Daniel's sponsor's bar is somewhere in the West End. The surrounding streets are brimming with life and light, as people stumble out of the theatres and restaurants. I stand outside, staring up at the garishly lit four-storey building, feeling small. Even with Daniel beside me, I feel out of place.

There are two types of ballerinas in my experience. The ones who measure every morsel that passes their lips, who train religiously, lose sleep about every mistake they make on stage, and then there are the girls who play even harder than they work. The girls who drink and fuck and dance in more than just ballet slippers.

I am not one of those girls. And I don't know how to be one of those girls.

I follow Daniel out of the rain-soaked street and into the bar. The building is old even if the inner space of the bar is now gleaming, everything is a reflective surface and like walking through the heart of a diamond. A long bar follows the wall at the back, glittering with glass shelves lined with every kind of spirit known to man.

Groups of people fill up the narrow spaces and the air is thick with perfume and the sickly sweet scent of alcohol-laced fruit cocktails. A room to the side of the bar leads to a dancefloor—a DJ plays generic dance music a few swaying girls are already shaking their hips to. I adjust my Vivienne Westwood dress, a vintage mini from the eighties. It's feminine but structured with enough edge to serve as my armour tonight.

Daniel grins at me over his shoulder as he leads me to the bar and squeezes us through the tightly packed crowd. He looks good. Too good. His shirt is straining across his chest. He smells like mint toothpaste and the citrus from his aftershave.

My heart is hammering. One thing I like about the stage—you're away from the damn crowds. Above the bar, logos and signs drape the company's slogan and like the press conference, it's gaudy and tacky and even worse, I suspect they think it's classy.

Daniel makes small talk with the barman as I slip onto the stool, my fingers tapping on the shiny surface.

"What you drinking?"

"Just water, please." Daniel and the barman shoot me a look, but I ignore them.

"Seriously? Come on, we're here to have fun."

"I thought we were here to keep your sponsor happy. This isn't a night out."

He huffs and I roll my eyes at the petulant way his bottom lip sticks out. Then the grin returns and he leans on his elbows beside me.

"Have I told you..." he whispers, leaning close. "You look gorgeous tonight." He glances down, his eyes scanning my body. Lingering on my breasts currently being squeezed so tightly in the corset I can barely breathe. The flare of heat in his eyes makes it suddenly more than worth it. That and the fact this dress is fabulous, obviously.

"If you're adamant about the fun part... how about a dance?" I murmur back.

"Do you ever stop working?" he teases.

"What do you two think you're doing? Danny, I need you over there doing what you do best," Dad barks, appearing at our side, looking suitably awkward in an outfit almost identical to everyone in the bar half his age. I try not to slide off my seat in hot shame.

"Punching people in the face?"

Dad grunts and slaps his shoulder roughly.

"Using that charm of yours on someone who can pay to keep you in the ring. Now get schmoozing." Daniel grunts and stands up, towering over me and Dad.

"Save a dance for me, OK, coach?" he whispers in my ear and then he darts through the crowd. I sigh, sipping on my water as Dad sinks onto Daniel's stool.

"I need you putting on a performance tonight, too."

I snap upright.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"A boxer learning ballet. What is it you kids say? It's clickbait..."

I snort.

"I have never in my life used the phrase clickbait..." He waves me into silence.

"It's a story. Which means publicity, which means money. And that's something we both need, right?" He raises an eyebrow sternly.

I squirm in my seat, glancing around the packed bar.

"I have no idea... how to... what do you call it .... Schmooze?"

"Getting off your backside and talking to people would be a good start," he responds huffily.

I lean forward, my cheeks heating with anger.

"You might be used to your little fighters doing whatever you say, but I'm here to teach him to dance, not to be the side act to your big show... Why don't you get off your backside and schmooze? That's why you're dressed like a teenager, isn't it?"

His mouth drops and I shake my head. Slipping off the seat, my heels clack as they hit the floor.

"I thought you said you'd do anything to get back in that ballet company of yours."

"Don't worry. I'll schmooze, and flirt, and play the little girly ballerina for you big, strong boxers. Whatever gets me my money and away from you."

I regret the words as soon as they leave my lips. I see his face fall, see that rare burst of emotion slip through the indifferent mask. Turning away, I squeeze through the crowd before I can take the words back.

Every corner, every hallway is full to the brim with people. Mostly men, all talking animatedly with drinks sloshing down to the sticky floor. The girls are beautiful, their flowing hair down bare backs and across shoulders. I slip through the crowd, the hot air churning in my stomach as my nerves grow.

I'm here for a reason. I just have to hold on to that.

I slip through a low enclave into another small but busy room. Stopping when I hear Daniel laughing loudly. He's surrounded by girls, three equally beautiful long-haired visions all laughing along with him as he downs a beer. One girl puts a playful hand on his chest, tugs on his shirt, and he smiles down at her. His eyes are full of knowing.

I'm not sure why my stomach knots so hard. Why I feel suddenly cold in the stiflingly hot room. Wrapping my arms around myself, I scour the labyrinth for an exit. I feel the allure of cold air and stumble out onto the street. The dark road is alive with people and street lights bouncing off puddles. I inhale the cool air, leaning against the wall.

The argument with Dad, the unwelcome tug and pull with Daniel. I don't need any of it. And I definitely don't want it. What I want is to go home. And the company is the closest thing I have to that. Anything else is just a distraction.

"So I guess we must be enemies now?" An alluring voice cuts through the shattered-glass chaos of my thoughts. Xander is smiling as he walks towards me. His green eyes leaping out through the dark shadows on his face. I feel some of the tension leave me.

"Enemies? You fighters are all so melodramatic."

He throws his head back and I feel my cheeks heat in pleasure at making him laugh. He leans against the wall beside me, and I allow myself to sink into the scent of him. The heat from his body warming my bare limbs.

"What are you doing outside? You should be enjoying the party."

"And what are you doing here? Something tells me you weren't on the invite list."

He chuckles.

"You know why I'm here, duchess." He peers down at me, licks his lips, and my heart hammers against my ribs. "You look incredible, by the way."

"Should you be paying compliments to the enemy?"

"I should when she looks this good." He shrugs his jacket off. "You're shivering, here." He slips the leather over my shoulders.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me you were heading to the hotel, too?" Did you know who I was? I avoid the question I don't want to ask. The question that has itched my brain since the press conference.

"You were freaked out enough when I pulled over. I didn't want to scare you and tell you we were heading to the same place. And it's not like I could have guessed the hot ballerina with the crappy car was heading to a boxing press conference," he teases, his eyes lighting up boyishly. Even if the rest of him remains as dark and mysterious as the tattoos creeping up his neck.

"OK, fair point, I suppose."

"Are you really helping him? Do you really think you can teach him ballet and he'll win?"

I smile up at him, curving my body closer.

"Why? Think he'll give you some real competition this time?"

He laughs.

"Daniel Knight will never hold a belt. He's a one-trick pony and that might work in the lower division, but it won't hold up in a title match. He won't knock me down, duchess. I won't allow it."

There is something in his voice. The temperature has dropped, and disdain is written all over his face.

"You don't like him, do you? The enemies thing, it's not just an act for the cameras, is it?"

Xander grunts and turns away, staring out at the street thoughtfully.

"He plays a role. I'm not sure he even knows who he really is. He thinks he scraped himself up from nothing, but he doesn't even know what that means."

"And neither would a man whose dad was a boxing legend."

Xander snorts and scuffs his shoes across the pavement.

"I don't know what Frank has told you, but..."

"Go on. Finish that sentence."

Xander glances over my head, his face turning stony. Dad steps out through the exit. He glares at me. Xander doesn't move. The harsh expression falls from his face, replaced by a smirk.

"Hey, Frank. I was just explaining to your daughter that despite what you think, you don't know that much about me."

"I know enough," Dad barks and then turns to me. "Get back inside. I told you why we're here. And it's definitely not to talk to the likes of him."

"I think I can talk to whomever I please."

"In. Now, Cassandra."

I don't move and for a moment we just glare at each other. It's Xander who breaks the silence. He moves away from the wall, standing between us.

"I'll see you soon, duchess."

"You stay away..."

Xander steps away, calling over his shoulder as his heavy boots splash in the puddles.

"How's the head, Frank? I hear it hurts worse in the cold. Is that true?"

Dad launches forward, but Xander is already around the corner and out of sight. Dad is red-faced, so angry he's shaking with rage.

"Dad..."

"Bill wants to talk to you. Get back in there now."

He storms back into the bar, leaving me outside in the cold. Xander's jacket weighing heavily on my shoulders.