The Pretty Little Lies Bundle

Chapter One: Anya

Four Years Later

“Wish me luck on my first day!” I say as I sling my school bag over my shoulder and head toward the door.

Finally, after years of hard work and four semesters of a local community college, I’ve earned a full scholarship to the private university’s elite performing arts program that I’ve always dreamed of attending. I still can hardly believe Rosehill College accepted me.

“Good luck,” Aunt Patritsiya says in her faint Russian accent. She tilts her cheek so I can kiss it as she gives my hand an affectionate squeeze. 

Average height and slightly on the plump side, my aunt is several inches shorter than me, and I have to lean down to accommodate the requested kiss she receives every day before I leave. 

As I pass the kitchen table, I stop to press a kiss to my daughter’s black curls, which never fail to remind me of her father’s. Clara beams up at me with her innocent hazel eyes, her smile both mischievous and winning me over in a paradoxical combination. She knows she’s too cute to get in trouble, and she fully uses that to her advantage.   

“You be good for your auntie today, okay?” I ask, giving Clara a meaningful look.

“Yes, no more coloring on the preschool walls,” Aunt Patritsiya agrees. 

Though she’s technically Clara’s great-aunt, she always claims that title makes her feel old. I can’t say I blame her, seeing as I got pregnant before my seventeenth birthday, so Aunt Patritsiya is rather young to be a great-anything at age forty-three. That’s why she only ever goes by auntie. 

“Draw me something on paper today, Clara. That way you can bring it home for me to see,” I suggest as I tickle my little girl’s belly. 

Clara giggles, her laughter never failing to brighten my day, and she wriggles in her seat. “Yes, Mommy,” she agrees. She turns her attention back to her cereal, which she spoons into her mouth sloppily.  

Thanks, Auntie, I mouth, earning a kind smile from my aunt.

I don’t know what I would do without her. I couldn’t have done it all on my own–transferred high schools mid-semester, kept and raised Clara, pursued my dream of becoming a ballerina. The first few years of her life were particularly challenging–hard but unimaginably rewarding. Thankfully, Clara’s old enough now that she goes to preschool with my aunt every day.  

I give Clara one last kiss. Then, jittery with excitement, I march out the front door of our modest apartment. I race down the three flights of stairs and make it out to the bus stop just in time.  

It’s a beautiful August day, and the streets are bustling with activity when I exit the bus a half hour later, stepping onto Rosehill’s tiny campus. It takes me no time to find the building that houses the majority of my dance classes, the studios where I’ll be undergoing intense training with some of the best professors in Chicago–if not the US. 

The building is made up of beautiful gray stone that forms turrets beneath steeply slanting eaves, giving it an almost castle-like appearance. The archway leading to the main entrance dwarfs me, and my chest swells with pride to know this is the school I’m attending. 

My first class is choreography with a focus on ballet, and as I step into the studio, my jaw drops. The mats are already taken by numerous students stretching as they prepare for class to start. Though I’m here ten minutes early, I already feel late. 

Stuffing my bag into one of the cubbies that line the wall, I remove my tennis shoes, replacing them with dance slippers. Then I pad lightly over to the mats to join my fellow students, who stretch as they converse about their summer and all they’ve been up to. 

I choose a spot slightly away from the mix, intensely aware of how out of place I seem. Judging by the make of their clothes, I’m surrounded by students of a completely different economic echelon than me. They wear nothing but top brand dancing apparel, whereas my generic leggings are starting to look a bit threadbare from the years of use they’ve seen. My dance shoes are run-down as well in comparison to the other shoes in this room. But they’re comfortable enough to get the job done. 

“Venice was my favorite,” one girl gushes as she leans into her stretch. “But they have a pasta that absolutely freaked me out. They use squid ink for sauce, so the whole dish is black. Luckily, my parents are fully on board with my trainer’s meal plan, so I couldn’t eat it anyway. No carbs for me.”

“How long were you there?” the tall, dark-haired girl next to her asks. Her pixie cut stands out like a dark halo all around her head, making her look like a fierce fairy. 

“In Venice or Europe?” the first girl asks, pausing her stretches to pull her bleach-blond hair back into a tight ponytail.

“Both?”

“Well, mostly we spent the summer in my parents’ summer home in Niece. But we did a week in Venice.” 

My attention turns to another set of dancers stretching, as the freckle-faced guy boasts, “Oh yeah, the helicopter was just circling over the volcano. No way could we have touched down. I mean, the lava was spewing!”

“Which island was it?” his friend asks, sounding as awed as I feel at the thought of circling over a volcano.

“The big one. That’s the only active volcano in Hawaii right now.”

Once again, I feel out of my league. The students’ blasé descriptions of extravagant vacations and summer homes in upstate New York make me highly conscious of my own financial state. I took a summer job teaching ballet to save up enough money for Clara’s school. It’s somewhat daunting to know I’m the only one here who needs a scholarship, generously contributed by a wealthy family’s donation, to fund my education. 

“I’m so excited to be in Professor Moriari’s class this semester,” the dark-haired pixie cut girl says, drawing my attention once more as she mentions our professor’s name.

“I’m a little scared,” the bleach blonde confesses with a shudder. “I hear he’s really strict. I just hope I don’t end up in tears.”

“We’ll probably all end up in tears at some point this semester, knowing his reputation,” the pixie-cut girl observes dryly, finding humor in the thought.

I can’t help but smile at their concerns. I know the professor’s reputation is daunting, but I’m with the pixie-cut girl. The more strenuous the challenge, the better. I want Professor Moriari to be hard on us, to push us. That’s what I’m here for.

Still, I feel for the blonde. I’ve seen many dancers’ dreams crushed by mentors who pushed them too hard. I hope she can hold up under the pressure. I hope we all can.

I move through the familiar stretches, going mostly unnoticed and unbothered by the others. I don’t mind. It gives me a chance to listen and learn. It’s clear that they have spent the last few years getting to know each other and the program. I’m the outsider, transferring from a more affordable community college.

As the clock ticks closer to the start of class, the conversations in the room fade to a quiet focus. I can feel the shift in the air. These dancers are serious. They may be in higher social class than me, but at least we have that dedication in common.

The room goes silent as the studio doors burst open, and a man in a sharp outfit strides through the room, his hooked nose raised arrogantly. The severe line of his brow warns us to remain attentive as his shoes tap an authoritative beat across the mats. He moves with the grace of a dancer, holding a poise that commands respect, and I can only assume he’s Professor Moriari. 

“I expect you all to be fully stretched and prepared at the start of each class,” he states, making his way to the far side of the mirrored room before turning to face his silent audience. “I waste no time with meet-and-greet practices or social interactions. You can manage all of that outside this class. Here, I expect you to be at your best, prepared to perform and learn to your utmost potential. You’re upperclassmen now, and as such, you will be one of the several classes performing in the autumn showcase in a month. I expect each of your performances to properly display your talents as well as prove your potential.”

My pulse quickens at the thought of dancing on stage so shortly after the school year has begun. I know I can. I’ve never faltered in a performance before, but learning ballet at Rosehill College is my dream, and I sense that I’m more of a little fish in a wide ocean of talent here. I only hope I can live up to the school’s expectations.

“Everyone up. On your feet. I want to see how far you’ve progressed–or backslid–over your summer vacation.” 

Professor Moriari puts us through several grueling exercises, demanding more of each student as he assesses us one by one. I’m used to the pressure, to pushing myself until I’m at my body’s limit, because I know I’ll have to fight harder for my position than anyone with a family trust fund. I will only succeed as a dancer if I’m willing to go the extra mile, to stand out despite my economic shortcomings. It was my parents’ dream to see me become a ballerina, to represent our Russian heritage and show my worth to the world. And it’s my dream now. No matter the blood, sweat, and tears, I want to be the best in the world, a prima ballerina for the ages. 

“Again!” Professor Moriari demands as he paces between our rows, watching our forms and figures as we execute the challenging routine he’s using to assess our skills. 

He pauses beside me, and I have to focus intently to stay balanced under his sharp gaze. He’s had something critical to say about everyone he’s stopped for so far, and I steel myself for whatever critique he has for me. 

“You’re the new student. Anya Orlov, is it?” he asks, his tone dry.

“Yes, sir,” I respond, trying not to sound too breathless as I continue my formations. 

“Very good. You show some promise.” He pauses, as if to assess how I might respond to his praise.

It takes all of my strength not to wobble with the shock of his compliment.

“Keep that curve in your right arm. You’re letting it get flat,” he adds before moving on to his next victim. 

I refocus my attention on my arm’s shape, fixing its angle.

By the time he’s finished assessing each student and allows us a break, I’m sweating profusely from the workout. This is exactly what I need, someone to push me, to analyze my weaknesses and tell me how I can improve. 

“For the autumn showcase, you will each have a partner. I will assign them since you are limited on time to prepare. You will be in charge of choosing a performance piece that will emphasize both of your strengths. Keep in mind, this first showcase will springboard your following assignment, the winter showcase. Where you will be expected to choreograph your own piece based in the tradition of ballet. I will post a list of partners before tomorrow’s class. I expect you to find your partner and choose a performance on your own time. Class time will be used to practice together. I would highly recommend you spend time practicing outside of class as well.” Professor Moriari pauses to level a sharp gaze at several students in turn, and I’m thankful his eyes don’t land on me following that statement.

My second class is just as challenging as my first, though this time, the focus is improv and modern dance. By my third class, my arms and legs are starting to feel the strain of continuous training, and my stomach is growling. I can’t wait to get to lunch, and fortunately, I have a break between my third and fourth classes. 

Heading into the school cafeteria, I pick a food line and collect a grilled chicken spinach salad–packed with nutrients–and a black coffee–no sugar or cream to disrupt my strict dietary regimen–to get me through my afternoon classes. Physical exhaustion is already creeping into my muscles, and hopefully, the boost of caffeine will keep me awake. 

The woman at the register offers a kind smile as I hand her my meal-plan card. 

“Part of the scholarship program?” she asks, her tone impressed.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, my cheeks warming self-consciously.

“You must be quite talented. Only a rare few get this level of aid.”

I know she’s just trying to be nice, but having a stranger call out one more way I don’t fit in makes me squirm uncomfortably.

“I just love that the school’s been able to open its doors to a few… less fortunate students with the talent for our arts program.” She beams as she hands back my card, seeming oblivious to my discomfort.

“Thank you,” I murmur, not sure what else to say. Then I flee. 

I’m grateful that my scholarship includes a meal plan and grocery aid. It takes the financial burden off my aunt and helps provide for Clara. But I sincerely hope that my meal card won’t turn into one more way to brand me as an outsider at this school. 

Heading toward the tables, I carry my tray as I make my way through the throng of bodies. A familiar deep voice catches my ear as I walk, inexplicably lifting the hair on the back of my neck. Thinking my body’s on overdrive from all the physical exertion, I try to calm my quickening heart. 

And then he’s right there in front of me.

As a student steps around me, intent on getting to the food line, Nicolo Marchetti’s strong, tall, and stunningly good-looking figure appears before me. 

The air leaves my lungs in a gasp as his hazel eyes meet mine, interest sparking in their depths. My body goes rigid as I come face to face with the man who hurt me so deeply. The father of my child.

Of course, he has no idea. I never told Nicolo Marchetti about the baby. He might have taken my innocence, but I wouldn’t let him have her as a reward. I thought I’d escaped him when I left our high school. Now, seeing him again feels like some kind of cruel joke. 

As his lips pull up into that charming, cocky smile, my body goes numb. I barely feel the tray slip from my fingers before it hits the floor.

Hot black liquid bursts upward, combining with lightly dressed salad, exploding onto me and Nicolo. The sting of scalding coffee is nothing compared to the look of utter rage that transforms Nicolo’s handsome face. His strong jaw clenches, making the tendons pop dangerously beneath his lightly stubbled cheeks. His nostrils flare as his shoulders tense.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” he demands as he shakes his hands, flinging the liquid and greenery coating them back to the ground. 

My heart comes to a dead standstill as I realize what I’ve done. But I’m so utterly shocked at seeing Nicolo that I can’t seem to formulate a complete thought, let alone words. 

I haven’t seen him since sophomore year of high school, and I had been so thankful to be away from him then. I’ve spent every day since trying not to think of him. But with Clara as a living reminder, it’s been hard. 

And now, he’s here in front of me, at the school I’ve always dreamed of attending, looking like he’s two seconds from slapping me.