The billionaire's dancing bride

I was late. Again.

The dwarfs playing trolls and demons were already in their hideous costumes, their laughter echoing as they poked fun at one another. The three old ladies, who could easily pass for the witches from Sleeping Beauty even without makeup, were assembled on stage, practicing their lines with a grim air.

"Seriously?" I muttered under my breath, tiptoeing toward the backstage door, praying no one noticed me. The dwarfs especially-they loved to jeer at me whenever they could. But as I shoved the heavy velvet curtain aside, my fingers brushed against cold, unforgiving metal.

"Lana."

I flinched at the sound of Rogan's voice. Of course, it was him. Rogan, the so-called prince charming of the show. "You're late. Again."

His tone dripped with condescension, and I quickly pressed a finger to his lips. "Not so fast, Rogan," I whispered with forced confidence, trying to stifle the pounding in my chest.

Rogan stepped back, a look of disgust crossing his perfectly sculpted face. "Your hand smells like... spices!" he spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

I blinked, then sniffed my fingers, wincing. Oh no. I'd forgotten to properly wash my hands after serving one of my mom's restaurant customers earlier. The lingering smell of garlic and cumin clung to me like a shadow. It was just one more reminder of where I came from-a world so far removed from Rogan's privileged life.

"Sorry," I mumbled, tucking my hands behind my back. "Is the director here?"

Rogan raised a brow, folding his arms across his chest in that annoyingly superior way of his. He came from money-a world where people paid their way into the circus, not because they needed it, but because they could. And they despised people like me, who begged for roles to make ends meet.

"She's been looking for you," he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. "I warned her about your inconsistency. Guess she'll understand now."

"Good for you," I shot back, walking past him with as much grace as I could muster. "Just don't tell her I was late."

As I made my way through the crowded backstage area, the frantic buzz of preparation surrounded me. The costumiers were rushing to finalize props and outfits, barely acknowledging my presence as I scurried over to the white gown that had been commissioned for tonight's performance. It hung on a nearby rack, pristine and gleaming under the dim backstage lights.

"Where's the costumier?" I called, trying to catch someone's attention.

"Lana, where have you been?" The chief costumier appeared from the other side of the room, hands on her hips. She eyed me like an irritated schoolteacher who'd had enough of her most troublesome student. But her questions, as always, were rhetorical. She didn't expect an answer-just action.

"Let's get to work," she commanded.

Within thirty minutes, I was transformed. The gown wasn't exactly the traditional princess attire I'd imagined. It was more of a ballerina's costume, delicate and graceful, yet with a certain ethereal quality that made it feel special. The soft tulle floated around me, and though I barely glanced at the mirror, I could feel how it changed me. For a brief moment, I was a princess.

With a deep breath, I danced toward the door, excitement bubbling inside me. But before I could even savor the moment, I crashed into someone.

It was the director.

I froze, my heart sinking as I looked up at her stern, no-nonsense expression. She was in her forties, with a face that seemed permanently etched with the weight of responsibility and stress. I could tell by the tight line of her mouth that I was in trouble.

"Rogan told me." She said, her voice cold and sharp. "You're late again."

I had no defense. There was no point in lying Rogan had already made sure she knew the truth. And now I was caught.

"Come with me," she ordered, turning on her heel.

I followed her without a word, trying to ignore the pit of dread forming in my stomach. As we passed by the other performers, I braced myself for the usual jeers and mocking glances from the dwarfs, witches, and anyone else who felt superior. But instead, they just stared-silent, watchful.

Once inside her office, the director motioned for me to sit. Rogan was already there, of course, lounging in the chair next to mine with that same smug expression plastered on his face. He shifted slightly as I sat down, making a show of moving away from me. As if I was beneath him. As if I didn't belong.

"You were supposed to be here at dawn," the director began, sitting behind her desk and fixing me with an unwavering gaze. "Look at the time."

I met her eyes but said nothing. I knew it wouldn't help. The truth was the circus wasn't just a job for me-it was a lifeline. And sometimes, life pulled me in a dozen directions. Serving tables at my mom's restaurant, running errands, dealing with customers. It was never just about this. But none of that mattered to her.

"You know how I feel about lateness," she continued, her voice hard. "It's unprofessional. And I expect more from you."

Rogan leaned forward, ever the opportunist. "Evelyn would've been a better choice for tonight's performance," he said, the smugness thick in his tone. "She's never late."

The director's gaze flicked to him, unamused. "Evelyn isn't a performer," she replied, her voice firm. "Lana is. And tonight, Lana is your princess. Whether you like it or not."

Rogan opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off with a raised hand. "This isn't about what you want, Rogan. It's about what's best for the show."

The tension in the room thickened. Rogan glared at me, his jaw clenched, but I refused to look away. I wasn't going to let him get to me. Not tonight.

"Now, go," the director said, dismissing us both with a wave of her hand. "The show starts soon."

***

The sound of the choir warming up filled the air as we made our way back to the stage. The Ivan Choir from Saint Petersburg had been specially invited for tonight's performance, and their voices blended beautifully as they rehearsed their first piece. The audience, filled with high-profile guests and oligarchs, buzzed with anticipation.

Backstage, the first act was about to begin. A group of young college boys, dressed in crisp military uniforms, prepared to march onto the stage. They were here to showcase the strength of our country-Russia's power and pride on full display.

"Did you see that?" Kirian, one of my favorite dwarfs, asked as he sidled up next to me.

I smiled down at him. Kirian's small, twisted frame barely reached my waist, his bent arms and legs giving him a fragile appearance. But there was nothing fragile about his spirit. "They're showing off our nation's might," I said with a smile.

Kirian nodded solemnly. "It's always been my dream to join the army."

Before I could respond, a voice from behind us cut through the moment like a knife. "Not when you're the size of a grenade."

We turned to see Rogan, fully decked out in his princely armor, smirking down at us.

"By the way," he added, his grin widening, "it's settled. Evelyn's going to be the princess tonight. Not you, Lana."