Dominic is short by most people’s standards, which means he’s reasonable by mine, since I’m only five foot two when I’m not wearing heels. He has the kind of lean, solid build that I look for in a dance partner, thick, dark hair perfect for running my fingers through, and dark eyes that go well with the puzzled expressions he seems to wear almost constantly these days. I’d thought he was good looking even when he was a member of the Covenant of St. George and things could never have been serious between us. Now he’s a free agent, and he’s mine, and he’s gorgeous.

There was another click. I returned my attention to the phone as a jovial British voice came on the line, exclaiming, “Valerie! As I live and breathe, it’s good to hear from you, sweetheart! You were always one of my favorites, you know that, don’t you darling?”

“Hi, Adrian,” I said, smiling broadly so he’d hear it in my voice. Adrian Crier was the sort of man who adored you while you were on his good side, and wouldn’t hesitate to bury you once you got on his bad side. Naturally, I’d always done my best to stay on his good side. “I missed you, too. What’s going on? Why am I getting emails all of a sudden?”

“Well, darling, it’s because the number we had for you wasn’t ringing through anymore, and we needed to get hold of you rather desperately. Is this number on my display good? Can we call you here if we need to?”

It was an unassigned burner phone; that’s why I’d used it. I’d just have to keep reloading it with minutes until whatever Adrian was asking me to do was over.

No. I frowned at myself. Until I had turned down whatever Adrian was asking me to do. “This is a good number for me, yes,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Well, sweetheart, I don’t know if you’ve been watching the ratings, but we’re in a bit of a slump right now. People still care about dance—it’s a vital part of the human emotional landscape—but they get down at heart when their favorites are eliminated, and they stop watching for a season while they get over it. Just like a breakup, wouldn’t you say?”

No breakup had ever inspired me to the amount of self-destructive ice cream consumption Dance or Die had. I still injected a bit of awe into my voice as I replied, “I never thought of it like that, but you’re so right. It’s just like ending a relationship.”

“We’ve been commissioned for another season, thank God, but the network is starting to look a little reluctant to commit. So we were passing the old idea hat around, and Brenna came up with the best suggestion any of us had ever heard! Got a guess on what it is?”

“Um . . . reduce the number of audition shows from eight to four so you don’t have to deal with the ratings drop that always comes from people getting bored and changing channels during hour two?”

A faint sharpness came into Adrian’s voice. “You know how important the audition shows are to our audience, Valerie.”

“I know, I know, I love them, I watch them with my family, but I understand the level of technique we’re seeing,” I said, trying not to sound like I was covering a mistake. Even though I technically was. “Those shows establish why the lineup looks the way it does once the season starts. I’m just saying, sometimes people come up to me and complain about how long it takes to get to the competition. So I might give up some of those shows if it meant the ratings of the rest would go up.”

“Ah,” said Adrian, sounding mollified. “I suppose that’s not bad thinking, even if it goes counter to what we try to do with this program. Brenna’s idea does dovetail a bit with what you’ve been saying, darling, in that it would replace the audition shows for this season with a pair of clip shows—and given that we’ve already passed the window for auditions by a good measure, it’s what we’re doing. I just wanted to know if you were on board. You’re one of our stars, you know, even if you didn’t go on to set the competition world on fire.”

“I’ve been busy,” I said, too relieved by the return of “darling” to his vocabulary to think about the rest. Then my brain caught up with my ears. “Wait. On board with what, Adrian? You didn’t say what her idea was.”

“Oh, didn’t I? Silly me. We’re doing an all-star season, my dove. The top four from the past five seasons returning to duke it out and learn who America’s Dancer of Choice really is.”

“Whoa,” I said.

“There’s a quite decent prize package,” he said, wheedling. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, a feature in Technique Magazine, and a year’s paid rent on a Manhattan flat. And the exposure, of course. It could kick your career to the next level.”