Chapter Twenty-Six – Verity
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
VERITY
I should’ve taken a taxi.
I was catcalled by a group of men on my walk to the subway station then stuck out like a sore thumb on said subway and have been catcalled an additional two—
“Hello, sexy. Where you goin’ tonight?”
—three times on my way to the opera house where the ballet is held.
To an extent, I guess it is flattering to know that I look as good as I feel.
I’ve had this dress sitting in my closet for the last two years, telling myself I would wear it next time , which never ends up happening.
The heels pinch a smidge; I haven’t worn them much and they’re already rubbing on the back of my ankles.
I feel a touch overdressed, but I try to shove that insecurity aside and enjoy my me date.
I searched pictures online of what my seat looked like and the view from it.
It is in one of the more expensive balcony box sections, making me think that Hannah’s boss must be a season ticket holder to have access to such a location.
I will have a prime view of the stage and zero risk of some obscenely tall person obstructing my view. In other words, perfection.
Tickets have been selling like hotcakes this season, with the new prima ballerina, Katya Antonova, coming over from Moscow to take on the role of Odette. Everyone wants a shot at seeing the rising star on stage, and here I am, watching her perform for free. I seriously lucked out.
My heels absently click on the stairs leading up to the opera house, and the buzz of the people milling about feeds the anticipation thrumming in my heart.
After going through the security scanner and presenting my ticket to one of the workers, I enter an opulent foyer that is filled with couples and families chittering away.
A large chandelier hangs in the center, the crystals shaped like perfect teardrops.
The clear gems create a rainbow reflection on the creamy marble walls, which are lined with various pieces of art that depict different ballets and operas.
I take my time, walking slowly, admiring every nook and cranny as I make the trek up two escalators to the top floor.
I pass by one of the concession areas, which are undoubtedly fancier up here compared to the ground floor.
There’s an entire area just for champagne, and I watch with deep yearning as a woman in a cropped fur coat purchases a glass.
I shuffle closer, trying to see how much a flute costs.
For some reason, they don’t just have it displayed above, and I have to bite the bullet and join the line.
I fidget with my clutch—which isn’t actually mine but Hannah’s.
Nothing I own went with my dress, and Hannah just about had a conniption when I’d tried leaving with my twenty-dollar purse, demanding that I take hers instead.
I open and close the clasp again and again as I try to sneak a peek at the menu on the counter. I’m one person away when I finally clock the prices.
Thirty dollars? For one glass?
I could buy a bottle of prosecco for half that.
Shit.
There is already a massive line behind me. Do I just dip? Do I suck it up and buy it anyway? Ugh. I mean, the ticket was free, so technically I saved money there… And I really want a glass for the whole experience of it all…
“We’ll take two glasses.”
A man slips in front of me and his voice sends a knowing shiver down my spine. I stare at Cullen’s back and the way his suit vest stretches over his broad shoulders in the most delicious way possible. He pays for the drinks and then turns to hand me one.
That hazel gaze glimmers, catching me completely off guard and forcing my body into autopilot. The tips of our fingers brush as I take the fragile stem, my breath barely a whisper as I struggle to inhale in his presence.
He steps past me, his signature cologne filling the air. The scent must turn my brain to mush because I find myself following him. My lips move without my consent.
“What are you doing here?”
Cullen halts, slowly looking over his shoulder at me, one brow raised in that infuriatingly hot yet teasing manner.
“She speaks.”
I press my lips together, unwilling to repeat myself or risk saying something stupid like it was good to see him or that I’d missed him this morning.
I’d sooner throw myself into a volcano than tell him I was upset to wake up and realize it was the weekend because it meant he wasn’t waiting outside to walk me to the station, that I even went so far as to head downstairs and check if he was there anyway because some irrational part of my brain held onto a delusional hope.
“I came to watch the ballet.”
He then turns back and continues to walk away, leaving me there, confused, with my champagne.
I’m thrown off by the dismissal. Normally, he pushes to stay around me. These last two weeks, whenever we are together, it’s like he can’t get close enough. Why is he walking away?
My chest pangs. It’s like someone put two hands around my sternum and twisted, fracturing the bone.
This is what I want. Right? For him to leave me alone. I want our lives to be separate, to go back to a time when the connection we shared never existed, when I was free from the guilt of falling for a man who could upend everything I’ve worked for.
So, why does it feel so wrong? Why do I want to shout his name and call him back to me? Why am I so hungry for his attention?
An alert, like bells, chimes throughout the speakers, signaling the ballet is about to commence.
The noise is enough to unfreeze me, and I absently amble in the direction of my section.
I try to shake off the uneasy weight that has settled on my shoulders.
I came here tonight to enjoy myself; that was the entire purpose of this me date.
I’ll be damned if I let this issue sour something I’ve been genuinely excited about.
I have to walk almost the entire length of the narrow hall before getting to the area where my seat is located. The floor here is a rich red carpet that adds to the luxe ambiance created by the gold pattern painted on the walls and the dimly lit sconces.
After showing my ticket and getting access to the balcony box where my seat is located, thoughts of Cullen quickly dissipate, replaced by awe. The view from up here is insane.
My feet carry me forward to the very edge of the balcony, where I can look out over the large audience and stage below.
This place is ginormous and even more opulent than I’d imagined.
The chandelier in the foyer doesn’t even begin to compare to the one here.
It truly feels like I’ve stepped into the Regency era.
I sink onto the velvet seat, crossing my legs as my eyes continue to bounce around. I take my first sip of champagne and revel in the way the bubbles dance on my tongue, mimicking the anticipation popping in my veins.
The box is surprisingly empty, the other three seats unoccupied. I’d somewhat assumed they’d be filled since Hannah said her boss had only one ticket to give away.
The lights begin to dim, and the sounds of tuning from the orchestra stop. I lean forward instinctively, attention centered on the stage, which has been designed to look like a dark forest.
The first song starts up, the sounds of violins weaving through the air as Katya takes her initial steps onto the stage.
The flowing white dress shifts around her body as she twirls.
I am entranced watching the prologue play out, a human Odette being captured by the monstrous Rothbart and cursed into her swan form.
Her dress transforms into the signature swan princess tutu, and it’s every bit what I’d dreamed.
Katya rises en pointe in fifth position, seamlessly moving her feet in tiny movements as she twinkles across the stage, arms in a port de bras, moving up and down like rippling wings.
The curtains close momentarily before swinging back open to commence act one, the stage now altered into that of a village square. I’m so enraptured watching the ensemble dance, losing myself to the up-tempo score of the orchestra, that I don’t even register someone sitting beside me.
Their scent, however, I recognize instantly. The musky cologne is one I have ingrained in my mind, and it triggers a hitch in my breath, disconnecting me from the performance at hand. I tilt my head to observe my new seatmate, but somewhere deep in my soul, I already know who it is.
Cullen leans forward in his seat, elbows perched on his knees. His gaze doesn’t stray from the stage even though I know he can see me staring at him.
Why? Why is he here again?
Why is he in this box?
“You’re going to miss the show.”
His deep timbre echoes under the orchestra’s crescendo, and I take a shaky breath before turning back to the pas de trois on stage. I keep myself focused on the danseur noble playing the part of Prince Siegfried, watching as he seamlessly lifts one of the ballerinas into the air.
Cullen’s aura doesn’t disappear.
I can feel him next to me, hovering over my skin, causing my flesh to prickle. There’s this deep pull in my core, a yearning for him to reach out and touch me. We’ve been sitting next to one another on the subway for two weeks, but it’s never been anything like this.
Somehow, having Cullen beside me in this dark theatre, ensconced by the classical music and tragic love story before us, my every emotion is heightened.
The minutes tick on, act one fading into act two.
I watch the iconic scene of Odette dancing with her swans, each of the women perfectly in sync.
Elegance and poise drips from their fingertips, and I’m momentarily transfixed by the hypnotizing display of unbridled technique before me as they match one another without missing even a fraction of a beat.
It’s only when the act ends, the crowd applauding as the curtains close for intermission, that Cullen’s presence resurges with a vengeance. His slow but purposeful claps reverberate through my body.
I don’t move.