Claiming Genevieve

3. Genevieve

3

GENEVIEVE

D espite the fact that I escape to an outside patio for a breath of fresh air, Vincent finds me all too quickly. I knew he would. Like he said, Chris hasn’t been holding up his end of the deal, and I’m sure he smelled the lust rippling off of Rowan. I’m sure it smelled like money.

Ballet patronage has long been a thing, all the way back to the Paris days of bohemian free love—and probably before that—along with opera singers and cabaret girls, and any beautiful artist who needed a way to supplement their cost of living while still producing their art. But in the modern day, I’ve known ballet company managers to be far more sleazy about it, taking out the element of romance and making it into a business. Vincent is one of those, and while he’d never harm or touch one of the dancers himself, he pushes us all to make those ‘connections’ that are good for the ballet—and our careers, as he often points out.

Tonight was the first night he’s ever hinted so strongly that my boyfriend’s failure to properly tithe the ballet could affect my career. It makes me furious, makes me want to reach out and wrap my hands around his wattled neck and squeeze. I’ve worked tirelessly since I was old enough to put on a leotard and ballet shoes to get here, and whether or not my boyfriend opens his wallet should have no bearing on my future. Chris hasn’t done shit other than spend money he doesn’t even bother to count himself any longer—he has so much of it.

Rowan Gallagher’s sudden appearance did nothing to improve the situation.

I take a deep, bracing breath of the night air, wishing for something cleaner than the city air choked with the scent of car exhaust and pollution. For the first time that I can remember, I wish for an escape. A vacation. A few days alone, to think, to?—

“The Gallagher boy really took an interest in you.”

Vincent’s voice cuts through the night, and I feel my jaw tense. My back is to him, and it gives me a moment to school my expression, to keep my tone neutral.

“He said he’d just come back to the States. I’m sure tonight was a novelty for him.”

“It could be more than a novelty.” The insinuation in Vincent’s words is clear. My jaw tightens further, my teeth grinding against each other. The truth is, if I’d met Rowan under other circumstances, I’d probably have taken an interest in him, too. I was struck by how handsome he is from the moment I saw him—and something else, too, that indefinable thing that’s always referred to as ‘chemistry,’ a feeling that sparks flew between us before we’d ever even introduced ourselves.

I can still smell his scent, clinging to me. Smoke and wood with a hint of salt, like a campfire on a beach. I’d wanted to lean in as we danced, breathe him in. I didn’t, because I knew he would take it as a sign of interest. A reason to keep pushing. And I both did and didn’t want him to stop pushing.

He’s arrogant. Impulsive—I can see that already. And maybe the kind of man who thinks I can be bought, which makes me as angry at him as I am at Vincent.

Well? Can’t you?

An insidious, small voice in my head whispers the question, making my throat tighten. And maybe it’s true. Maybe I can be bought. After all, isn’t that what my relationship with Chris has been? I’ve easily admitted, time and again—to myself and aloud to others—that it’s not about love. Not for him, or for me. So if it’s not love, then what is it?

A small flicker of shame threatens to ignite in the pit of my stomach, and I quickly, ruthlessly quench it. I refuse to be ashamed for being practical—for ensuring that I’m able to live comfortably enough to focus on my career, to be healthy, to take care of myself. No one ever criticizes men for having relationships only to fill a need. Why am I expected to only do so for romance? For love?

My mind tries to tell me that there are words for the kind of woman this has made me into, but I refuse to let the words take shape. I refuse to buy into that way of thinking. I am practical. Aware that there are more important things in the world than love.

“Genevieve.” Vincent’s voice cuts through my thoughts again, and I let out a sharp breath between my teeth. I just wanted a moment of privacy. A moment to get my thoughts together.

“What?” I finally turn to face him, and I see his gaze sweep over me, assessing me. I’m aware of how I look, backlit on this patio in my elegant teal dress—my figure honed to perfection, my makeup and hair perfect, everything about me sculpted into a gorgeous piece of art that, four times a year, I present on stage to an audience that I’ve made myself capable of dazzling and delighting. This is my world. This is everything to me. And I’ll do anything to stay here.

“Just give him a chance. I did a little inquiring while the two of you were dancing. His father is Irish mafia. Lots of connections, both legit and criminal, and plenty of money. His father is also dying—lung cancer, I hear.” Vincent fixes me with a pointed look. “Pretty soon, Rowan Gallagher is going to be the leader of the Irish mafia in New York. He’ll have all those connections, and all that money. You could secure that for us. And why not? I know you’re not in love with Chris. Cut him loose. You’ve got to be getting bored with him by now.”

Irish mafia . My stomach tightens. I think of Rowan’s hands on me, his fingers pressing against my spine as we danced, that heady scent of his cologne. The desire in his eyes as he looked at me. The arrogance. It makes more sense now.

“You want to get into bed with the Irish mafia?” I stare at Vincent, and he chuckles, completely unfazed.

“No, I want you to get into bed with them. Joking! That was a joke.” He raises his hands defensively when I narrow my eyes at him. “Except—not really, Genevieve. That boy wants you. He looked at you like a puppy begging for a treat. Give it to him, and we could be really well off. So could you.”

“Irish mafia.” I repeat the words, punctuating each one forcefully, and Vincent rolls his eyes.

“Honey. Don’t you think we already have connections with other mafia? The Italians haven’t had much interest for a while, but the Bratva have bankrolled us for years. And don’t look shocked. I know good and well that your best friend is married to the Yashkov second.”

I can’t argue that. My best friend Dahlia is married to the younger son of the Yashkov Bratva family, and another of my friends, Evelyn—the designer of the dress I’m wearing tonight—is married to his brother, the pakhan of the Bratva. So I can’t pretend that I don’t already have a toe dipped in the pool of that world—except that for me, it’s more of a degree of connection, rather than a direct involvement. And I have no desire to step deeper.

I know Vincent isn’t going to give this up easily, though. I can see the look in his eye that says he’s latched onto this possibility, and it’s going to take quite a bit to convince him that Rowan and I are a bad idea.

But I can stall him.

“Look,” I say placatingly. “I’ll consider it. Okay? But I can’t make this my focus right now, Vincent. The spring showcase is coming up. All of my focus needs to be on getting ready for that. Who’s patronizing me won’t matter if my performance isn’t what’s expected, right?”

Vincent gives a grudging nod, and I feel a flicker of relief. I push forward, driving the point home.

“I can’t deal with the emotional fallout of a breakup right now. Not when we’re in constant rehearsals, with the showcase so soon. My head needs to be in the game, right? You’re right, I don’t love Chris, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t affection there. We’ve been together for a year. I can’t just break that off and feel nothing, Vincent. I’m not a machine. And my performance will suffer if I’m trying to deal with that, with moving to a new place, with a new relationship with Rowan… those are all distractions I don’t need. After the showcase, I’ll figure things out.”

“And if he gets distracted by someone else?” Vincent narrows his eyes. “Or loses interest?”

“Then someone else will step in. I know you think he’s this big fish, Vincent, but I’m your prima .” A flicker of the anger I felt before slips into my tone—anger over Vincent’s focus being on anything other than my well-being—and I can see that he hears it. “I need to take care of myself. And this will only hurt me, and my performance, in the end.”

“Fine.” Vincent gives in, grudgingly. “But think about it.”

“I said I would.”

It comes out snappish, and I wonder if it will piss him off, but it seems like Vincent has realized that he’s pushed me far enough for one evening. He nods, and I take advantage of the moment.

“I think I’m going to head home.” I tighten my hand around the clutch that I’m holding. “I’m tired, and clearly I’ve already met your most important guest of the evening. I’m going to head out early. We have rehearsal tomorrow, after all.”

The last sentence keeps Vincent from saying anything. He fixes me with a thin-lipped, disappointed look, but he says nothing as I walk past him, back into the too-warm room with the orchestra now playing an instrumental version of Taylor Swift’s Shake It Off . I wonder if I should try to snag another glass of champagne while I’m rebelling. But truthfully, I don’t really want it.

I don’t even want to go home, where I’ll have to see Chris, where there will be someone else in bed with me. I want to be alone for a night, sleep alone, be left completely on my own with my thoughts. I’m tempted to get a hotel room for the night just for that reason, but if I do, I know I’ll have to explain it. And I know Chris won’t understand.

Especially after our fight earlier, he might try to twist it into accusations that I’m cheating on him . I’m not, of course, but I don’t have the energy to have that fight. It will just undo whatever peace and relaxation I get from the night away.

I call an Uber, shivering a little in the early spring chill despite my coat. I didn’t see Rowan as I skirted the edge of the ballroom, slipping out into the entryway and then outside, and I’m glad. I don’t want to have to speak to him again, explain that I’m leaving early, make excuses, or avoid giving him my number or taking his. I don’t want to talk to anyone else tonight.

I feel tired. More tired than I have in a very, very long time—even after grueling rehearsals. The kind of tired that’s more than just physical. When the Uber shows up, I slide into the back and lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes for a moment and trying to center myself.

The ride back to the apartment I share with Chris is all too short. I walk through the quiet lobby to the elevator, wincing at the sharp jolts of pain in my feet from my heels as they click on the black and white tile. I step into the mirrored elevator and tap my keycard for the penthouse level. When I unlock the front door and walk in, I pause, listening to hear if Chris is home yet.

I don’t hear anything. The penthouse is silent, other than the tap of the wind against the large floor-to-ceiling glass windows that make up the majority of the walls—and often make me feel like I’m living in an aquarium—and the occasional clink of the icemaker in the kitchen.

That sound propels me into the kitchen. I pause at the wine rack on the sleek black granite counter, sliding a bottle free and reaching up to get a wine glass. The kitchen is all black and steel, as cold as the rest of the apartment, and I have a sudden ache for something warm. I feel cold all the way down to my bones, as if the penthouse itself has given me a chill that I can’t shake off.

There are no sounds to indicate Chris is home as I take the bottle and glass and climb the stairs up to the second level. No sound of television or music or the tapping of computer keys. A sudden feeling of dread hits me as I reach the landing and pause in front of the bedroom door, and I hesitate, listening to hear if there are any sounds in there—sounds that I don’t want to hear, but that I’m beginning to wonder if I should expect one of these days. If our relationship will end not with a whimper, but with the bang of Chris fucking another woman in the bed I’ve shared with him for a year.

Surely he wouldn’t do that. He’s smarter than that.

Gently, I push open the bedroom door. There’s a shape in our bed, but just one. Chris is asleep, lying under the dark charcoal-colored duvet, and I let out a slow, relieved breath. Not so much, I realize with a pang, because I didn’t find him with another woman, but because I don’t have to expend the energy to deal with it tonight.

If I had wondered if our relationship was finished, that should have been enough to let me know that the death knell had already been tolled. But, like I told Vincent earlier tonight, I don’t have the energy to end it right now. I don’t have the time. My career has always been my focus, and it needs to continue to be. Everything else can be dealt with later.

I slowly slide my heels off before I step further into the room, not wanting to wake him up with the clicking on the concrete floor. As quietly as I can, I pad across the bedroom on bare feet, wincing at the cold against my skin as I walk to the ensuite bathroom and push open the door, stepping inside. I don’t turn the lights on until the door is closed and locked, flicking the switch for the heated tiles at the same moment and sighing in pleasure as they begin to warm the soles of my feet.

This room is as austere as the rest of the penthouse, but it’s still my favorite spot. It’s the only one where I managed to make any changes to the decor, adding hanging plants and greenery to the space around the black lacquered soaking tub surrounded by crisp white tiles. The smell of green plants and eucalyptus fills the room, and I let out another soft sigh, setting down the wine bottle and glass on the counter as I reach for the zipper of my dress.

The silky fabric slides off my shoulders, down my waist and hips, and pools on the floor, leaving me in just the smooth black thong that I wore underneath it. I slip that off, too, enjoying the feeling of the cool air on my naked skin as I pad over to the tub and turn on the water, waiting for it to heat up.

While I wait, I pour a glass of wine, search for a bath bomb, and find a vanilla-scented one in a cupboard under the sink. When the water is steaming hot, I plug the tub, add the bath bomb, and set the wine and wine glass on the tiles next to the tub as I step into the water and let out a soft moan. It’s almost too hot—just the right amount of pain pricking at my skin, mingled with pleasure as it fills to soak my sore feet and then, slowly, the rest of my body. I reach for a clip to secure my hair on top of my head and sink back into the tub, reaching for the wine glass as I close my eyes.

For a moment, I’m blissfully at peace. It’s almost as good as my idea of going to a hotel. I won’t be sleeping alone later, but for now—I reach for the wine glass, enjoying the small rebellion of having a second drink tonight. Maybe more than that. Maybe , I think rebelliously, I’ll finish the whole bottle .

The wine is red and rich and adds to the heat sliding through my veins. I take another sip, idly brushing the fingers of one hand over my sharp collarbone, and I feel a small prickle of sensation. Heat, gathering lower. My fingers drift down, into the valley between my breasts, and for some reason that I can’t explain even to myself, Rowan flashes into my mind.

He complicated my entire evening, but—he was also so handsome. I can’t stop myself, just for a moment, from imagining running my fingers through that thick copper hair, down the chiseled line of his cheekbone, his jaw. I can imagine how he’d respond to that touch. He was eager for it, so full of desire that I could feel it strung taut between us as we danced, a tight string ready to hum with the slightest pluck.

My hand drifts over the slight swell of one small breast, my fingers circling the tight nipple. I bite my lip, tasting the wine lingering there, and arch my back slightly, leaning into my own touch.

It’s been a while since I’ve done this—since anything has made me want to. My sex life with Chris has been sporadic lately, and cold for much longer, at least on my side. He’s seemed happy enough, but aren’t all men easy to please? All they want, in my experience, is to come. They don’t care how they get there, so long as they get that fleeting moment of pleasure at the end. Women are more complicated. More desirous . And Chris has long since stopped caring about the journey of making me come—or really, making me come at all.

I didn’t think I cared. I told myself that it was better, really. Perfunctory sex meant time saved—time I could be using for exercise, for practice, for all of the things that matter to my career.

But now, with a forgotten feeling flickering to life in my veins as my fingers trail down my stomach, I wonder if that was the right way to think at all—if I’ve been denying myself something I want, that I need , just because dealing with the lack of it is too difficult.

My fingers dip lower, tracing the taut skin between my hipbones. I take another long sip of my wine, rolling it around in my mouth, trying not to think of Rowan as my hand slides an inch further, as my fingers nudge against my clit, sending sparks of pleasure skittering over my skin.

I tip my head back, the wine glass held loosely in my other hand as my fingers roll over the slowly swelling flesh. Heat pulses through me, and I feel sweat bead at my hairline, at the hollow of my throat, the bath too hot now. But it feels too good to stop. My legs spread open a bit, the water sluicing over my skin as I increase the rhythm, circling my clit in quick, fast motions before I suck in a breath and force myself to slow down.

There’s no rush, not right now. Nothing to make me hurry through this. I take another sip of wine, letting the pleasure build, slow and sweet and?—

Rowan flashes into my mind again and won’t leave, no matter how hard I try to refocus my thoughts. I feel like I’m floating in a haze of heat and pleasure and wine, and for a moment I think I can smell his cologne instead of the vanilla scent of the bath—that smell of wood and smoke and salty flesh. I can almost taste it—the way his skin would feel under my tongue if I dragged my mouth down his throat and sucked at the edge of it, the way his body would jerk and harden against mine, the sound he might make?—

Pleasure jolts through me, more insistent now, and my fingers speed up again. I can feel it building, my muscles tightening, that knotting sensation in the pit of my stomach so close to unfurling. I toss back the last of my wine, close my eyes, and lean my head back, and I feel Rowan’s hand on my back again, see the mischievous gleam in his bright green eyes, the promise of desire between us throbbing like the pulse beating a wild tempo in my throat.

The orgasm hits me with a force that leaves me gasping, and I clamp my other hand over my mouth to keep myself from crying out and waking Chris. My hips buck upward against the hand between my legs, sending water splashing out of the tub onto the tile, pleasure rolling through me like a tidal wave. It feels good—better than I remember—and I keep my fingers on my clit all the way through it, carrying myself through the crashing, blissful sensations until they fade, and I slump back into the water, sweaty and dizzy from the heat and the climax.

It felt so good. And if I’m being honest with myself, I know the reason why it happened. It wasn’t the champagne or the wine or the bath or the argument earlier. It was Rowan.

My sex life with Chris has been cold for a long time, and he made me feel heat for the first time in longer than I can remember. It was part of the reason I was so icy with him while we talked and danced. I didn’t want him to see the effect he was having on me—the way his hand on the small of my back made me feel, the way his skin burned through the silk of my dress. The way his scent, his presence, made my skin tingle.

I sink lower into the tub, resolutely pushing all of that away. It doesn’t matter. Lust doesn’t support my future. Lust is nothing but a distraction. Rowan is nothing but a distraction—right now, especially. Maybe in the future, when I’m not so close to a showcase, when I don’t need to focus so intently…

Even then, I think, he isn’t a wise choice, no matter how much Vincent might want a peek into his wallet. Someone like Chris, who doesn’t distract or fluster me, is a much better option. The way Rowan makes me feel isn’t good for me—for my focus or for my career, at any point.

What I need, I think grimly as I pour myself another glass of wine, is to forget about him entirely.