5. Genevieve
5
GENEVIEVE
I feel Rowan tense next to me, and I know that this is one step away from spilling over into something much more violent than it needs to be—than is good for anyone standing here.
Chris is glaring at me with a look that makes me angry—not even a week ago, he was calling me paranoid and jealous for accusing him of cheating when I smelled perfume on his clothes, but now he’s looking at me as if he caught me fucking Rowan in the hallway. As if I’ve done something wrong, when I haven’t.
It’s not as if you’re completely innocent, that small voice in my head whispers. After all, the other night in the bathtub…
But fantasy isn’t the same as reality, and I’m almost certain that Chris has actually crossed a line that I never have.
“He’s someone with an interest in the ballet,” I say smoothly, sweetly enough to hopefully calm Chris down. “That’s all. He was watching the rehearsal and had some questions for me.”
“Is that so?” Chris looks between the two of us. “You looked like you were arguing.”
“I’m afraid I tried to explain Ms. Fournier’s own area of expertise to her,” Rowan cuts in. “I had some opinions about the ballet that got her rather heated. She put me in my place quickly.”
Chris’s eyes narrow. “I’d like to speak to my girlfriend alone,” he snaps. “I’m sure she’s explained enough to you. Maybe one of the other dancers can fill you in on any other questions you might have.”
I feel Rowan bristle, and I twist toward him, giving him a quick, sharp look that pleads with him to leave. This is the last thing I want to deal with right now, and if the two of them get into a fight?—
Vincent will have my head. Blame me for ruining two patronages, a current one and a potential one. Berate me about why I couldn’t just be more pleasant to Rowan, when Rowan is the one who has been disturbing my peace, showing up where he’s not wanted, and not taking my clear hints that I’m not interested in anything he has to offer right now. I’m still not sure that I believe that they’re not both in on this together.
Rowan backs off, to my surprise, holding his hands up. “I’m sure I can get my answers elsewhere,” he says coolly, and I see his gaze linger on Chris, something concerned behind the irritation in his eyes. I want to tell him that I’ll be fine, but that will only agitate Chris more, and I’m not sure I’ve ever actually seen him this pissed off with me. It feels abnormal, and a queasy, warning feeling rolls through my gut. Even the other night, before the party, he wasn’t as angry as he seems now.
Chris waits until Rowan has started to retreat before reaching out to grab my arm, turning me back to face him fully. I flinch in surprise at the sudden touch, wrenching my arm away. To my relief, he lets me go, but it concerns me that I was worried at all that he wouldn’t.
“Why are you acting like this?” I hiss. “Vincent is on edge already because you haven’t written him a check lately. Now you’re insulting other possible patrons? What are you doing?”
“Other possible patrons?” Chris makes air quotes with his fingers as he speaks. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Genevieve. If that man is a possible patron, it’s because he wants you . I saw the way he was looking at you. Have you fucked him already? No, wait, I know the answer. If you had, he wouldn’t have been looking at you like that.”
It takes everything in me not to slap him. “We were just talking,” I bite out, my jaw tightening. “What on earth has gotten into you, Chris? I can’t talk to someone without you getting jealous? Maybe it’s a good thing that you didn’t come to the party, because I definitely had to talk to other men there. Several of them, in fact.”
“And I can’t have a hint of perfume on my clothing without you getting jealous.” Chris looks at me almost smugly, as if it’s the same thing and he’s proving a point, and my chest tightens with an anger that I don’t know if I’ve ever felt before.
“I’m sorry I ever brought up the fucking perfume,” I snap. “But it’s not the same thing, and you know it?—”
“From the way he was looking at you, I think it is.”
“I can’t help how he looked at me!” I throw my hands up, aware that my voice is raised, that Rowan can probably hear me if he hasn’t left yet, and maybe even others in the building. But I can’t help it. The tension between Chris and me has been winding tighter, and I try to remember why I’m tolerating the slow death of our relationship. Why I don’t just pull the trigger and end it here and now.
But of course, I know why. I can’t risk screwing up the most important thing in my life by upending that life entirely just before a huge performance.
“I don’t have time for this, Chris,” I say as calmly as I can, lowering my voice. “I need to focus on getting ready for the showcase. If you had a big account at work that you were trying to get, and we were fighting, you’d tell me that we’d need to address the problem later, when you had the time and focus?—”
“The problem ,” Chris snaps, “is you flirting with other men, and then accusing me?—”
“I wasn’t—” My voice rises again, and I quickly lower it. “I wasn’t flirting. I have no interest in him. And whatever you are or aren’t doing, I just—” I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “I can’t deal with it right now. I just can’t.”
“There’s nothing to deal with,” Chris shoots back coldly, and I nod.
“Okay. Fine. There’s nothing to deal with.” I don’t believe him, and in the back of my mind, I know that any self-respecting woman would break up with him at this point. I would tell any of my friends to do exactly that if this was happening to one of them and they told me about it. But even as I stand there, looking at this man that I once considered a friend and now can barely stand the sight of, I rationalize that it makes more sense to wait.
This isn’t pleasant, but neither is dealing with a breakup and a move. Just the thought of everything that entails—all of the discussions and arguments that come with the dissolution of a relationship, looking for a new apartment, signing a lease, packing everything up and moving it—makes me feel exhausted and drained just thinking about it. Even if Chris doesn’t care, even if he’s happy to cut me loose—which I doubt, given his ego—it’s impossible to walk out of a relationship without some final conversations. And even with all the help I know I’ll have when it comes to rearranging my life, even with the support system that I’m deeply grateful for, none of that is easy or quick.
It’s not something I can handle right before a major performance. I just can’t.
Not with a week until the show.
I can handle this for one more week, I tell myself. It’s not as if I’m in love with Chris and my heart is breaking. This is an annoyance, but no more than the annoyance that the breakup is going to be. Maybe even a little less so.
Chris looks at me narrowly. “I don’t want to catch you flirting with him again. Or anyone else that your manager wants you to charm for the sake of their ‘patronage.’” He steps closer, the thick scent of his cologne filling my nose. I used to like the warm, spicy scent, but something about it turns my stomach now. I like Rowan’s better, I think nonsensically, the thought coming out of nowhere, and I quickly push it away.
He reaches up, fingers skating against my temple as if to brush a piece of hair back, though there’s nothing there. My rehearsal bun is as smooth and perfectly done as it would be for a performance, and somehow it irks me that Chris wants to pretend that there’s something amiss. That I’ve left a hair out of place. That he wants to find fault with me.
I try to shift away from his touch, but his hand drops, his palm cupping my chin as his fingers press against my cheek, holding me in place for a moment. It doesn’t hurt, but the forcefulness of it freezes me in place, my heart suddenly beating like a rabbit’s in my chest.
His gaze holds mine, and I wait for him to say something. A beat passes, and then another, and he lets me go, the press of his fingers into my skin lingering as I stare up at him.
“I came to tell you,” he says slowly, as if this entire thing has inconvenienced him greatly, “that I wanted to go out to dinner tonight. You’re free, aren’t you?”
It’s phrased as a question, but I know it’s really not. It’s never bothered me before, but it does now. Chris expects a reasonable amount of my time in exchange for all that he offers. Dinners out, going to a play or a movie, seeing a concert, fucking him when he wants it. In exchange, I’ve been able to focus entirely on what really matters to me, without the worries of how I’ll house or feed or clothe myself distracting me. But in the past, I’ve always felt like he genuinely wanted to spend time with me—like he looked forward to that part of our arrangement.
I thought we respected each other. But with every day that’s passed since the night of the party, that feeling chips away more and more.
Now it just feels like he’s demanding his pound of flesh. Insisting I hold up my end.
“Of course I’m free.” I give him a tight, brittle smile. “What time?”
“Seven. Wear that black dress I like.” Chris starts to turn to walk away, and I call after him.
“You should stop by and see Vincent. He asked about you at the party.”
Chris’s shoulders tense. He knows the suggestion for what it is—a reminder that if I’m going to hold up my end of the deal, he needs to as well. And truthfully, I want him to go write Vincent a check. Then Vincent will stop bothering me about finding a new patron—Rowan, in particular—and I can end my relationship with Chris on my own terms, in my own time.
After the showcase. After I’ve had a little time to rest. After, after, after.
I’ll do it, I promise myself. After.
—
I manage to find the time for a small catnap before I need to get ready for dinner, one that I desperately need. My body is tired and sore from the rehearsals that have amped up in preparation for the show, but I don’t sleep well, even with all of the blackout curtains drawn and a silk eye mask pulled down over my eyes to block out any remaining slivers of light that might manage to filter in. The rest that I do get is fitful and comes in small bursts, until my alarm goes off and I sit up with a sigh.
What I want is to stay in, take another hot bath, and maybe allow myself a glass of wine. But instead I pry myself out of bed and head to the shower, turning it up as hot as I can stand and letting out a sigh of relief as the heat sinks into my muscles. When I’m finished, I towel off and put my hair in rollers, letting the curls set while I go and find the dress that Chris requested I wear tonight.
It’s a tight black dress with off-the-shoulder sleeves, showing off my long neck, sharp collarbones, and slim shoulders—all Chris’s favorite features. It stops just a couple of inches above my knees, showing off my other asset that every man I’ve ever met has always loved…my long dancer’s legs. With a pair of high black Dior stilettos added, they’re shown off to their best advantage.
I keep my makeup and jewelry simple, the way Chris likes it—just a pair of sapphire earrings that he gave me as a gift and my diamond tennis bracelet. A small burn of resentment settles in my stomach at the need to dress for him, to please him when he’s so clearly given up on pleasing me, but I push it away. There’s no point in thinking about it right now.
After , I remind myself, and head downstairs to meet him.
But the resentment remains. It’s stoked when we go to one of my favorite restaurants, a gorgeous little French bistro, even though Chris should know that my diet is at its strictest right before a show. I look longingly at the menu, at the descriptions of rich French onion soup covered in Gruyère cheese, rich duck breast and lavender crème br?lée, and order a Nicoise salad instead, ignoring the potatoes and hard-boiled eggs as I pick at it and sip my water. Meanwhile, Chris orders the soup, digs into a perfectly cooked steak with Béarnaise sauce and crispy, thin fries dusted with salt, and finishes it off with a chocolate mousse topped with berries.
I look at him, half-listening as he chatters on about accounts at work and a client that he’s taken out to drinks and dinner twice now and is sure he’ll finish a deal with soon, and wonder how I ever found this man tolerable. How I ever thought that there was mutual affection and respect between us.
Or maybe there was, and it’s just that I didn’t see clearly who he really was—a man who would provide those things only as long as he wasn’t yet bored with his toy. That’s what I feel like now—a pretty doll to be dressed up and posed on the other side of a table, listening politely to him brag as he enjoys his dinner.
“Oh,” Chris adds, almost as an afterthought as he dips a teaspoon into his mousse. “I did go to see Vincent. Wrote him a check. He seemed quite pleased.” He looks at me across the table as he says it, his gaze flat, and I don’t miss the meaning behind it. “So I hope I won’t see that redheaded fellow sniffing around you again.” He smiles, the expression pleased, as if he’s won some game that I wasn’t aware we were playing. “You’re mine, Genevieve.” Chris reaches across the table, his thumb sweeping over the back of my knuckles. “My beautiful ballerina.”
My stomach clenches, swooping with a jolt of nausea that wipes away any remaining longing for the rich food I didn’t get to partake in. I’d thought that Chris was tiring of me as much as I was him, but suddenly, I realize that I’ve misjudged the situation once again. He’s clearly stopped caring about my happiness in the relationship, but he’s not ready to let me go.
Thank fuck I decided to wait to break it off, I think, reaching for my water as I paste a smile onto my face. It’s clear that this isn’t going to be the easy breakup that I envisioned.
Hours later, long after Chris has gotten his pleasure from me and I’m sitting on the edge of the bathtub as it fills up, that thought is still lingering in my mind. Should I be worried about breaking up with him? I glance towards the bathroom door, that unsettled feeling that I had when we argued in the theatre hall churning in my stomach again. I’ve never thought of Chris as someone violent, someone who I might need to be careful with if I upset him. I always assumed that if I wanted to end things, I’d tell him, there would be the usual emotional end-of-relationship discussions or arguments, and then it would be over. Painful, but brief, like pulling out a splinter.
But now I’m starting to think it might be more like losing a toenail after months of pointe shoes. Excruciating… and something that has to be handled carefully, to avoid injury.
I bite my lip as I look at the door. I’ve been lucky in my life; I’ve never had to think about how to be careful around a man to avoid him hurting me. I never thought that Chris was that kind of man. But with the way he’s been behaving lately, showing sides of himself that I’ve never seen before—I reach up, touching the side of my cheek, almost still able to feel the pressure of his fingers when he grabbed my face the other day.
Maybe I’ve been wrong about more than I realized.
—
That unsettled feeling lingers until the day of the showcase. I push it away during rehearsals, throwing myself fully into focusing on the performance, but it comes back in the moments in between. I don’t see Chris much—the week before the showcase is full of long days, days where I come home too tired to do much more than manage a tired greeting and then head upstairs for an Epsom salt bath and sleep. Chris is kinder than before, leaving a bouquet of daisies on the counter for me one morning with a note, and late in the week I find a bag of lavender and orange blossom bath salts waiting on the bathroom sink, alongside a bottle of my favorite wine—wine that I don’t dare touch this week, but that I’m looking forward to drinking after the performance all the same. It makes me wonder if maybe I overreacted, if we were just having a fight that went a little too far, if maybe it was even a little bit my fault. I was cold to him, I snapped at him, I didn’t listen to his concerns about Rowan. And they weren’t entirely unfounded. I remember lying in the bathtub, fingers sliding between my thighs as I breathed in Rowan’s imagined scent, and I feel my cheeks flush with shame.
Rowan pushed too far, but I wasn’t entirely innocent. Fortunately, for the last week, I haven’t seen so much as a single sign of him. He hasn’t popped up at the coffee shop, nor has he made another ill-advised visit to the rehearsal spaces.
Until, of course, the most inopportune moment presents itself for him to show his face.
I hear a knock at my dressing room as I’m getting ready, smoothing my hair back to pin it into a perfect, sleek bun. “Come in,” I call out, expecting it to be one of the other dancers, or Vincent, or even Chris, coming by to give me a quick kiss and encouragement. The way things have been the last week, I half-expect for him to drop by, as a way of continuing to mend things between us.
Instead, when I glance in the mirror to see who walks in, I see Rowan’s copper-colored hair and devastatingly handsome face, that familiar smirk on his lips.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I spin around to face him, seeing as I do that he has a spray of flowers held in one hand—a gorgeous arrangement of pink peonies, white roses, and yellow daffodils.
“Is that any way to speak to a man who brings you flowers?” His Irish accent flows over me like a wave, sending a flood of heat through my core. Even the way he speaks sounds like a smirk, like he never takes anything too seriously, and that thought sends anger quickly flooding after the desire, a different kind of heat.
My entire life has been serious. I’ve pursued one thing with a driven passion that has eclipsed all else, and right now, this man is endangering it—distracting me right at the moment when I need that distraction the least.
“Do they teach seminars on how to pop up when you’re least wanted?” I snap, rising to my feet as he crosses the room toward me. “Because if they do, you’d be an easy pick to lead them.”
“You wound me.” He presses his free hand to his chest, stopping just in front of me with the flowers between us, held outstretched. “I wanted to bring you these, milséan . You mentioned how important today was, and?—”
“If you understood how important it was, you wouldn’t have shown up!” I snatch the flowers from his hand, abruptly throwing them into the garbage can next to my dressing table.
“Genevieve.” Rowan’s voice is suddenly muted, and when I look back up, I see a flash of hurt—real hurt—cross his face. His gaze flicks from the discarded flowers back to me, and I feel my stomach twist, guilt piercing my chest at the sudden expression in his eyes, like a kicked puppy.
No , I tell myself resolutely. I am not going to be manipulated into feeling like this is my fault. It feels like that’s happening more and more lately, with Chris, and now Rowan. My jaw tightens, and I refuse to let myself believe that the expression on Rowan’s face is sincere.
“The performance is in less than an hour,” I tell him tightly. “I need to focus. I need to be preparing, thinking about that, and nothing else?—”
“I just wanted to wish you good luck. Or—break a leg.” Rowan smiles, but it’s not the confident smirk from before. It looks weak, as if he’s struggling to keep it on his lips. “Isn’t that what the theatre folk say?”
Again, I feel that pang in my chest. But I can’t back down. If I do?—
He’ll keep reappearing. He’ll keep trying. And eventually…
I might give in.
“You have no business back here,” I say curtly. “You’re not my partner or my patron or my friend. I don’t want you in my life, Rowan Gallagher, and I don’t want you here right now. Am I understood?”
The hurt vanishes from his face, and there’s something else in his eyes suddenly—a gleam of anger—as his jaw tightens. “And where is your partner just now, hm? Your patron? That handsome fellow who showed up that afternoon when we were having ourselves a tiff in the hallway?”
“A—” I blink at him, and he rolls his eyes.
“A tiff. An argument. Whatever you want to call it, lass. The point is, where is he? Not bringing you flowers to your dressing room, aye?” His accent is thicker now, the Irish brogue coming out in full force, and I try to ignore the way it makes me feel. People would pay to listen to him talk, I think nonsensically, trying to focus on my anger and not the warm desire pooling in my core as I think of all the other things he could say to me— whisper to me—in that voice.
“I’m sure he’s going to stop by,” I bite out, and the smirk returns to Rowan’s face, but there’s very little humor in it now.
“You see, lass, I don’t think he will. Do y’know why?”
“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
Rowan narrows his eyes. “Because he’s an asshole. I know men like him, lass. They throw their weight around to get what they want, and when they’re bored of it or it’s of no more use to them, they throw it away.”
I flinch. I can’t help it—it’s far too close to how I’ve felt about the relationship lately. Far too close to my own thoughts about Chris’s treatment of me. “And I suppose you’d do better?”
Rowan’s face softens, ever so slightly. “Aye, lass, I would,” he says calmly. “If it’s a patron you need, and that’s why you’re still with the man, then I’d be more than happy to take that place. I’d treat you better, you can be sure of it.”
“You don’t know how he treats me.” I fold my arms over my chest, feeling the silky stretch of the leotard against my skin, and I see Rowan’s gaze sweep over me. His eyes heat, desire and anger pooling together in those emerald depths, and heat blossoms through me, too. I can feel the same sparks between us that I felt that night on the dance floor at the party, and I know Rowan also feels it. I’ve felt it every time we’re close. It’s why we argue the way we do, I’m sure—all that heat has to go somewhere. Better anger than something else.
“I know enough.” Rowan steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne, that woodsy, smoky scent filling my senses and making me want to step closer. “All I needed was a look at him, lass, and I can see he’s not treating you the way you should be.”
“And how’s that?” I raise an eyebrow. “Actually—you know what? I don’t care. I meant what I said, Mr. Gallagher . You need to leave. I don’t want you here?—”
“Do you live together?” Rowan asks abruptly. The question is so abrupt that I answer before I can think better of it.
“Yes. Not that it’s any of your business.” I frown at him. “Why the fuck do you care?”
“What about a place of your own? A private apartment, in whatever neighborhood you choose. No expense spared. Would you like that? Your privacy, time to yourself, no one to bother you except for when we spent time together.” His green eyes meet mine, and I can see that he’s deadly serious. Both the humor and the rancor have fallen away, and I know this for what it is—the proposal that he’s been building up to make me, what he’s likely been mulling over ever since the party.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I roll my eyes, and Rowan’s expression shifts, his mouth pressing together in a thin line.
“I assure you, lass, I’m not.” He steps forward, another inch closer, and I can feel the heat wafting off his body. I can almost feel what it would be like to be wrapped up in him. “I want you, eala . Badly. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make you comfortable enough to?—”
“Leave.” I bite out the word. “You want me to be comfortable? Leave, and don’t come back. I have no interest in your proposal of—whatever this is.”
“Patronage?” Rowan’s eyebrow lifts. “That’s what that other man is, aye? Your patron? What’s the difference in?—”
“I’ll tell you the difference,” I snap. “You’re mafia, right? Irish mafia. Vincent mentioned it to me the night of the party, when he tried to sell me on this same idea. Well, let me tell you this, Rowan. I have no interest in being a mafia heir’s mistress. That’s what you’re proposing to me, and that’s different from my relationship with Chris.”
I see him flinch ever so slightly, as if I’ve struck a nerve.
“Mistress?” Rowan frowns. “I’m not married yet, lass. You wouldn’t be?—”
“Right now, maybe.” I glare at him. “Both of my closest friends are married to Bratva men, Rowan. I might not know all the ins and outs of the mafia lifestyle, but I know enough. I know a little of how the families work. If you’re the heir, you’ll be expected to marry eventually, and provide an heir. And then what? I’m not interested in being your side piece, and I’m not interested in being strung along until you get engaged and toss me aside. I want agency in my relationships, Rowan. There’s no agency in that. I’m not interested in being your toy.”
“Genevieve.” His voice has a note of pleading now, but I don’t want to listen to anything else.
I shake my head once more, firmly. “Get out,” I snap. “I have a performance to focus on, and I don’t have time for this. Just fucking go .”
With those last three words, I see Rowan deflate. He runs a hand through his coppery hair, and gives a short, jerky nod.
“Alright,” he says, letting out a breath. “Have it your way, lass. I’ll—alright.”
He turns to go, and I watch him leave, the door shutting hard behind him on the way out. And when it shuts, I feel myself let out a breath that I didn’t know I was holding.
So that’s over, then. I should feel relief. I should be glad that, most likely, I’ll never see Rowan Gallagher again.
Instead, all I feel is hollow, as if I’ve lost something I didn’t even know I wanted.