Chased by My Possessive Ex (Dylan) novel Chapter 8

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Chapter 8

DYLAN

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My parents left early this morning to visit my grandmother’s estate. She passed away a few months ago, and my mother had been holding onto the hope that she’d inherit something–enough to pull us out of this mess and maybe give us a fresh start. They needed it. We all did.

I, on the other hand, chose to stay behind. I had other plans–plans that involved swallowing my pride and making a few calls. Despite everything we’d been through, I was still clinging to the hope that someone out there would be willing to help.

I pulled out my phone and dialed my best friend, Diane.

The line rang a few times before she picked up.

“Hey, Diane!” I greeted quickly, trying to sound more upbeat than I felt.

“Dylan?” Her voice was soft, hesitant–like she wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear from me.

I ignored the way her tone made my stomach twist. “I was just calling to check up on you,” I said, keeping my voice light.

“I’m fine, sweetie,” she answered, a little too fast. “I heard about your parents. Are you okay?”

I hesitated for half a second. Was I okay? Not really. But unpacking all of that wasn’t why I called. “I’m fine. But honestly, I didn’t call to talk about that,” I admitted, steering the conversation somewhere else. Somewhere safer.

“Oh? Then what’s up, hun?” Her voice softened a little, the warmth creeping back in.

I took a deep breath, bracing myself. “Is there any job you can recommend me for? Didn’t you just open your dance studio? Maybe you’re still looking for a dance teacher?”

The words tasted bitter in my mouth. Once upon a time, I’d been a rising star—a promising prima ballerina with a future so bright it practically sparkled. But I threw all of that away. And for what? A man who barely even loved me back.

I still remembered the day I gave it all up–leaving behind years of blood, sweat, and sacrifice to marry Beckett. At the time, I didn’t care what I was losing. All I wanted was him. But now? Now I regretted every choice that led me here.

Diane laughed softly. “Why are you looking for work? Are you bored? Or is Beckett working late again?”

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. “We’re divorced,” I said plainly. No hesitation. No sugarcoating.

“You’re what?” Her voice shot up an octave, full of disbelief.

“Technically, we’re still finalizing everything, but… yeah,” I explained, trying to sound like it didn’t still hurt.

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Chapter 8

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“But–wait–you’re divorcing Beckett? I thought…” She trailed off, her voice softer now, more careful. “Why do you even need a job? Shouldn’t you be getting half of his fortune?”

I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I signed a prenup.”

Diane groaned. “Oh, Dylan, why? You could’ve saved your family with that alimony!”

“Yeah, well… too late for that,” I sighed, my voice heavy with exhaustion. I didn’t want to get into the messy details. Not today. “Anyway, I didn’t call to talk about my love life. I just… I need work, Di. Can you help me?”

A beat of silence stretched between us before she finally spoke. “Okay, hun. Come by the studio this afternoon. I’ll see if there’s a spot for you.”

*

*

That afternoon, I stood outside Diane’s dance studio, staring at the glossy sign above the door. It was everything I thought she always wanted–modern, sleek, and buzzing with energy. Through the floor–to- ceiling windows, I could see a class in session. Young girls in matching leotards spun across the polished floor, their laughter filling the air. A familiar ache bloomed in my chest. Once, that had been my world. My dream. Until I gave it all up for Beckett.

I shook off the thought and pushed the door open. The faint scent of sweat and lavender air freshener hit me as I stepped inside. Diane stood at the reception desk, tapping away on her phone, looking every bit the successful business owner in her tailored leggings and designer sneakers.

“Hey, Di,” I greeted, forcing a smile.

Her eyes flicked up, scanning me from head to toe. “Dylan, hey!” she said, but there was something in her tone–a tightness that hadn’t been there before. “You made it.”

“Of course,” I said, dropping my bag by the counter. “Thanks again for giving me a shot. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” she said breezily, locking her phone and sliding it into her pocket. “I had a couple of shifts open, so it worked out.” She turned and grabbed a clipboard from the desk. “So, I can offer you a few beginner classes for now–mostly kids. Nothing fancy, but hey, it’s a start, right?”

I nodded, ignoring the small twist of disappointment in my stomach. “That sounds perfect. When do you

want me to start?”

“Tomorrow,” she said, scribbling something on the clipboard. “Oh, and about the pay–fifteen dollars an hour, is that okay with you?”

I blinked. “Fifteen?” My voice came out softer than I meant. Surely I misheard her.

Diane gave a half–shrug. “I mean, you haven’t exactly been in the game for a while, Dylan. You were great back then, but things have changed. I have other teachers who are actively competing and choreographing. I can’t justify paying you the same as them.”

Chapter 8

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