Chapter One

      MADDY GREEN was finding it hard to breathe. She lengthened her stride, eager to reach the rehearsal studio. She could almost feel the familiar smoothness of the barre beneath her hand and almost see the glint of bright lights in the mirrors and hear the regular scuff and thump of other dancers leaping and landing and twisting and turning around her.

      She needed the comfort of the familiar very badly right now.

      The double doors to the Sydney Dance Company’s rehearsal studio A came up on her left. She pushed through them and the scent of warm bodies, clean sweat and a dozen different deodorants and perfumes and aftershaves wrapped itself around her.

      Home. She was home.

      “Maddy! How did your doctor’s appointment go?” Kendra asked the moment she spotted Maddy.

      The other dancers turned toward her, faces expectant. Maddy forced herself to smile and shrug casually.

      “It’s all good,” she said. “No problems.”

      She couldn’t bring herself to say the other thing. Saying it out loud would make it real. And for just a few more minutes, she wanted to lose herself in the world that had held her enthralled since, at the age of four, she first saw a picture of a ballerina.

      Kendra flew across the room to give her a hug, her slender arms strong around Maddy’s back.

      “Fantastic. Great news. The best,” she said.

      The other woman’s gauzy rehearsal skirt flared around her legs as she returned to her place in the center of the room. Kendra was only twenty-two. She had her whole career ahead of her. She was a beautiful dancer—powerful, delicate, emotional, intense. She would soar.

      Maddy felt someone watching her and lifted her gaze to find Stephen Jones, the choreographer, eyeing her closely.

      She turned her shoulder, breaking the contact. Stephen had been watching her a lot lately, checking her range of movement, testing the capabilities of her injured knee. Had he known, or guessed, what she’d been told today? Had everyone known except her that she was over? That she would never dance again?

      Her heart pounded against her ribs and again she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

      She threw her bag into the corner and slid off her street shoes, bending to tug on a pair of slippers with shaking hands. The ribbons whispered through her fingers as she wrapped them around her ankles and tied them neatly. She shed her skirt to reveal tights and leotard and took a place at the barre to begin warming up.

      Pliés first, then some rond de jambes, keeping her head high and her arms relaxed. Every time she rose up en pointe, she felt the seamless, fluid glide of her body responding to her will, saw her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, posture perfect, form ideal.

      Her heartbeat slowed. She was a dancer. Always had been, always would be.

      “Maddy.”

      She tore her eyes from her own reflection to find Andrew McIntyre, the company director, standing behind her. He, too, had been studying her perfect form in the mirror.

      “Why don’t you come to my office?” he said. His voice was gentle, as was the light in his eyes.

      He knew.

      He’d spoken to Dr. Hanson. Of course he had. Hanson was the company’s doctor, after all. When she’d come on board four years ago she’d signed a contract agreeing that the company could access all health matters pertaining to her career.

      “After rehearsal,” she said. “I’m warm now. And the rest of them are waiting for me.”

      “I think we should do this now, don’t you?” he said.

      He was frowning, as though what she’d said pained him in some way. He moved closer, reached out a hand to touch her.

      She took a step backward. Rising en pointe on her bad leg, she lifted her right leg in grand battement to the side then up, up, up, until