for your things."

He turned off the engine.

"Ready?" he asked, offering his arm.

Daphne took a deep breath. She put on her sunglasses. She straightened her spine, engaging her core like she was about to step onto stage for Swan Lake.

"Ready."

She took his arm.

They stepped out.

The flashbulbs went crazy. A wall of white light. A cacophony of shouting.

Charlton didn't flinch. He guided her through the crowd like a bulldozer in a tuxedo. He kept his body between her and the cameras.

A reporter with a slimy grin shoved a microphone forward.

"Is it true you're a homewrecker, Ms. Flynn?"

Charlton stopped.

He turned to the camera. He pulled Daphne close, his hand splayed wide on her waist, possessive and protective.

His eyes were cold steel.

"Ms. Flynn is my fiancée," he growled. The sound was low and dangerous. "Watch your mouth."

The crowd gasped. The shutter clicks went into overdrive.

Charlton turned and swept her into the building.

The silence inside the studio was deafening.

Daphne walked down the familiar hallway. Other dancers were stretching. They stopped. They stared. Some whispered. No one said hello.

Daphne walked to her locker.

Her nameplate-Daphne Flynn, Principal-had already been removed. The sticky residue remained.

It hurt more than the glass in her foot.

She opened the locker. She packed her pointe shoes. Her leg warmers. Her lucky rosin box.

Madame Dubois, the artistic director, walked out of her office.

She stopped when she saw them.

"Daphne," Madame said stiffly. "This is... unfortunate."

"It's a misunderstanding, Madame," Daphne tried one last time. "The allegations are false."

"The Board has spoken," Madame said, checking her watch. "We cannot have the drama. It distracts from the art."

Charlton stepped forward. He towered over the petite French woman.

"When she's cleared," Charlton said, his voice echoing in the hallway, "you'll beg her back. And it will cost you double."

Madame looked at Charlton. She recognized the money. She recognized the power. She swallowed nervously.

"We shall see, Mr. Bernard." Madame turned and walked away.

Daphne zipped up her bag. She slung it over her shoulder.

She looked around the studio. The barre where she had bled. The floor where she had cried. This wasn't just a room; it was the only home she had ever truly built for herself. And now she was being evicted.

"I have nowhere to go but up now," she said softly.

Charlton squeezed her hand.

"City Hall is open until five," he said.

Daphne looked at him. She looked at the man who had picked her up off the floor, who had given her a shield when the world threw stones. The man offering her a new, albeit temporary, home.

"Let's go get married."

The air conditioning in Madame Dubois' office hummed, a mechanical drone that sounded too loud in the sudden, suffocating silence. Daphne sat in the stiff leather chair across from the mahogany desk. It was a chair she had sat in a dozen times to discuss repertoire, costumes, and dreams that felt like they belonged to another lifetime. Now, it felt like an electric chair.

Madame Dubois didn't look at her. She slid a manila folder across the polished wood. The friction sounded like a hiss.

"The Board is unanimous, Daphne," Dubois said, her French accent clipping the ends of her words. "We need your resignation."

Daphne stared at the folder. Her hands felt cold, the blood retreating to her core. She opened it. It wasn't a discussion; it was a termination agreement disguised in the polite font of a resignation letter.

"On what grounds?" Daphne asked. Her voice was steady, but her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"Moral turpitude," Dubois sighed, finally looking up. She feigned sympathy, but her eyes were flat and hard as river stones. "The scandal. The viral video of you… stumbling. The accusations of infidelity. Perception is reality in the arts, darling. Donors are pulling funding."

Daphne gripped the armrest until her knuckles turned white. "I was the victim in that video. I was the one publicly humiliated."

"It does not matter who is the victim and who is the villain," Dubois said, her voice devoid of warmth. "What matters is the noise. And you are very noisy right now."

Charlton had been a silent, dark sentinel leaning against the wall near the door. He finally spoke, his voice low, vibrating through the small room. "Which donors?" he asked. "The Rose family?"

Dubois flinched. A tiny, involuntary spasm in her cheek gave her away.

"Mr. Bernard, this is an internal ABT matter," she snapped, recovering her composure.

Charlton pushed off the wall. He walked to the desk, his movements languid but predatory. He reached down and picked up the contract, scanning the single page in seconds.

"No severance," he read aloud, his tone laced with contempt. "A non-disclosure agreement. A non-compete clause that bans her from major American and European companies for two years."

He tossed the paper back onto the desk. It slid off the polished edge and fluttered to the floor like a dead leaf.

"It's garbage," he said flatly. "She won't sign. And if you fire her without cause, we sue for wrongful termination. I'll tie this company up in litigation until your donors forget what a ballet even is."

"We have cause!" Dubois argued, her voice rising, her carefully constructed composure cracking.

"You have gossip," Charlton countered. He leaned down, placing his hands flat on the desk, looming over her. "I have the best lawyers in Manhattan. And I have deeper pockets than the Rose family."

Daphne looked at him. He wasn't just posturing. He was fighting for her career with a ferocity she had never seen him direct at anything other than a hostile takeover. He was using his privilege, his name, his aggression-all for her. A strange, unfamiliar heat bloomed in her chest.

She stood up. The leather chair scraped against the floor, a sound of finality.

"I'm not resigning, Madame," Daphne said.

Dubois looked at her, surprised by the steel in her voice.

"I will clear my name," Daphne continued, her chin high. "And when I do, I expect my solo back. I expect Swan Lake."

Dubois's gaze flickered between Daphne's defiant face and Charlton's dangerous smile. She assessed the risk.

"You have until the end-of-week board review to fix the optics, Daphne," Dubois said coldly, conceding the battle but not the war. "That's forty-eight hours. If the donors are still unhappy by then, security escorts you out. And I will personally burn your recommendation letters."

"Understood," Daphne nodded.

She turned and walked to the door. Charlton opened it for her. As he passed Dubois, he winked.

"Start drafting the apology letter, Madame."

They stepped into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing off the scent of expensive perfume and betrayal. Daphne leaned against the cool plaster wall, exhaling a long, shaky breath that emptied her lungs.

"Forty-eight hours?" she asked, looking up at him. "How do we fix a viral storm in two days? The internet doesn't forget."

Charlton checked his watch. He looked calm. Terrifyingly calm.

"We go nuclear," he said. "We don't just clear your name. We make you a star."