The laughter grew louder. Naomi’s face stayed calm, her eyes steady. She rose slowly, wiping her palms on her apron.
“I accept,” she said clearly.
The laughter faltered.
Richard blinked. “What did you say?”
“You made a bet,” she said. “I accept it. But when I win, you’ll keep your word. Publicly.”
Her voice carried through the marble hall, smooth and controlled. The arrogance in the room curdled into unease.
Evelyn Harrington—Richard’s wife—stepped forward, lips curling into a condescending smile. Elegant, polished, the queen of every gala. “You expect to dance against me?” she asked, her tone dripping with disbelief.
Richard chuckled. “Humor her, darling. Show her how a real woman moves.”
Naomi stayed silent, her expression unreadable. But deep inside, an old fire stirred—the kind that once lit up theaters and moved audiences to tears.
Because Naomi Carter hadn’t always been a cleaner. Fifteen years ago, the world knew her as Naomi Laurent, the celebrated principal dancer of the American National Ballet—until the car crash that shattered her body and career. The doctors said she’d never dance again. The newspapers called it the end of a legend.
