The Billionaire's Fierce Dancer

“Tonight's a big night, you have to give it your best and all,” Celine said, applying blush on Marianna's cheeks. Outside the special dressing room, in the general DR, other dancers fumbled, trying to dress up and put themselves in order. “Thanks for watching Mateo tonight,” Maria whispered, hugging Celine. “It's no big deal, Mateo is my God son.” Maria stood on her feet; the Indian fabric on her body shimmered under the light, the jewelry on her body shined brightly too enhancing her beauty tonight. “Make sure you put Mandrin in his place by catching the attention of all the investors in the hall.” Mariana smiled briefly, turning toward the door. “I intend to.” Because tonight wasn’t just another performance. Tonight marked exactly five years since the night that had changed everything, the night she’d danced in Los Angeles under Mandrin’s management, the night she met him. Jerome Ansel. She closed her eyes for a moment, fighting the ghost of memory. The flash of blue eyes. The warmth of his touch. The champagne. The way she’d woken up in a strange hotel room the next morning, alone. She had told herself it was fate’s cruel joke—a mistake. Yet every year, on this date, she remembered the man whose name she hadn’t even known that night. But tonight, the stage belonged to her. Not to Mandrin, not to her past, not to anyone who’d tried to control her. Mandrin’s company hadn’t even been invited to the gala this year. His name was whispered in circles now with disdain and mockery. Meanwhile, Mariana Gusta, his former protégé, was headlining the event under the sponsorship of Ansel Enterprises. Inside the ballroom, the audience screamed wealth and influence. CEOs, celebrities, investors,all waiting for the woman everyone called The Fire of Brazil. At the center table sat Jerome Ansel, tall and composed, wearing a black tailored suit that fit his broad frame like a second skin. His assistant, Tiffany, leaned toward him. “Mr. Ansel, the performance will begin in five minutes. Would you like me to brief you on—” He raised a hand slightly, eyes on the stage. “No. I’ll watch for myself.” Something in him felt restless tonight. A strange pull in his chest that had no logic, no origin. The lights dimmed. A hush fell. Then,music. Low, haunting, and rhythmic. When the spotlight illuminated her, the world stilled. Jerome froze. The woman in gold moved like flame, each step fluid, controlled, her hips swaying in perfect rhythm. The curve of her neck, the sweep of her hair, the fire in her eyes, he knew them all. Knew them even through the fog of five years and countless nights of pretending he’d forgotten. It was her. The woman who had haunted his dreams for half a decade. Mariana. She didn’t see him at first. But finally their eyes locked, and she didn’t even look his way as she danced, every movement sharp, beautiful, defiant. The music climbed higher, the crowd transfixed. Jerome’s heartbeat matched the rhythm of the drums. When she spun, he caught a glimpse of the same passion that had pulled him under once before, the one that made him forget his walls, his name, everything. He couldn’t breathe. And when the music stopped, silence followed. The kind of silence that comes only when people forget to exist. Then, applause. Loud, thunderous, overwhelming. Mariana bowed gracefully, her chest rising and falling as the ovation surrounded her. Her eyes glistened, but she stayed poised, calm. Tonight, she wasn’t the girl who had been used and forgotten. She was the queen of the stage. With the help of her bodyguards, she turned and exited through the backstage corridor. Backup dancers took her place for the next routine as reporters surged toward the backstage area, cameras flashing like strobe lights. “Miss Gusta! Over here!” “Mariana, how does it feel to lead Brazil’s biggest gala?” “Can you comment on the rumors about Mandrin Hilliard’s absence tonight?” Mariana lifted a hand, her voice calm but firm. “I can’t answer any questions right now. Please, excuse me.” Celine appeared at her side, ushering her through the crowd. “You killed it, girl,” she whispered. “Even the sponsors were speechless.” Mariana smiled faintly, exhausted but glowing. “Good. That’s how it should be.” Inside her dressing room, she sank onto a chair and exhaled deeply. Her heart was still racing, her muscles trembling from the intensity of it all. She picked up her water bottle and took a slow sip, her gaze distant. Five years. She’d built herself from nothing. From a girl betrayed by her manager to a woman who ruled the stage. And yet, even now, the memory of him lingered like smoke in the corners of her mind. “Miss Gusta?” A voice at the door startled her. One of the event assistants stood there, looking nervous. “There’s someone requesting to see you. He says it’s important.” Mariana frowned. “Who? Because I don't want to meet any__” “The owner of Ansel Enterprises, ma’am.” Her heart skipped. “The… sponsor?” “Yes. Mr. Jerome Ansel.” The name hit her like lightning. She rose slowly, her pulse thundering in her ears. “He’s here?” “Yes, ma’am. He’s waiting outside.” Mariana smoothed her dress with trembling hands. A smile crept across her face, part surprise, part pride. The famous CEO himself wanted to see her? Maybe he wanted to discuss a future contract, a private endorsement. She turned to Celine, excitement flickering in her eyes. “This could be huge.” Celine nodded warily. “Be careful. Men like that don’t do anything without reason.” Mariana ignored the warning, gathering her composure. She stepped toward the door, ready to meet the powerful man who had just sponsored her greatest performance. But the moment she stepped into the hallway, she froze. The world seemed to tilt. There he was. Jerome Ansel stood a few steps away, tall and impossibly familiar. His deep blue eyes met hers, the same eyes that had once looked down at her in the dim light of a hotel room five years ago. For a moment, neither moved. Her breath caught in her throat. Memories collided, the heat of that night, the taste of champagne, the feeling of waking alone. He looked as stunned as she felt, but his voice was steady when he spoke. “Mariana?” Her lips parted, disbelief and fury flashing in her eyes. “You…” she whispered. The hallway fell silent around them. The air crackled with recognition, with the ghosts of a night they both thought they’d imagined. Celine’s voice broke faintly from behind her. “Mari… who is that?” Mariana didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Because standing before her wasn’t just the sponsor of the gala. It was him. The man who’d left her five years ago. The man who didn’t know he had a son.