The studio smelled faintly of warm cedar. Elena closed the door behind her with a quiet click. At thirty-eight, she still moved with the graceful posture of someone who’d once danced ballet, but tonight her body felt heavier than usual, weighted by the empty house waiting for her and the week-long business trip that had taken her husband, Mark, halfway across the country.
She’d signed up for these private evening sessions on a whim. “Something just for me,” she’d told her reflection in the mirror the night before. The truth was simpler and more dangerous, she needed to feel something other than the comfortable numbness of a fifteen-year marriage that had slowly settled into routine.
“Elena. Right on time.”
His voice rolled over her. She looked up to see Liam stepping out from the small
