Paper Promise: The Substitute Bride - Chapter 18: Chapter 18

When I stopped in front of the Ballet Academy, my legs felt like they were made of concrete. I couldn’t move. My heart was hammering against my ribs as I stared at the glass door, seeing the distorted reflection of a terrified young woman.
“Come on, Laura, take a deep breath. It’s going to be all right. I’m here with you,” whispered Alice beside me, her arm around my shoulders.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
“I don’t know if that was such a good idea,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “What if she doesn’t know anything? What if she realizes we’re lying?”
“Then we’ll make up another story,” Alice squeezed my hand. “But we’ll never find out anything if we stay out here.”
I took another deep breath and pushed open the door.
A piano melody came from some distant room, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of sneakers against the floor. I swallowed and approached the reception desk, where a middle-aged woman was organizing some papers.
“Good morning,” I said, my voice firmer than I expected. “I’m Laura, Anastasia Thompson’s daughter. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”
The words “Anastasia’s daughter” came out of my mouth as if they belonged to someone else. For twenty years, I was just Laura - I never had to define myself through the woman I could barely remember.
The woman looked up from the papers, her eyes wide with recognition.
“Laura! Come in, please.”
Alice gave me a gentle push, and I stepped forward, trying to control the trembling in my hands. The receptionist stood up with a smile too warm for a stranger.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I murmured, looking around the large lobby.
“It’s a pleasure to welcome the daughter of our best dancer,” she replied in a voice that sounded almost reverent. “Anastasia was... extraordinary.”
The use of the past tense hit me like a silent punch. Was. So definitive.
We walked down a mirrored corridor. The place was grand and elegant in a way that intimidated me - impeccably polished light wood floors, pastel walls decorated with framed photographs of past performances. Through the open doors, I glimpsed large rooms where girls of various ages, all in tights and sneakers, were stretching on bars or performing moves in perfect sync.
“There’s someone waiting for you,” she said, leading us into the last room. “She canceled her morning class when she heard you were coming.”
In the farthest room, a lady with gray hair tied up in an impeccable bun was adjusting the posture of a girl of about twelve, her hands firm and gentle at the same time as she corrected the alignment of the little dancer’s spine.
“Magnolia,” called out the receptionist. “Here’s Anastasia’s daughter.”
The woman froze. For a moment, it seemed as if time had stopped. Then she turned slowly, and her eyes - an intense green framed by deep wrinkles - fixed on me. Something flashed across her face - pain, surprise, joy? - before she dismissed the student with soft words.
Magnolia crossed the room with steps that, even at seventy, maintained a fluid grace. Without warning, she enveloped me in a hug so strong and tight that I was startled. The scent of lavender on her skin brought back a flash of distant memory - so brief that I almost convinced myself it was imagination.
“Hello,” I murmured when she finally released me, uncomfortable with the intimacy of someone who, to me, was a complete stranger.
Magnolia held my face between her hands, studying every detail as if reading a map. Her eyes shone with unshed tears.
“You look so much like your mother,” she whispered. “The same eyes. The same face shape.” Her hands, weathered but still strong, dabbed my hair. “Even the way you tilt your head when you’re nervous.”
I took a step back, uncomfortable with the analysis.
“I didn’t inherit the talent for dancing,” I declared, the words coming out more abruptly than I had intended.
“You wanted to talk to me?” asked Magnolia, indicating two chairs in a corner of the room.
The older woman’s green eyes didn’t leave me for a second, as if she feared I might disappear if she looked away.
My mind was suddenly empty. The questions I had been rehearsing all the previous night evaporated like dew in the sun. I felt panic rising in my chest as I sat down in the offered chair. I couldn’t be direct and ask about Veronica - that would arouse immediate suspicion. The need to come up with a convincing story paralyzed me; the words stuck in my throat as Magnolia waited expectantly.
Alice noticed my silent despair. She sat down next to me with a confidence I envied and smiled at Magnolia with impressive naturalness.
“Actually, I’m the one who’s most interested in talking,” said Alice, leaning forward slightly. “I’m working on a project for the university about artists who have had brilliant careers interrupted by personal tragedies.”
I felt a wave of gratitude for my friend. Alice always knew how to improvise in the most difficult situations.
“Laura’s mother-Anastasia-is one of my case studies,” she continued, her voice taking on a perfectly calibrated academic tone. “An extraordinary dancer whose career ended prematurely.”
An almost imperceptible tremor passed across Magnolia’s face. Her fingers, long and elegant despite her age, pressed gently against the fabric of her skirt.
“So...” Alice paused thoughtfully, taking a small notebook out of her handbag. “I’d really like to know what she was like. As a dancer, of course, but also as a person.”
I watched Magnolia carefully, looking for any sign of suspicion. Instead, I saw her eyes soften with distant memories.
Alice’s lie opened up a safe path to the information we were looking for, without arousing suspicion about our real objective, to find out what really happened to my mother and the role Veronica played in this story.
“What she looked like,” Magnolia repeated, almost to herself.
Her gaze shifted to one photograph on the wall - a young ballerina in full leap, suspended in the air as if defying gravity. “Where can I begin to describe Anastasia?”
A soft knock on the door interrupted the moment. The receptionist entered carrying a large album bound in worn red leather, the edges of the pages yellowed by time.
“I thought you might like to see this,” said the receptionist, placing the heavy volume in Magnolia’s hands. “We keep photographic records of all the years. Anastasia is in many of them.”
Magnolia smiled. “Thank you, Diana. That 's perfect.”
My heart raced as she opened the album on the small table between us. Alice leaned over to get a better look, her hand discreetly touching my knee in a gesture of silent support.
The pages contained photographs carefully organized and labeled by year. Magnolia slowly turned each page, occasionally stopping to tell a story about a specific performance or special event. Her voice took on a nostalgic tone as she talked about my mother’s extraordinary talent, about how she “seemed to float above the ground” when she danced.
It was then that two photographs caught my eye, making my blood run cold. In both of them, standing next to my mother, was a girl I recognized immediately. The same dark hair and piercing eyes that I had seen in other photos hidden among my father’s belongings.
“Who is that girl?” I asked, pointing to the young woman next to my mother, trying hard to keep my voice casual despite the ringing in my ears.
Magnolia followed my finger with her gaze. Something changed in her expression - a shadow, so brief that I almost didn’t notice it.
“Veronica,” she replied after an almost imperceptible hesitation. “She loved her mother. Absolutely adored her.”
I held my breath, trying not to show how much that name meant to me.
“Your mother didn’t have time to take private students,” Magnolia continued, her fingers absently running along the edge of the photograph. “She was always busy with performances, rehearsals… But she taught Veronica for a while.”
“Why?” The question came out more abruptly than I had intended. “I mean, why did she make that exception?”
Magnolia closed the album with a sudden movement. Her expression, once warm and open, became strangely unreadable.
“I don’t remember,” she said, standing up. The album lay on the table between us like an unfinished bridge. “It was so long ago… I need to go back now. My students are waiting.”
I noticed Alice’s gaze on me—a silent warning not to press too hard. But it was too late. Something in Magnolia’s posture had changed. The door to the past that we had managed to crack open was closing fast.