Chapter 2

My father was waiting outside when I arrived.

A white bandage still covered my palm, but he never asked me to explain that either.

He didn’t ask why I had left Julian.

He didn’t ask why it had taken me seven years to come home.

He simply took the suitcase from my hand, looked at the ballet shoes pressed against my chest, and said, "Your studio is still there."

Those words nearly broke me.

Seven years ago, I had walked away from my father after he begged me not to give up my career for Julian. I told myself he didn’t understand love. When he refused to bless my marriage, I stopped answering his calls.

I believed our relationship had ended there.

Only near the end of my previous life did I learn the truth.

My father had never stopped trying to reach me.

He had sent money quietly, month after month, afraid Julian would leave me with nothing. Every transfer had been returned or hidden before I could see it. By the time I found the records, I had already spent years believing my father had abandoned me.

He hadn’t.

I had been the one who never looked back.

Now he led me down the hallway and opened the door to my old studio.

Nothing had been thrown away.

My medals still hung on the wall. My choreography journals remained stacked inside the wooden cabinet. Even the practice barre had been polished until it shone.

My father had preserved the life I abandoned as though he had always known I would need it again.

I placed my ballet shoes on the floor.

The first time I rose onto my toes, my legs shook.

The second time, I nearly fell.

By the seventh day, the pain was still there—but so was the dancer I thought I had lost.

That morning, my father drove me to the National Dance Association’s final callback.

A dancer had withdrawn from the callback that morning.

Because of my old national competition record, the Association allowed me to take the empty slot.

I wasn’t ready.

But I had already wasted seven years waiting to feel ready.

Over the past week, Julian had called me more than twenty times.

On the first day, he wanted to know where his navy tie was.

On the second, he couldn’t find an important presentation folder and blamed me for not organizing his office before I left.

On the third, Emma’s dance instructor called asking about her competition costume. Only then did he realize the hem was torn and the ribbons on her ballet shoes hadn’t been replaced.

None of those things had ever been his responsibility before.

This time, I answered none of his calls.

At first, Julian demanded that I come home.

A few days later, the messages became irritated questions.

Last night, there was only one sentence.

Emma competes tomorrow. Don’t be absent.

I locked my phone and slipped it into my bag without replying.

The Association was holding its youth competition and professional callback in the same theater that day.

The moment I reached the theater entrance, I heard someone crying.

"Mommy!"

Emma ran toward me with one hand pressed against her stomach, her little face pale.

Julian followed close behind.

Instead of looking guilty, he frowned at me.

"So you finally decided to show up?"

"Emma got sick after dinner last night. She was in pain all night."

Ivy stood quietly beside him.

"I gave her fruit punch from the refreshment table. I didn’t realize it contained dairy..."

Julian immediately defended her.

"This isn’t Ivy’s fault."

He turned back to me.

"You knew Emma is lactose intolerant."

"Why didn’t you make that clear before you left?"

I looked at him.

The absurdity of it all almost made me laugh.

"She’s seven years old."

"You’re her father."

"Why do you need me to tell you what she can and can’t eat?"

His expression hardened.

"Elena, enough with the attitude."

"You’ve already turned this family upside down."

"Now you’re refusing to take responsibility even when your daughter gets sick?"

So it was my fault that no one put out his tie.

My fault that Emma’s dance costume wasn’t ready.

And even Ivy giving our daughter a drink she couldn’t tolerate...

Somehow that was my fault too.

Emma reached for my sleeve, her eyes red.

"Mommy..."

"My tummy hurts."

In my previous life, one look like that would have made me drop everything.

But during the three days I was dying inside that storage room...

She never looked back at me once.

I gently pulled my sleeve free.

"Have your father take you to the hospital."

Julian frowned.

"Her competition starts soon."

"And Ivy is performing too. I can’t leave."

Finally, I understood.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t miss Emma’s competition.

It was that he couldn’t bear to miss Ivy’s performance.

The stage manager’s voice echoed through the theater.

Contestants, please prepare.

Ivy smoothed the skirt of her white ballet costume.

Julian’s expression softened immediately.

"Don’t be nervous."

"You’ve worked so hard for this."

"You’re going to win."

Seven years ago, before my first national competition, he had held my hands backstage and told me the exact same thing.

After I left the stage...

Those words belonged to someone else.

Only then did Julian notice the dance shoes in my hand.

He stared for a moment before letting out a short laugh.

"What are those for?"

"Don’t tell me you’re competing too."

I said nothing.

The amusement in his eyes deepened.

"Elena, you haven’t danced in seven years."

"These days your whole world is cooking meals and taking care of the house."

"You don’t honestly think you’re still twenty, do you?"

Even Emma looked up at me in surprise.

"Mommy..."

"You know how to dance?"

I met her eyes without answering.

After she was born, I had never stepped onto another stage.

As far as she knew, the only dancer in the world had always been Ivy.

Suddenly, thunderous applause erupted from inside the theater.

Ivy’s performance had ended.

She finished with a series of flawless turns before coming to a perfect stop beneath the spotlight.

Several judges nodded with approval.

Despite the pain, Emma lifted her head and clapped excitedly.

"Aunt Ivy was amazing!"

Julian couldn’t hide the pride in his voice.

"She’s always had exceptional talent."

I wasn’t looking at Ivy.

I was watching the final pose she had just struck.

The slight bend of the wrist.

The lowered shoulder.

The lifted gaze a heartbeat before the music ended.

That had been my signature ending seven years ago.

In my previous life, I could never understand it.

How had Ivy become the youngest nationally recognized choreographer in her twenties?

Why had every opportunity I once dreamed of somehow become hers after I left the stage?

Ivy walked backstage.

The moment she noticed the dance shoes in my hands, something flickered across her face.

"You signed up for the callback too, Elena?"

The surprise disappeared almost instantly, replaced by a gentle smile.

"The dancers here are all professionals."

"You’ve been away from the stage for so long."

"I’d hate to see you get hurt."

Julian answered for me before I could speak.

"She’s only here with her father."

"I know exactly what Elena is capable of."

Just then, a staff member pushed open the backstage door.

"Elena Vance."

"You’re up."