4. Elena
Elena
The first text arrived at six-thirty the next morning, while I was still in bed, my body heavy with the particular exhaustion that came from a night of fractured sleep and wine-soaked dreams.
No question mark. No request for confirmation.
Just the assumption that I would be ready, that I had been waiting for his instructions, that the decision had already been made and I was simply expected to comply.
I stared at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, trying to decide whether the presumption irritated or intrigued me.
The answer was both, in equal measure, which should have been my first warning.
I typed back: You’re very confident I don’t have plans.
His response came within seconds: Do you?
No.
Then I’ll see you at 6:45. Wear something you can move in. We’re walking.
I set the phone down and stared at the ceiling, watching the early morning light paint shadows across the plaster.
Dominic Russo had been in my life for less than twelve hours, and already he was issuing directives, making assumptions, carving out space in my schedule without asking permission.
The rational part of my brain, the part that had been cataloging Marcus’s violations for eight months, recognized the pattern.
The irrational part, the part that had felt that electric jolt on the terrace last night, wanted to see where this led.
The irrational part was winning, which terrified me more than I wanted to admit.
I dragged myself out of bed and went through my morning routine with mechanical precision: shower, coffee, the careful application of makeup that made me look awake despite the evidence to the contrary.
Saturday meant company class at nine, two hours of barre work and center combinations designed to maintain the technical precision that separated professional dancers from merely talented ones.
Victor ran Saturday classes himself, his pale eyes missing nothing, his corrections delivered in the clipped Russian accent that had terrorized generations of dancers into excellence.
The studio was already warm when I arrived, the familiar scent of rosin and sweat and wood polish settling over me like a second skin.
Lucia was at the barre near the windows, her dark hair pulled into a severe bun, her body moving through a series of pliés with the unconscious grace of someone who had been dancing since she could walk.
She caught my eye in the mirror and raised an eyebrow, a silent question I pretended not to understand.
Class was brutal. Victor was in one of his moods, the kind where nothing was good enough, where every arabesque was too low and every pirouette was under-rotated and every port de bras lacked the emotional depth he demanded.
I pushed through the combinations with gritted teeth, my body responding to the familiar commands even as my mind wandered to hazel eyes and presumptuous text messages and the question of what I was doing agreeing to dinner with a man who looked at me like I was something he’d decided to acquire.
“Elena.” Victor’s voice cut through my distraction. “Again. You’re thinking too much. Dance from here..” he pressed a hand to his chest, “..not here.” He tapped his temple with one long finger. “The technique is meaningless without the soul.”
I nodded and repeated the combination, forcing myself to focus, to inhabit the movement rather than simply execute it.
This was what I was good at: the compartmentalization, the ability to separate my body from my mind, to perform even when everything inside me was screaming.
The skill had served me well over the years.
I was beginning to suspect it was also destroying me.
After class, Lucia cornered me in the dressing room, her expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”
“I didn’t. Not much, anyway.”
“The gala ran late?”
“Something like that.” I pulled off my pointe shoes, wincing at the familiar ache in my feet. The skin on my toes was raw, blisters forming over old calluses, the price of perfection written in blood and tissue damage. “I met someone.”
Lucia’s eyes widened. “You met someone? Elena Voss, who hasn’t been on a date in two years, met someone?”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“The fact that you’re being evasive means it’s absolutely a big deal.” She sat down on the bench beside me, close enough that I could smell her perfume, something floral and expensive that her mother sent from Italy. “Tell me everything.”
I told her about Dominic Russo, about the terrace conversation and the presumptuous text message and the dinner planned for tonight.
I left out the part about the electric jolt, about the way he’d looked at me like I was something worth pursuing, about the dangerous thrill I’d felt when he’d tucked that strand of hair behind my ear.
Some things were too new, too fragile, to expose to Lucia’s sharp analysis.
She listened without interrupting, her expression growing increasingly skeptical. When I finished, she was quiet for a long moment, her dark eyes searching my face for something I wasn’t sure I wanted her to find.
“Dominic Russo,” she said finally. “The hockey player.”
“You know him?”
“I know of him. Marco dated a guy who worked in sports medicine for the Admirals. According to him, Russo is brilliant on the ice and impossible off it. Intense, controlling, the kind of guy who doesn’t hear the word no very often.
” She paused. “The kind of guy who might not react well when he does.”
“You’re making assumptions based on secondhand gossip.”
“I’m making observations based on the fact that he’s already telling you what to wear and when to be ready, and you’ve known him for less than a day.
” Lucia’s voice was gentle, which somehow made the criticism worse.
“Elena, I love you, and I want you to be happy. I want you to date someone who makes you feel alive instead of just going through the motions. This guy, though, I don’t know. Something about this feels off.”
“You haven’t even met him.”
“I don’t need to meet him to recognize the warning signs.
Possessive behavior. Immediate intensity.
The assumption that you’ll comply with his plans.
” She reached out and took my hand, her fingers warm against mine.
“You’re already dealing with one man who thinks he has the right to dictate your life.
Do you really want to invite another one in? ”
The comparison stung precisely because I’d been thinking the same thing, had spent half the night cataloging the similarities between Marcus’s obsession and Dominic’s pursuit.
The difference, the crucial difference, was that I wanted Dominic’s attention.
I had felt something on that terrace, something real and electric and entirely mutual.
Marcus’s devotion was a violation; Dominic’s interest was a choice I was making with open eyes.
At least, that was what I was telling myself.
“It’s just dinner,” I said, pulling my hand away. “One meal. If it’s terrible, I’ll never see him again.”
“And if it’s not terrible?”
“Then I’ll figure it out as I go.” I stood up, gathering my things, suddenly desperate to escape Lucia’s concern and the uncomfortable questions it raised. “I have to go. I need to run errands before tonight.”
“Elena…”
“I’ll be careful. I promise.”
I left before she could say anything else, before her worry could infect my already fragile resolve.
The October air was crisp as I stepped outside, the kind of perfect autumn day that made Boston feel like the center of the universe.
I walked without direction, letting my feet carry me through the familiar streets, past the brownstones of Back Bay and the boutiques of Newbury Street and the tree-lined paths of the Public Garden where couples strolled hand-in-hand and children chased pigeons with unselfconscious joy.
My phone buzzed with another text from Dominic: How was class?
The question stopped me mid-stride. How did he know I’d had class?
I hadn’t mentioned my Saturday schedule, hadn’t told him anything about my routine.
The knowledge could have been innocent. A lucky guess maybe, or information gleaned from the Boston Ballet website.
Yet something about it felt invasive, as though he’d been researching me, learning my patterns, preparing for a campaign rather than a date.
I typed back: How did you know I had class?
I looked up the company schedule. I wanted to know when you’d be free.
The honesty should have been reassuring.
Instead, it made my skin prickle with unease.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and kept walking, trying to outpace the growing sense that I was making a mistake, that Lucia’s warnings were prescient rather than paranoid, that the electric attraction I’d felt last night was just another form of danger wearing a more appealing mask.
The afternoon disappeared in a blur of errands and nervous energy.
I tried on six different outfits before settling on dark jeans and a silk blouse the color of burgundy wine, elegant without being formal, comfortable enough for walking yet sophisticated enough for wherever Dominic was taking me.
I left my hair down, applied makeup with more care than usual, and told myself I was not primping for a man I barely knew.
The lie was transparent even to me.
At six-forty, my phone buzzed: I’m downstairs.