Chapter Nine
KATERINA
The audition is exactly what I expected.
And worse.
Two hundred dancers cram into the studio, all long limbs and sharp cheekbones and perfectly disciplined buns. There’s a hum in the air, the collective buzz of nerves and focus and quiet desperation.
We line the barres. We move through class—pliés, tendus, dégagés. Then across the floor. Then combinations.
The first cut takes twenty people.
The second takes forty.
By the third, sweat slicks my spine and my thighs burn. My lungs feel like they’re lined with sandpaper; the wedding last night took more out of me than I thought. Actually, the stress of my father marrying a stranger, leaving my company and moving across the country… that’s what took it out of me.
Directors sit in the back with crossed arms as if they have never witnessed a group so uninspiring… basically, the typical response. They whisper to each other between groups.
The fourth cut leaves maybe fifty of us.
I keep my eyes off the door.
They throw a variation at us that I know in theory but have never performed before.
I only have one choice: trust my body and myself or fail, and failure is not an option.
The idea of coming back to the penthouse and telling my professional-level athlete of a husband that I got cut is not something I’m willing to endure.
Maybe I want him to be proud of me. Maybe I want to prove that Luka’s words were correct. Or maybe it’s that I want to prove that the New York company wasn’t a fluke and that I belong here. I belong in this world, living my mother’s dream… my dream.
That marrying a stranger and moving across the country to pursue my dreams instead of giving in and heading back to Russia to do as my father says, is the right move.
I land a series of turns and hear someone make a small sound of appreciation. It might be my imagination. It might not be.
Another cut.
Now we’re twenty.
“Final round,” the artistic director says. “Callbacks will be posted on the website next week. Thank you all for your time.”
Just like that, it’s over.
No handshake. No constructive feedback that might give me any indication of how well I did, and if I have a shot.
Just a nod and a dismissal. Which means I have no idea how close I am to getting a sponsorship visa renewal from them.
And with only four more weeks to go until my visa expires, I’m running out of time.
Waiting for a callback is nothing new, though. It comes with the territory.
“You’re used to this,” I remind myself.
I pack my things with numb fingers and walk out of the building into Seattle’s early October air.
My legs shake on the curb as I wave down a cab.
I have no idea whether I made the callback list. I don’t know whether I did enough. But I know this: I left everything I had on that floor. There is nothing else I could’ve given them. For once, this feels like it might be enough.
My phone rings halfway back to The Commons.
“Irina,” I answer.
“How was it?” she shrieks immediately. “Tell me everything. Did they love you? Did they fall at your feet? Should I start looking at apartments in Seattle?”
“It was intense,” I say. The city blurs by outside the window, gray on gray. “I won’t know about callbacks until next week.”
“But you felt good about it?”
I let my head fall back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. My muscles ache, but in a satisfying way from hard work, not the frayed exhaustion of panic.
“Yes,” I say finally. “I think so. I didn’t fall. I didn’t blank. I did what I came to do.”
“Then they’re fools if they don’t take you,” she says. “And if they don’t, we send Luka with a bat.”
“Or a pool stick,” I tease, realizing that Scottie might be the only one who would find that funny. “I think the goal is less violence now.”
“Fine. A strongly worded letter, then.”
I huff out a laugh. I wish that would work, but she knows how this goes as well as anyone.
A message pings across the top of my screen, cutting into the call.
Unknown number.
The preview text is in Russian. My stomach drops.
“Hold on,” I say, pulling the phone away from my ear.
I tap the message open, and my phone auto-translates.
Your brother thinks he is clever. This marriage will not last. When it fails, you will come home. And when you do, we will discuss the consequences of your disobedience.
Think very carefully about your choices, Katerina.
— Father
My hands start to shake.
“Kat?” Irina’s voice is tinny in my ear. “You still there?”
“I—yes.” My voice comes out thin. I drag in a breath, force my tone flat. “Sorry. The cab nearly missed the turn.”
“Do you need me to stay on the phone with you?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “I should go. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Okay,” she says softly. “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up and stare at the message until the words blur.
He knows.
I shouldn’t be surprised. He has eyes everywhere.
Thankfully, he can’t use them to hurt anyone outright…
not with the U.S. and Russian governments watching his every move, waiting for him to so much as breathe in the wrong direction so they can throw him in prison for the rest of his life.Which is exactly why he wants Maxim as a son-in-law.
Maxim would shield him. Clean up his image.
Make him look untouchable.Still, threats don’t require violence.
And I wouldn’t be shocked if there’s a tracker on my phone, my bank accounts… everything.
But seeing it spelled out—his certainty that this will fail, his calm, quiet assurance that my disobedience is just a delay, not the permanency of my own freedom—has my hands shaking.
When it fails. Not if it fails.
My father does not believe in my choices. He believes in inevitability.
I curl my fingers around my phone until my knuckles ache and watch the city slide by, feeling very small in a world that is suddenly much too big again.
The penthouse is quiet when I let myself in. The sun set an hour ago; it was a long day of auditions.
Scottie is on the couch, laptop open, game footage paused on the screen. His feet are propped on the coffee table, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other curling around a few strands of his hair, playing with it unconsciously. He looks up the second the door clicks shut.
He smiles.
It’s instinctive, brightening his whole face. “Hey. There she is. How’d it go?”
I set my bag down a little too carefully by the door. “It was… fine. They said Callbacks will be posted next week.”
“You’ll get one,” he says, like it’s a fact, not a possibility. He studies me more closely, and the smile fades from his mouth but not his eyes. “You okay? You look pale.”
“I’m just tired,” I say. “It was a long morning.”
“Long couple of days,” he corrects gently. “Sit. I’ll get you something.”
Before I can protest, he’s up and moving toward the kitchen, filling a carafe with water, and hits a button on it.
The message on my phone burns against my palm as I take a seat next to his laptop
He comes back with a fresh mug, something herbal-scented curling up from the surface.
“I got you chamomile,” he says, handing it over. “Seemed like a calming tea. The lady at the store said it’s good for stress. I didn’t tell her my wife’s in a sham marriage running from the Russian mob, because I feel like that’s a lot for a stranger on a Tuesday.”
Despite everything, a strangled sound escapes me that might be a laugh.
“Thank you,” I say.
He sits next to me, not too close, our knees not quite touching.
“So,” he says carefully. “You want to tell me what’s actually going on in your head, or do we want to pretend you’re just nervous about your audition?”
I stare at the tea.
The words sit like sharp stones on my tongue. My instinct is to swallow them. To smile. To make a joke. To keep this bubble intact for as long as possible.
But we made a deal.
No secrets. No surprises.
“My father knows,” I say.
The humor drains out of his face in an instant. “How?”
“He sent me a message.” My voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from the far end of a tunnel. I unlock my phone with fingers that don’t feel entirely attached to my body and hand it over.
He reads the text once. Then again. His jaw clenches tighter with each line.
When he finishes, he sets the phone down very carefully on the coffee table, like he’s afraid if he grips it any harder, he’ll snap it in half.
His eyes are dark when he looks at me. “He’s not getting you back.”
“You can’t promise that,” I say, tired but desperately wanting to believe he can make good on his statement. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“Maybe not.” His voice is low, but there’s steel under it now, threaded through every word. “But his only weapon is that this thing between us doesn’t work, right?”
“Right,” I say, glancing down at the teacup in my hand.
He shifts closer, not touching me yet, but near enough that I can feel his heat seeping through the small space between us.
“We just need your grandmother to believe it and for the visa renewal to go through. That’s what Luka said. And if that doesn’t work, we still have immigration and a green card as a last resort.”
I nod, though we both know that immigration is a scary thought. The interview process, the fact that my father might have a pull somewhere that I don’t know about. It’s not just a last resort, it would be more like a miracle.
“So we make her believe that our marriage is real. As long as it takes. She can’t marry you off to Maxim if you’re married to me,” he says. “For better or worse, we’re in this together now until you’re free and there’s no more threat. You and me. You’re not doing this alone.”
He squeezes my hand once, firm.
I look at our joined hands—his big, rough-knuckled one wrapped around my smaller one, the diamond glinting between us like defiance.
“Now,” he says, like we’ve just settled something official, “drink your tea and hand me those feet.”
I blink. “My feet?”
“Yep.” He leans back, completely unbothered. “You’ve been on them all day, right? Audition, plus the last forty-eight hours of chaos? They’ve gotta be killing you. Hand them over. You need a massage.”
I stare at him. “Are you joking?”
“Not even a little.” His mouth tips into a half-smile. “I’ve spent my entire career with trainers elbow-deep in my calves. I know what I’m doing. Let me help, Kat.”
We just went from my father threatening me over text to Scottie casually offering me a foot massage like it’s the most obvious next step in the world.
I should say no.
I should keep a distance. Keep the lines clean.
Instead, my arches throb at the mere thought of his hands on them, and the rest of me… doesn’t exactly protest either.
“Fine,” I say, trying to sound like I’m doing him a favor. “But if this is weird, I’m blaming you.”
“Already my fault,” he says easily. “Married you, remember? Might as well add ‘foot rub’ to the list.”
He shifts, patting his thigh. I turn sideways on the couch, my back against the armrest, tea cupped between my palms. Slowly—too aware of every inch of bare skin—I swing my legs into his lap.
His hands close around my ankles, big and warm and careful, like I’m something breakable and precious instead of a woman who can do thirty-two fouettés without falling on her face.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You're ice cold.”
“Occupational hazard,” I say. “Ballerinas and circulation are not friends.”
“We’ll fix that,” he says.
He presses his thumbs into the arch of my right foot and—
Oh.
I have survived Russian winters and New York critics, and my father’s temper.
I have never survived this.
Heat shoots up my leg, my whole body sighing in one long, embarrassing exhale. It’s not orgasmic-level, but it’s not far from it either.
He finds every knot I didn’t know was there, working slow and steady, like this is just… normal. Like he does this all the time.
He doesn’t look at me while he does it, either. He reaches over, hits play on his laptop with one hand, game footage resuming in front of him, and then goes back to methodically dismantling my feet.
“If we weren’t already married,” I mutter into my tea, “I’d get down on one knee and propose just for this.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Good to know my skill set is finally being properly appreciated.”
“You missed your calling,” I say, voice going soft on the edges as he digs into my heel. “You could’ve opened a spa. Scottie’s House of Questionable Aprons and Excellent Foot Rubs.”
“Too long for a sign,” he says. “But I like where your head’s at.”
He switches to my left foot, thumbs pressing, palms bracing, and my muscles melt one by one. The tension in my shoulders eases. My jaw unlocks. The constant, humming buzz of fear that’s lived under my skin for months quiets to something almost manageable.
For the first time since my father’s message appeared on my screen, my body believes something my brain is still afraid to trust:
There might still be a way out.
There might still be a chance.
Inside this ridiculous, rushed, paper-thin marriage… sitting on this couch, with tea in my hands and my aching feet in my husband’s lap…
I feel safe.
As long as my grandmother believes in us.
As long as my father doesn’t win.
As long as Scottie stays.