Chapter Eight #2
“Only after I realized pasta was cheaper than protein shakes,” he says around a bite of pancakes and eggs. “Spaghetti, chicken Alfredo, pizza, cereal. The holy four. It was a lot. I’m pretty sure my mom should be sainted for it.”
“No wonder she’s trying to marry you off to a woman who can cook,” I say lightly. “Unfortunately, I’d burn water. She’s going to hate me.”
He pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “No, she won’t.”
“You say that now,” I mutter. “Growing up, we had several chefs on the payroll. And in New York, I was always at the studio or the company. The kitchen in my apartment was barely functional. We ordered in most nights.”
“She’s not going to hate you,” he says, then takes an obscenely large bite—pancakes and eggs in one go. I have no idea where it all goes.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asks when he notices I don’t have a plate of food in front of me. “Want me to fix you a plate?”
“I have an audition today,” I say, the words cutting through his stream of food commentary. “I’m usually pretty nervous, so I drink seltzer water and chamomile tea to ease my stomach. I don’t typically eat before an audition or I might throw up all over the stage, from the nerves.”
His whole expression shifts. “You? Get nervous? Somehow, that’s hard to believe.
Do Russian ballerinas even get nervous?” He teases, not knowing yet that the hard exterior front I put on is just a protective mechanism that I learned from Luka—for survival in the family we grew up in.
“I’m full of surprises,” I say, leaning against the kitchen island.
“I have no doubt that’s true.” The easy humor doesn’t vanish, but it backs up, making space for focus.
“So, you have an audition? That’s great,” he says.
“Yes.” I nod. “I need to be there in about an hour.”
“Okay.” He nods once, decisively. “I didn’t think to get chamomile or seltzer this morning, but I can call one of the guys to see if they have any, or I can run down to the corner store—”
He went to so much trouble this morning. The last thing he needs is me, sending him on an errand.
“Coffee is fine,” I say softly. “And maybe… some fruit.”
His shoulders drop as if I just told him his team won in overtime. The grin returns. “I can do that.”
He reaches for a mug, pours coffee, and hands it to me. “Creamer’s in the fridge, sugar’s on the island,” he says, as if he rehearsed it.
Then he grabs a smaller plate, scoops a neat portion of fruit—strawberries, blueberries, melon—and arranges it like he’s about to present it to a judge on a cooking show. He slides it toward me.
I pick up a strawberry and take a bite. Perfectly ripe, sweet, and tart.
We fall into a quiet rhythm—him annihilating enough food to feed a village, me picking at fruit and sipping coffee.
“So.” He wipes his mouth and watches me over the rim of his orange juice. “Tell me about this audition. What’s the company again?”
“Pacific Northwest Ballet,” I say, setting my fork down. This part, I know how to talk about. “They’re looking for a principal for their winter season.”
“That’s a big deal, isn’t it?” he asks.
“It is,” I say. “PNB is one of the best companies on the West Coast. If I get it, I’ll have steady work, a visa sponsor.” I lift my left hand a little, flashing the glittering ring he gave me, between us. “A way to stay in the States that isn’t just… this.”
His gaze drops to the ring. Something flickers in his face—guilt, determination, something he doesn’t quite let surface before his jaw sets, and it’s gone before I can try to analyze it further.
“When you get it,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“When you get it,” he repeats, like I’ve missed something obvious. “You were a principal with New York before your father got involved and you gave notice. You’re ridiculously talented. They’d be idiots not to hire you.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve never seen me dance,” I remind him.
“I don’t have to,” he says. “Luka talks about you like you’re the second coming.”
“The second coming of what exactly?” I ask, amused despite myself.
“Ballet Jesus,” he says promptly. “Or whatever the ballerina version is. I haven’t Googled it yet.”
I open my mouth to list every reason this audition could fall apart—politics, timing, my name, my father’s shadow stretching longer than it has any right to—but the absolute certainty in his voice makes the words stick.
It’s not blind optimism. Not flattery.
Just belief.
He believes in me.
A man who doesn’t owe me anything. Who could have walked away but chose to stay.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
His mouth softens. “Anytime.”
He nods toward my plate. “Eat a little more,” he nudges. “You danced for like three hours last night. Your body needs fuel if you’re going to go in there and shatter some ballet director’s soul.”
“I don’t usually eat before—”
“I know.” His smile tips crooked. “Tea and seltzer, I remember. But this isn’t a three-hour performance. It’s an audition. Your body can’t run on nothing. You have to give it something.”
“Sounds like you’re refueling enough for both of us,” I mutter.
But he isn’t wrong. My legs are heavy. And I want this. I want it in a way that scares me.
I pick up another piece of melon.
His grin widens. “Look at us. Compromise. That’s what married couples do.”
“We’re not a real married couple,” I remind him automatically.
“Sure we’re not,” he says easily, turning back to the sink with a smile still playing around his mouth.
I watch him—broad shoulders, damp hair, ridiculous apron, humming under his breath as he rinses his plate.
This is not the life I thought I’d have.
But standing here, barefoot on cool tile, coffee in hand, my husband in a stupid apron making too much breakfast…
It feels dangerously close to the one I used to see in the American movies my mother insisted we watch. The kind of life I never believed belonged to people like us.
I carry my empty plate to the sink.
“I’ve got it,” Scottie says immediately, reaching for it.
“I can wash a dish,” I say, keeping hold.
“I know you can,” he says. “But I’m already doing these, so—”
“Scottie.”
He stops. Meets my eyes.
“Let me help,” I say. “We’re compromising, remember?”
He hesitates. I can see the argument forming, and then he swallows it and steps aside.
“Okay,” he says. “You dry?”
“I can do that.”
We slip into an easy rhythm—him washing, me drying, putting things away.
It’s stupidly normal.
I’ve watched my mother do this with staff, never with my father. I’ve never done it with anyone.
The domesticity of it sinks under my skin, hot and aching.
I always thought I’d end up like her. Like my grandmother. A wife in a gilded cage. Beautiful dress, practiced smile, shaking hands with the right people, speaking when spoken to, never truly heard.
But here I am, married in name only, drying dishes in a borrowed life that feels more real than my own ever did.
“In all honesty…” he asks, breaking our comfortable dishwashing silence. “How was the wedding?”
“It was more than I expected or deserved.”
He shoulder-bumps me lightly. “Come on… there had to be something that was missing.”
Her face comes to mind instantly. Of course there is something missing… more like, someone. “My mother,” I say simply. “She was missing.”
“I’m sorry, Kat. I have no idea what that feels like to lose your mother so young.”
I shrug because there’s nothing else to say. “Then again… I’m not sure that marrying a stranger to trick my grandmother and father to dodge an arranged marriage was something I would have wanted her to witness, either.”
“What was your favorite memory of her?” he asks, and then I realize that no one ever asked that question before.
They always feel sorry for me and try to change the subject to something less morbid and sad. Scottie’s different–he leans into the uncomfortable. He leans in to learn more about me. Everything about him is a surprise.
I smile as I think of one of the most special memories of my mother.
“Well, she was an American living in a different world, so she loved sharing part of that world with me when she could. There was an old theater outside of Moscow that she used to take me to. They only played old Hollywood movies, and whenever an Audrey Hepburn film would be playing, she would take me—just the two of us, and she would buy me this candy that had a Little Red Riding Hood on it. I think I’ve seen Roman Holiday at least thirty times. It was her favorite.”
I look up to find him smiling over at me. “She loved you,” he says simply, and it’s the truest statement I’ve ever heard.
“Yes… she did.”
When we’re finished, he checks his watch.
“Gym with the guys,” he says. “Then physical therapy, then a meeting about a sponsorship. I’ll be back for dinner.”
I have no idea which of his three dinners he means. I decide not to ask.
He heads toward his room, pauses. “My number’s on the fridge,” he adds. “Just realized we never actually swapped them. Text me when you’re done with your audition so I know you’re alive and still married to me.”
We’re married, and I don’t even have his number programmed in my phone.
“Okay,” I say, trying not to show how much comfort that simple ask gives me. “Good luck with… your third lunch of the day.”
“Appreciate it,” he says with a grin, and disappears down the hall.
The silence that follows is peaceful, not empty.
I trade the robe for black leggings and a fitted tank, scrape my hair into a bun so tight my scalp protests, and move into the living room.
Soft gray light pours in through the windows, washing the hardwood floor in a pale sheen. Beyond the glass, the city is fully awake now. Tiny figures move on the streets below, cars threading through the grid. From up here, it all looks quiet, almost peaceful.
I don’t trust it.
I connect my phone to the Bluetooth speaker and scroll through playlists until I find one I made years ago—warm-up tracks, all strings and piano and muscle memory.
A familiar sound fills the room, and my body responds automatically.
My bare feet slide and press against the floor, finding balance, control. My joints complain briefly, then fall in line. The soreness from yesterday starts to melt away.
The living room isn’t a studio, but it’s big enough. The window becomes my mirror. My reflection wavers in the glass, faint and ghosted over the city beyond, like I’m dancing on two planes of existence at once.
I’m so focused on the sequence that I don’t notice him at first.
It’s the prickle on the back of my neck that gives him away.
I finish a long extension, leg lifted high, toes pointed, body aligned from fingertips to ankle… and turn my head.
Scottie is standing in the hallway, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp and curling. He’s in gym clothes, and for a split second my brain short-circuits.
His eyes are wide and glued to my ass.
“Can I help you?” I ask, lowering my leg with exaggerated control.
He blinks. “I—uh—”
“You’re staring.”
“I am, yeah.” He doesn’t even try to deny it. “Sorry. I just…” He gestures helplessly with one hand to my body. “You’re really… bendy.”
A laugh flies out of me, sharp and surprised.
He winces. “That sounded way less creepy in my head. I meant—flexible. Like, insanely flexible. I’m a professional athlete, and I’m ninety percent sure if I tried that, I’d end my career and my life in one move.”
“It takes years of training,” I say, amused, and a little flattered that not only does my body have the same effect that his body has on me, but that he’s complimenting my ability.
I know that I give the sport of hockey a hard time, but I am not naive enough to believe that what they do doesn’t take years of blood, sweat and tears to ascend to his level. It takes work and sacrifice, just as ballet does.
“I believe it.” His expression shifts, the initial shock fading into something else. Respect. Awe. “I’m heading out. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Oh… right.”
“I’ll see you later tonight?” he asks.
“Yeah, see you tonight.”
He heads for the front door of the penthouse and disappears behind it, the click of finality to our morning when he pulls the door shut.
I turn back to the window and catch my reflection again.
My cheeks are flushed, eyes bright.
I look… happy.
I can’t remember the last time I recognized myself that way.