Sienna climbed back through the clinic window with three minutes to spare. She was wet, shivering, and her ankle was throbbing with a dull, sickening rhythm.
When she got home, Julian was waiting in the foyer.
"You're wet," he observed.
"It was raining between the car and the door," she lied.
"Boris said he dropped you right in front."
"There was a puddle. I stepped in it."
Julian stared at her. The silence stretched, elastic and tense. He walked over to her and knelt down. He unlaced her left shoe. He took her foot in his hands. His fingers probed the swollen joint.
"You walked on it," he said quietly. "More than usual."
"The therapist made me try a new treadmill routine."
Julian looked up. His eyes were flat. "I'll have to call the clinic and tell them to be gentler. They are hurting my wife."
"No!" Sienna said too quickly. "No, Julian, it's good pain. It means it's working."
He stood up, towering over her. "There is no such thing as good pain, Sienna. Pain is a warning. You should listen to it."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small orange bottle. "Dr. Evans and I spoke. The blue pills aren't effective enough against this level of agitation. He prescribed something new. Stronger. To help you sleep through the discomfort."
He shook two pills into his hand. They were red. A violent, warning-sign red.
"Open," he said.
Sienna looked at the red pills. Do not eat anything he prepares personally, Nate had said. But if she refused, he would know. He would know she was resisting.
She opened her mouth. Julian placed the pills on her tongue. He handed her a glass of water from the hall table.
She took a sip, threw her head back, and swallowed.
Or pretended to. She tucked the pills into the pocket of her cheek, praying they wouldn't dissolve before she could get to the bathroom.
"Good girl," Julian said. He kissed her nose. "Dinner is in an hour. I made your favorite. Risotto."
As soon as he turned his back, Sienna rushed to the guest powder room. She spat the half-dissolved red pills into the toilet and flushed. She rinsed her mouth out, staring at her reflection. Her eyes looked wild.
She wasn't a ballerina anymore. She was a spy in her own life.
