Chapter One
Genevieve
I hear the click of the front door opening just as I unzip the garment bag that holds my dress for this evening’s party and glance toward the cracked-open bedroom door with surprise. I hadn’t expected Chris to be home this evening at all, and I wonder if he’s changed his mind about coming to the party with me tonight.
There’s a clink from the entryway downstairs as he drops his keys into the bowl—despite the size of this high-rise apartment, everything is so stark and minimalistic that there’s a constant echo. I can hear everything that happens downstairs even up here, unless the door is closed.
It wouldn’t be my design choice—but this place isn’t mine. I just happen to live here.
“Chris?” I call out as I walk over to the bedroom door, peering out into the hall, my slippers scuffing against the deep grey, poured-concrete floors. Chris is a big fan of minimalist industrialism—everything in this high-rise is concrete, iron, glass or leather, all in dark blacks, greys, and stark whites. Truthfully, I hate it, but it’s hard to complain when I’ve lived in this multi-million dollar apartment for free for the better part of the last year.
I never even owned a pair of slippers until I moved in. But the floors are always too cold to go around barefoot, and Chris let me know early on in our relationship that he hated the sight of my feet. They’re an imperfection, a reminder that even the beauty of ballet comes with ugliness, too.
He’s only ever been interested in the beautiful parts of me.
“Genevieve?” He calls up as he starts to walk up the stairs, and I step out a little further, catching sight of him. When I first met Chris, I thought he was handsome, in a catalog-perfect sort of way. The night we met, he was wearing a Tom Ford suit in dark grey, his dark blond hair perfectly styled back, his dark blue eyes latching onto me the moment I approached the bar. He looked rich, and that was what I needed—a handsome, wealthy patron to supplement what the ballet company pays me as their prima . There were plenty of middle-aged and older men happy to patronize any of the ballerinas in the company—especially me—but I’d held out for someone who’s company I might actually enjoy. Someone I’d want to go to bed with. Someone who might share at least a few of my interests.
I got the first two, for a little while, with Chris. But the shine has worn off the penny, and now I’m just faking it. I have been for a while. Once I really got to know him, the allure vanished quickly.
“I thought you’d already have left for the party,” he says as he reaches the landing of the second floor, stepping forward to push past me into the bedroom. It makes me stumble back a little, and I wince, frowning at him as I catch myself on the side of the door. It’s been a long time since Chris has been anything resembling gentlemanly towards me in our relationship, but this is worse than usual. He seems annoyed that I’m still home.
I sniff the air as he passes, quickly, wondering if maybe he went out for drinks with his work colleagues, and that’s why he’s behaving like this. I don’t smell alcohol, but I do catch a whiff of perfume—something sweet and floral that smells like Chanel.
My mood instantly falls. I’d never claim that I’m in love with Chris, and I know he wouldn’t say that he’s in love with me. Our relationship has always been a mutually beneficial one, giving each of us things that we want and need. But we’ve always been respectful of it. I’ve always known that I was expected to be faithful, and I thought he followed the same rules. The whiff of perfume that I’m catching as he walks past me, though, suggests otherwise.
“I thought you were going out right after work,” I counter, trying to keep the recrimination out of my voice. It doesn’t work. My voice sounds tight and choked, and I know he can hear it from the way his steps falter for a moment. He recovers quickly, his Italian leather shoes clicking against the hard floor as he walks to where my dress is hanging and looks at the store label on the garment bag.
“Pearls and Lace? Seriously?” He chuckles derisively, and looks back at me. “Do I not give you enough of an allowance, Genevieve? You need to shop at some local boutique instead of Chanel or Dior?”
“That ‘local boutique’ is owned by one of my friends,” I bite out. “And from the way you smell, you’re shopping enough at Chanel for the both of us.”
I see his shoulders stiffen. He turns back to look at me, his face smooth and expressionless. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and for the first time in our relationship, I feel a small flutter of fear ripple through me. I know what men like Chris—well-connected, wealthy, powerful—can be like when someone no longer matters to them. And the way he’s looking at me now makes me feel like I’m nothing. Like he could throw me aside in an instant and not care what happened to me afterwards.
Even without love, I always thought that there was respect between us. A companionable friendliness, even. But right now, the room feels as ice-cold as the smoothly poured concrete under my slippers.
“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Genevieve,” he says coolly. “I don’t like you speaking to me that way.”
I should drop it. I know I should. What do I care, anyway, if he’s sleeping with his secretary, or some other tired trope like that? It’s not as if I love him. It’s not as if I see marriage and a future with him. That’s never been our relationship. But something clenches low in my belly at the thought of just letting this go, because I know what his reaction would be if he caught me with another man’s cologne on my skin.
There was a man I was partnered with, another dancer, not long after Chris and I first started dating. He was handsome, Russian, extraordinarily talented. Chris saw us dance together once, saw our chemistry, and demanded that I be given another partner. My teacher wanted to refuse—after all, the chemistry between us was good for our performance—but Chris donated a hefty sum, and the company’s manager acquiesced. When I came back to practice on Monday, I had a different partner.
The truth is, I felt more than just artistic chemistry with that dancer. There had been real, palpable chemistry between us, and Chris had seen it. But the thing is—I would never have acted on it. I’ll admit I fantasized a little, felt a rush of heat when those long-fingered hands wrapped around my waist or our bodies brushed on stage…but that’s as far as it would ever have gone. Because I believed that Chris and I had an agreement that went both ways.
Now, I’m wondering. And I’m angry, because I’ve kept up my side of the deal, while it seems he hasn’t bothered to do so.
“Is the jealousy unfounded?” I cross my arms over my small breasts, glaring at him. I don’t have time for this argument—I really don’t—but I just can’t bring myself to let it go. “Are you telling me that someone wearing that perfume just got a little too close to you, and you had nothing to do with it?”
Chris rolls his eyes, as if he’s a teenager and not a wealthy hedge-fund manager in his early thirties. “I’m not seeing anyone else, Genevieve, if that’s what you’re getting at. But seriously, be honest with us both. Would you really care?”
I stare at him. “Of course I’d care. We’re in a relationship , Chris. But I guess that makes sense, now that I’m really thinking about it for the first time. You’d only care if I fucked someone else because I ‘belong’ to you.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but I don’t stop. I’m too wound up now, and everything that I’ve been bottling up for months seems to be spilling out of my mouth all at once. “I thought we had something good. Not love, but something that made us both happy. But I’ve been seeing more and more that I’m just a possession to you. Just something pretty to hang off of your arm when you need a trophy?—”
“Genevieve. Enough,” Chris snaps, his voice sharp and cutting. I can feel how the tension in the air between us has built, threatening to push this argument over the edge into something bigger than I meant for it to be.
“You should be going to the party with me tonight.” I glare at him. “Instead, let me guess. You’re going out to Hush? With the owner of that Chanel perfume?”
Chris narrows his eyes at me. “We’re both going to be late, Genevieve. Sorry I don’t want to go to your stuffy party. Spending the night palling around with ballerinas and their manager isn’t exactly my idea of a fun time?—”
“We met at one of those parties.” I glare at him. “And you used to like them perfectly fine. They’re a good place to network, to make connections. You said that, to me . You know good and damn well that plenty of influential people, your peers, will be there. You just don’t want to go with me, because you’re bored with me. Admit it. Or are you just going to let the perfume do the talking for you?”
“Enough with the goddamn perfume!” Chris looks at me for a long moment, then shakes his head and storms into the bathroom.
“I need to finish—” The door slams shut before I can get the rest of my sentence out, and I let out a frustrated breath, dragging my hands through my hair. Pieces of it tumble out of the messy bun piled atop my head, and I glare at the closed door, as if Chris can feel it through the thick wood.
I hear the water turn on a second later, and I huff out another breath, tugging my floral silk and lace-edged robe closer around me as I flop down on the edge of the bed.
I’m really going to be late, now.
—
A little over an hour later, I’m alone in the apartment again, looking at my reflection in the slightly-foggy bathroom mirror as I take my hair down out of the rollers I put it in while I did my makeup. Chris took at least thirty minutes in the shower, emerging with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. He’d given me one long look, as if to make me think that he was considering whether he wanted to try to fuck me or not before he left, but the withering look that I gave him was enough to convince him not to try. He took his suit out of the closet instead, retreating back into the bathroom, and emerged once more fully dressed before leaving without a word. Not even so much as a peck on the cheek goodbye, let alone the sort of passionate kiss I’d have expected months ago.
Truth be told, I’m both relieved and pissed he’s not coming tonight. I’ll have more fun at the party without him. These things are never fun in the way that going out with my friends would be fun—it’s a work event after all—but having Chris criticize everything I say and do, the way he’s tended to lately, makes it even less so. Without him there, I’ll be able to relax and enjoy the event a little more.
On the other hand, part of our relationship is him patronizing the ballet company. That means showing up with me to work events, another high-roller seen publicly endorsing a vital part of New York’s arts. It also means contributing money to the company, which is another thing he’s no longer doing the way he once did. I have no doubt I’ll hear about it tonight.
I shake off the residual anger, and brush out my curls, letting my hair fall in thick, dark waves around my shoulders. With one last glance at my shiny hair and understated makeup, I reach for my dress—one that my close friend Evelyn made especially for me. A little of that anger comes back, remembering how quickly Chris dismissed it, just because there’s not a designer label on the tag.
The dress itself is gorgeous—a deep, rich teal silk gathered at my breasts, made to give them just a bit of cleavage that I wouldn’t otherwise have. There’s a small inset of matching teal lace in the v of the neckline, and wide straps that sit in a way that accentuates my sharp collarbone. The dress drapes over my figure from there, clinging to my willowy frame in a way that hints at curves that I don’t really have, one side slit up to the thigh and revealing my long, slim dancer’s legs.
I’ve always preferred things stylish and understated, letting high-quality materials and excellent craftsmanship shine instead of embellishments and gaudiness, and this dress is exactly that. I add a pair of diamond studs and a diamond tennis bracelet that Chris gifted me early on in our relationship, and slip my feet into a pair of Louboutin pumps. Like Chris, no one at the party wants to see a ballerina’s feet on display, so I don’t wear open-toed shoes. I don’t wear them anywhere, really, but it’s a small price to pay for living out the dream I’ve had since I was a little girl.
Everything I do is in service to that dream. My diet, my workouts, my intense rehearsal schedule, my hobbies and my relationship. There’s nothing in my life that I haven’t done that hasn’t been to get me to where I am right now.
And I’m not going to let a man ruin it. I remind myself of that, as I swipe a deep rose lipstick over my mouth and give myself one final, appraising glance before grabbing my clutch. I’m on top of the world right now, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve achieved what I wanted, and now I’m living out the enjoyment of having it. I’m not going to let perfume on my boyfriend’s shirt or an argument ruin my night.
With that in mind, I head downstairs, and catch an Uber to the party.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m a bit more than fashionably late as I walk in. Traffic was insane, and I plan to use that as my excuse, but I know I’m going to be repeating it over and over. I barely hand my coat over to the girl at the coat check before I see Marie, one of the other dancers, scurrying up to me with a reproving look on her face.
“Mme. Allard has been asking where you are!” she hisses, glancing over her shoulder as if our dragon of a ballet mistress will appear at any second. “Vincent is looking for you as well.” She glances behind me. “Where’s Chris? Vincent wanted to talk to him.”’
I wince. Vincent is the company’s manager, and I can easily guess what he wants to talk to Chris about. “He couldn’t make it tonight,” I tell Marie smoothly, dropping the coat check ticket into my clutch and squaring my shoulders. “And I want a drink before I have to speak to anyone . Champagne, preferably.”
“Don’t let Mme. Allard catch you drinking champagne. She’ll have you doing extra drills for a week!”
I can’t help but snort at that, as Marie and I walk down the carpeted hallway towards the large event room where the party is being held. Our ballet mistress keeps an iron grip on the dancers’ diets, demanding that we submit meal plans and nutrition logs, and that we avoid alcohol entirely. That doesn’t mean that we don’t sneak a drink or a treat here or there, although I keep my own diet fairly rigid. But a glass of champagne won’t destroy all of my hard work, and right now, I feel like I need it.
“I’ll be fine.” I zero in on the bar the moment I see it, and begin to make my way through the crowd. The room is full of guests and my fellow dancers, a string quartet playing instrumental versions of popular songs, and there’s a hum of chatter above it all. The party is already lively, and looks like it’ll be a success. I’m sure Vincent will be pleased. A good turnout for this event means we’ll likely have a good turnout for the summer performance— Giselle , which is always popular.
“Ooh. I see Denis over there. I’ll be back!” Marie cuts away from me, making a beeline to the other side of the room, where she’s spied one of the other dancers—notably, the one that Chris demanded be removed as my partner. I don’t bother looking. I see Denis often enough as it is, and there’s no point in thinking about what could have been.
Although, after my fight with Chris tonight, it’s more tempting than it has been in a long time.
“Champagne, please,” I request as I reach the bar. The uniformed man behind it nods.
“Any particular kind?”
“Cristal, if you have it. Dom, if not.” I lean my elbow against the bar as I wait, already anticipating the taste of the expensive champagne. I’ve always had luxurious tastes, but being with Chris has allowed me to indulge them more often, and I’m afraid I’ve gotten a little spoiled. I don’t love the idea of going back to supermarket champagne if the relationship were to end.
“Genevieve! I’ve been looking for you!” Vincent’s voice rings out behind me, and I school my face into a pleasant expression before turning to face him. It’s not that I don’t like Vincent—we get along well enough, most of the time. But I know exactly what he wants tonight, and I’m really not in the mood to defend Chris.
“Enjoying the party?” I smile at him, and he returns it, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He glances behind me, much like Marie did, as if looking for someone who isn’t there.
“It’s going well.” His eyebrows rise. “Chris didn’t come with you?”
“He was busy tonight. A work thing of his own. He wanted me to attend with him, but I told him this was more important—for me, anyway.” It’s a lie, but one that should help smooth things over with Vincent. Hopefully.
A crease appears between his eyebrows. “You know, it’s been a while since he’s made any donation to the company. It’s really the time of year to be thinking about those things—future tax write-offs, and all of that. If he’s waiting to discuss what the company really needs, I’d be happy to schedule a meeting with him?—”
I grab my glass of champagne as it’s handed to me, taking a sip to stall. “I’m sure that’s not necessary,” I say after a moment, forcing a smile to my lips. “He’s just been busy with work. Things slip from time to time.”
Vincent doesn’t seem mollified. “I’m just saying how it looks, Genevieve. No donations, and he doesn’t even make an appearance tonight? You might want to consider whether his patronage is really helping your career. Shackling yourself to a man who doesn’t have your best interests in mind isn’t?—”’
“I’ll talk to him.” I cut Vincent off, my stomach swooping at the insinuation that Chris’s failure to keep up with his unspoken obligations might affect me more directly. “It’s just not the best time, right now. But I’ll talk to him.”
“Please do. After all?—”
I look ahead at the crowd, wanting a distraction, a reason to break away from this conversation. Another ballerina I need to speak to, a friend that’s attending—anything. Vincent keeps speaking, but his voice becomes a blur as that distraction manifests—not another dancer or a friend, but the most stunningly gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my entire life. He’s tall, dressed in a well-fitted suit that’s expertly tailored to his lean body, with copper hair and green eyes that instantly lock with mine.
I see a smile curve his sinful lips as he keeps walking towards me, and for the first time in years, I’m reminded of what it feels to have a man’s gaze take my breath away.