Emiliano đź–¤
They call Emiliano Serrano Silver the Dark Prince of Ballet—a title he’s always found ridiculous...
But the all-black wardrobe, the tattoos, the quiet intensity? It a reputation people couldn’t look away from and helped his career in ways he wasn’t willing to question.
Until an injury forces him off the stage… and back home.
Back to the one place he’s avoided.
Back to the one person he never truly let go of.
Winter Pembrooke.
His childhood best friend. His first love, whether she ever knew it or not. The one person who saw him before the reputation, before the distance, before he learned how to disappear behind perfection.
They used to tell each other everything.
Until one day, they didn’t.
He thought she left.
She thought he did.
Years later, Winter is no longer the girl he remembers—now a self-assured journalist who keeps her pain carefully hidden, especially from him. And Emiliano isn’t the boy she trusted, he’s a man built on control, image, and silence.
But beneath the distance, nothing is as over as they’ve both pretended.
Because while they were apart, they never really let each other go.
đź–¤ Chapter One (Emiliano POV)
Every day has started the same since the injury.
I hear another notification on my phone before I even open my eyes.
I don’t need to look to know what it is.
Apologies. Condolences. Fake sympathy dressed up as concern.
Some of it genuine. Some of it recycled.
All of it at this point is exhausting.
“I heard about your injury… I’m so sorry. You’ll be back at it in no time I'm sure.”
“Hi, this is Olivia Bradshaw with NYTodayBallet. We’d love a comment on what happened and your return timeline. Also—are you single? (Oh yeah totally hope you heal soon!! Call me :) )”
And my personal favorite:
“So sorry to hear you’re hurt. No hard feelings, Sooo I’m basically taking your place now, right? —Leonardo”
I stare at that one longer than I should.
I exhale through my nose.
Annoyed. Of course he's celebrate.
I effing hate him.
Out of habit more than kindness, I type back like the media-trained gentleman everyone thinks I am:
No hard feelings. You won’t do as well anyway. X ;)
I needed to be injured for him to take my place and we both know it.
Send.
Done.
The phone goes back down like it weighs more than it should, like that alone took energy.
It did.. emotionally.
New York doesn’t feel like home when I can’t dance in it.
It feels like noise...chaos.
Even the silence is loud—press outside my name, conversations I’m not part of, futures I’m suddenly not moving toward.
My mother tries again.
She’s careful about it, like she’s stepping around broken glass.
“Emiliano… maybe coming back home for a while would help. Just until things settle.”
I tell her no at first.
Then I don’t.
Eventually, I say yes.
Not because I want to.
Because staying here feels like suffocating in slow motion.
Packing doesn’t take long.
There isn’t much left that feels like it belongs to me when I’m not dancing.
But still—
Something lingers.
Someone.
I don’t let myself think her name properly.
Not at first.
Not until I’m already on the plane.
And even then, I pretend it’s just exhaustion.
A side effect of too many painkillers and too much silence.
Would she be there?
The thought arrives uninvited.
Sharper than anything else.
My chest tightens in a way I didn't expect.
It’s been years.
Long enough that I should’ve stopped asking myself that question.
And yet—
I haven’t.
I don’t know if I want her to be there.
Or if I’m terrified she won’t be.
I lean my head back against the seat.
Try to convince myself I’m going home to recover.
To reset.
To breathe.
But the truth is simpler than that.
I’m running from everything I can’t control.
Including myself.
I don’t realize I’m leaving one kind of chaos behind…
until I arrive at another.
My injury was supposed to be the worst thing that’s happened to me in a long time.
I think I might have been wrong about that.
I think.
