CHAPTER 11
Vaughn
My overcoat does nothing to keep the chill from my bones as I stride aimlessly away from the bar, every footstep leaden.
It was her.
Sasha.
Just as lovely as she ever was. Just as warm and engaging. Just as dear to my eyes. Just as beloved to my pounding heart.
(My stupid, useless heart.)
I curse it. I hate it for still loving her. For loving someone who surely hates me.
Clump, clump, clump. My shoes are Cavalli, but wearing nice things doesn’t turn a duck into a swan. Every fall of sole on pavement is as brutish and inelegant as it ever was.
You saw her. She’s well. Now, let that be an end to it.
My plea falls on deaf ears, open only to the sound of her voice, the light, graceful tread of her footstep, the soft sigh of her breath near my ear.
“Leave her alone. She isn’t yours,” I growl softly, fisting my hands in expensive black leather gloves. I think of the debauchery that’s headlined the last five years of my life. “And now, she will never be yours.”
I turn left onto one street, then right onto another, seeing nothing, headed nowhere.
“Vaughn! Vaughn! Wait!”
My body freezes. My eyes widen. I turn around, a poor man’s pirouette , to find Sasha Collins standing on the sidewalk behind me, hands on her hips, her chest rising and falling like she’s been running.
“It’s…you,” she pants, staring at me from several feet away.
I stare back at her, dumbstruck and overwhelmed. In the blink of an eye, it’s five years ago. She’s wearing a swan costume in a dressing room, and I’m collecting her garbage with razor blades in my pockets. I’m no one. I’m nothing.
“H-Hi,” I manage to stutter.
“Vaughn. Vaughn Cigno, in the flesh. I can’t believe it.” She shakes her head slowly, taking a step toward me. “You’re…you’re in London.”
“It’s Ivan now,” I tell her, lifting my chin. I’m not Vaughn. Not anymore . “Ivan Stepanov.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Of course.”
“We have a flat in London,” I inform her.
“A flat. Oh. That’s so cool. I love London so far.” When I say nothing, she adds, “I’m here until Christmas—”
“Coaching at the RAB.”
Her eyes widen. “How’d you know that?”
I shrug. “Saw it somewhere.”
“You look…” She takes a step closer, her eyes scanning my face. “…different.”
“Different?” I stiffen, old insecurities rearing their heads. How’s it hanging, Lurch?
“Older,” she says, then adds in a small voice, “but good.”
Good. One word. And it makes me glow inside. It means more than a hundred articles about the “hot” Russian brothers. It means more than anything. It hurts more than anything, too.
“Yeah, well…” I cross my arms over my chest, mirroring her. “I’m not a pathetic orphan anymore.”
She grimaces like my words are painful to her, and I feel her hurt like a sharp silver dagger to the heart. “Oh, Vaughn! You were never —”
“Ivan!” I half-growl, half-shout. “And yeah, I was.”
Her eyes hold mine for a moment before she blinks them rapidly, looking away from me.
It takes a lot of effort not to react to her distress. Part of me wants to grab her into my arms and beg her forgiveness, but I know there’s no future for us, not after the way I treated her, not after the way I’ve lived my life since finding my family. I’m not a good person, and I probably never really was.
But she is . Even now, right this second, when I don’t even deserve civility from her, she’s being kind because that’s who she is, a good person, a kind person, a decent person. Sasha Collins is the best person I’ve ever known—someone I never really deserved. Someone I definitely don’t deserve now.
A cold breeze whips down the lane. I turn up the black cashmere collar of my coat and narrow my eyes at her.
“I have to go.”
“Oh. Okay.” Her lips part, and for the space of a heartbeat I remember how they felt against mine. Soft. Warm. Sweet as a summer ripened cherry. “It was good to run into—”
“Yeah.” My fingers are fisted so tightly I’m cutting off the blood supply to the tips, and they’re starting to numb. My voice is raspy when I speak again. “Take care.”
Before she can say anything else, I turn around and walk away.
***
“You like it like that?”
The naked woman straddling my lap clenches her pussy muscles around my cock, and I hate it that the answer is yes.
“Less talking. More fucking,” I grunt, holding her hips tightly so I can control the speed and depth of my thrusting.
Over the last week, and on strict orders from my brother, I’ve been with five or six different women, all red-heads or blondes and all voluptuous, but not one of them has been able to banish the image of Sasha Collins standing across from me on a cold London sidewalk.
Without a word, I sit up and lift the woman off my cock, depositing her on the bed beside me.
She squeals in surprise, then asks if everything is okay.
“Go,” I tell her, sliding the condom off my still-erect dick and tossing it across the room. “Please go.”
“Did I do something wrong? I won’t talk anymore—”
“Just go.”
“But you still have hour—”
I lean over her and grab my wallet from the bedside table, counting out five one-hundred-pound notes. “Here.”
“Are you sure I can’t—”
“No. You can’t.” I look up at her, my eyes surely as dead as I feel. “I’m asking you to leave. Now.”
“Fine.” She shrugs, then leans down to collect her dress and shoes. “Whatever you say.”
As the door closes behind her, I lean my head against the velvet headboard and bang it back once. Twice. Three times. It doesn’t hurt, and I wish it would.
Throwing the covers aside, I stride into the bathroom and take a scalding hot shower.
I’m punishing myself.
It’s…you. Vaughn. Vaughn Cigno, in the flesh. You’re in London.
“Fuck!” I yell, my voice echoing in the tiled chamber.
I shouldn’t have gone to the Side Hustle, the bar across the street from the Royal Ballet, hoping to see her. I should have left all of this alone. Left her alone. I have no right to veer back into her life when I chose a different path years ago.
Turning off the water and exiting the shower, I wrap a thick towel around my waist and open the door to the bedroom. Mikhail is sitting on the corner of the bed wearing a bathrobe loosely tied around his waist. Underneath, he’s naked. Whenever he arranges an escort for me, he gets one for himself, too.
“What do you want?” I growl.
“The lovely Anastasia left.”
“So what?” I drop the towel and pull on black boxer briefs.
“She is best,” he says in shitty English.
“ The best,” I correct him, throwing a white T-shirt over my head before sitting down across from my brother in an easy chair. “And no , she isn’t.”
“That escort agency is shit. We will never use them again.” He leans back on his elbows. “What do you need, little brother? Vodka? Cocaine? Hunting party to Scotland? Someone to beat up? Tell me. I will arrange it for you.”
In Mikhail’s privileged life, this is how things work. If you’re sad, you buy something sparkly to make you happy. If you feel unloved, you pay someone to love you. On the surface, everything can be fixed by buying something to make it better. But it doesn’t work. Not for me, anyway.
“You can’t help me.”
“All this over some American dancer pussy?” He sits up and tsks . “Not worth it.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I tell him, lunging forward in my chair. “Don’t talk about her like that. Don’t talk about her ever.”
“Touchy. Touchy.” He holds his palms up. “Calm the fuck down, man.”
I wish I hadn’t told Mikhail anything about Sasha, but it messed up my head to see her and speak to her. He listened sympathetically for about thirty seconds, then called his favorite escort agency. He thinks that sleeping with other women will help me forget her, but it won’t. Five years of fucking random people has taught me different.
I rub my forehead before meeting his eyes, which are gray, like mine, but lighter. “Seriously, Mikhail, have you ever loved anyone?”
He waves one hand dismissively. “Love is for children and fools.”
“Maybe,” I mutter, sitting back in my chair. “Maybe you’re right.”
We sit in silence for a moment before he clears his throat.
“Ivan, while you were engaged, your dear maman called here, looking for you.”
Mikhail and Irina despise each other, which means she never reaches out to him deliberately. There’s only one reason she’d call Mikhail. She’s worried about me.
“What did you tell her?”
“That you’re on a bender at my place, fucking escorts, mainlining vodka, and snorting cocaine.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I tell her nothing,” he says. “Bro-code.”
“Thanks.”
“But if you don’t call her back, she will show up in London. I promise you that.” He chuckles humorlessly. “She can’t risk corruption of her favorite boy.”
“She’s too late,” I tell him.
The Corruption of Ivan Stepanov , I think, is a good name for an exposé .
A young man, kidnapped as a child and raised in the American foster care system, is reunited with his billionaire Russian family as a twenty-four-year-old janitor. Poor, uneducated, and inexperienced in most facets of life, he is taken under the wing of his hedonistic older brother and introduced to a high-flying, drug-using, constant-partying lifestyle that consumes him absolutely…
“We’re rich. We’re young. We’re hot. Life should be fun!” declares Mikhail on cue. “What’s the problem?”
“We don’t do anything!” I yell at him. “We travel around to different houses, fucking women, going to parties, spending money…none of it matters. None of it means anything. When—when was the last time you read a book?”
He screws up his face at me. “You’re being crazy. Maybe let’s go to race car track. You like it.”
“I don’t want to race cars.” I roll my eyes at him. “It’s all meaningless, Mikhail.”
“My restaurant opens in two weeks,” he says. “Lara’s will be game changer on London restaurant scene.”
I’m about to retort that aside from bankrolling these projects, he has zero skin in the restaurant game. He opens and closes eateries on a whim without any meaningful concept or plan for the future, other than appearing in photographs at the grand opening and having somewhere to go for a few months when he’s hungry. It’s not a passion. It’s a pastime.
“Right,” I say. “How’s that going?”
He shrugs. “Fine.”
Exactly. He doesn’t give a shit.
“I’m going home,” I say, crossing the room to take a pair of jeans out of the bureau where I keep extra clothes at Mikhail’s place. I add a plain gray sweatshirt and grab my wallet from the bedside table.
“Yes, little brother. Go home. Go read Russian poetry and be depressed about your American dancer.” He gives me a sour look. “Go mope. I tried.”
He did , I realize. He tried to cheer me up.
But Mikhail’s ways aren’t my ways. They never will be. We lost too much time together to understand each other completely. While my brother salves his bruised heart with pussy and drugs, it doesn’t work for me.
It doesn’t work for me.
I let that thought sit on its own for a second, solidifying itself in my mind.
Whatever fun I found in Mikhail’s lifestyle of debauchery, it stopped being fun a while ago. For the first time in years, I wonder if I ever really wanted what he has, or if I got seduced by the idea of sharing something with him.
Because I do love him. And when we first met, connecting with Mikhail, more than anyone else in my new life, was the most important thing in the world to me.
“Thanks for trying, bro.” I place my palm on his head. “I’ll call you.”
“Don’t forget you’re coming to the soft opening of my restaurant the week after next, cocksucker. Galina will be here, too.”
I tousle his hair, messing it up before heading to the door.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I’ll be there.”
***
Walking home from his place to mine, I feel a freedom—an independence, a lightness—that I haven’t felt in a long time. I wonder if I can love my brother, and be a part of his life, without living my life like he lives his, without a parade of anonymous women, late-night clubbing, bullshit hobnobbing, and constant jet-setting from one over-the-top home to another.
Maybe I can forge a new path for myself.
Except…what does that path look like?
Going from American poverty to European wealth overnight left me in a tailspin. I felt totally untethered, with no one to guide me, no one on whom to model my role in this new life. That vacuum led to my adopting a lot of Mikhail’s habits and lifestyle choices, which had the result of killing two birds with one stone. I assimilated quickly into my position as a Stepanov, and I bonded—at breakneck speed—with my half-brother.
For most of my life, finding my family had been my most persistent fantasy, my most cherished wish. Bonding with one of my blood family members after a lifetime of feeling desperately alone was a dream come true. I would’ve done anything to make it happen, and, in a manner of speaking, that’s exactly what I did. Anything. And everything . Regardless of whether or not I was comfortable with my new lifestyle, as long as it furthered and deepened my bond with my brother, I didn’t question it. Building a relationship with Mikhail was worth it.
But five years later, I think I may have had enough of living in my brother’s shadow.
It’s time to grow up and figure out who I am and what I want.
Buzz. Buzz, buzz.
The phone in my back pocket is ringing.
“ Da ?” I say, expecting it to be Mikhail.
“ Это твоя мать .” It’s your mother.
“Hello, Irina,” I say.
I don’t know why, but I haven’t been able to call Irina “mom” or “mother” in the years since she found me. Maybe part of me blames her for my abduction. If she’d been watching her children, instead of leaving all five of us in the care of a young nanny, maybe I wouldn’t have been kidnapped.
“You are alive,” she says acidly, following my lead and switching to English.
“Yes.”
“You were staying with Mikhail?”
“For a few days.”
“And now?”
“I’m headed home.”
Her voice lifts. “To Moscow?”
“To the Marylebone flat.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking of a visit to Lon—”
“Don’t,” I tell her firmly. “You don’t need to come.”
“Ivan.”
“Irina.”
“Stop hanging around with Mikhail. He is a terrible person.”
“He’s my brother.”
“He’s a scoundrel, Ivan. He only likes being close to you because it hurts me.”
“That’s between you and him.”
That’s another thing that I realized when I reunited with my family. I didn’t have more loyalty to Irina because she was my birth mother or to Sofia because we’re full-blooded siblings. I regarded all five of them as the same.
But more than my mother or sisters, it was Mikhail who made me feel as though I belonged, who invited me into his world, and who helped me assimilate to being a Stepanov. That said, Irina’s probably not wrong. Mikhail loves it that our bond pisses her off. And frankly, I don’t really care either way. Lottie Cigno used to say, “Not my circus, not my monkeys.” Exactly.
Irina pushes her agenda. “You don’t know him like I do. He’s unpredictable. I worry—”
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
“But Mikhail is—”
“I have to go, Irina, but I’ll be back in Moscow for Christmas,” I say, speaking over her. I refuse to be dragged into their drama. “We can talk then.”
“Ivan—”
Before she can say anything else, I end the call.
***
Sasha
When I’m at the RAB, it’s easy to concentrate on my work, but when I’m not?
I think about Vaughn.
While I’m walking to work.
While I’m doing a battery of repetitive exercises at physical therapy.
While I’m sitting by the window of my apartment in the evening with a cup of hot tea.
I wonder about him.
My ex-boyfriend— if that’s even the right word —is living in London…and seems so totally changed from the person I used to know, it’s like a puzzle missing half the pieces. Some of it fits together, but I can’t make out the whole.
When we met on the sidewalk, he was so cold. So condescending. So angry. So eager to get away from me.
Even after all these years apart, it hurt.
He felt like a stranger to me.
And yet…
I could see Vaughn in Ivan’s face—the high cheekbones, the stormy gray eyes with long lashes, and the thick, dark hair. I recognized him despite his filled-out physique, clear complexion, and designer clothes. I saw through all of that to the quiet young man who loved Russian poetry and jazz under the stars, who made sure there was no butter in my movie popcorn and told me he wanted to be a social worker. Despite all of the changes, I could still see Vaughn, the first boy I ever loved.
Or maybe we just see what we want to see.
Because the thoughtful, introspective young man I knew has certainly changed.
I don’t know what I did to make him hate me. Maybe, surrounded by rich, beautiful women from every exotic corner of the world, he just realized an inevitable truth—that I wasn’t that special. I certainly can’t compete with the sort of women he hangs out with now—professional escorts, Russian rockstars, French models, and British countesses. I’m just a decent ballerina from Maryland with a broken hip and a handful of years left on the stage before my life will need to drastically change gears. Not very glamorous in the scheme of things.
But that’s okay with me. I like who I am. I always have. And I’ll be happy, someday, inspiring young dancers to take to the stage as I did or working with a ballet company or finding a whole new career path altogether. I don’t have to think about it right now. If all goes according to plan, I’ll be back on the stage by January.
Buzz. Buzz, buzz.
My phone is buzzing on the bedside table, and I leap up to answer it, grateful for the distraction.
“Sasha?”
“Sayaka!” I exclaim. “It’s seven o’clock here! It’s got to be…”
“Midnight here,” she says. “Late! But I wanted to catch you home.”
My old friend from the Washington Ballet is now my sister-in-law and the mother of my nephew, having married my brother a few years ago. She took a six-month leave of absence from the stage after having Baby Kenji, but she’s back to dancing now, which I think is awesome. My mother, who gets to have Kenny with her when Greg and Sayaka are working, thinks it’s awesome, too. Never was there a woman so in love with being a grandmother.
“Is everything okay? My folks? Bubbie?”
“Yes! Everyone is fine,” she says. “I just wanted to catch up. I miss you.”
“Aw. I miss you, too,” I say, lying down on my bed and looking at the picture of my family taken a few weeks ago at Newark Airport. I had it printed out when I got here. “How’s my brother? And more importantly, how’s Kenny?”
“A handful. Amazing. An amazing handful.” She chuckles. Her English is just about perfect now. It’s a wonder how much she’s learned.
“I bet. Tell him not to grow too fast! Aunt Sasha will be home right after Christmas.”
“I’ll tell him,” she says, “but he won’t listen. He’s growing like a weed. He’s ready, I think—I hope!—to be a big brother.”
She lets her words hang over the ocean between us for a second before I realize what she’s saying and gasp.
“Oh my god! Sayaka! Are you—?”
“Pregnant again? Yep! Ten weeks today!”
My heart squeezes. I’m so happy for my brother and my best friend…but hearing about their growing little family fills me with longing, too. At twenty-six, I’m not quite ready for kids, but the soft tick tock of my biological clock gets louder every year.
“I’m so happy for you.”
“Your mother was going to call and tell you today, but I said that I get to tell you first!”
I sigh softly, wishing, just for a minute, that I was home to celebrate with all of them. I picture my brother, who was so proud when Kenny was born, and my parents, who adore their two grandchildren and will be over the moon to welcome a third.
“Is Greg the happiest dad ever?”
“Yes, he is.”
“And you?”
“Yes. I’m happy,” she says, and I know she means it. I can picture her face, serene and lovely. She lowers her voice a touch. “Between you and me, I’d love a girl.”
“A little ballerina?”
“Only if she wants that.”
“With you as her mom and me as her aunt? She doesn’t stand a chance!”
She giggles. “True.”
“What will you do?” I ask her. “Take another leave of absence?”
Sayaka takes a deep breath and lets it go slowly. “No. Not this time. I’m going to resign my position.”
“But you’re a soloist!”
“And I have loved it,” she says. “I have loved every minute on the stage, even when we had to dance with Ming and Maria-Elena.”
“The Gruesome Twosome!”
“They were terrible,” she concedes. “It’s not an easy decision, but I want to be home with Kenny and the baby. I want to be with my family.”
I get it. I do. It’s just surprising to hear one of my peers say it. Sayaka will be the first ballerina I know personally, in my generation, who has chosen to retire.
“Sasha? Are you there?”
“I’m here,” I say. “And I get it. I just… I can’t imagine you not dancing.”
“Who said I wouldn’t be dancing?” she asks. “I was a corps dancer in Tokyo, and a soloist with the national ballet in D.C. I’m definitely going to keep dancing.”
“But you said…”
“I’m a modern woman, Sasha. I can be an at-home mom who has a studio adjacent to the house where she teaches! Luckily, I have a really awesome mother-in-law who won’t mind watching the kids during classes.”
“You’re going to teach?”
“ Absolument! ” she says in French. “Greg already pulled the permits to build a studio in our backyard. I’ll have my own little school.”
“Sayaka, that’s amazing.”
“I think so, too!” she says, her voice warm and full. “And should my very, very talented sister-in-law ever want to go into business with me…”
“Not yet!” I say. “I still want to get back on the stage for a few years. You had two years as soloist. I want my chance, too!”
“And you will,” she says. “But the offer stands.”
“Thanks,” I tell her. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
We talk for a little longer, about my parents and brothers, and about her family back in Tokyo, who are coming to visit over Thanksgiving. I can tell, however, that she’s getting tired, and before she yawns for a tenth time, I insist we say goodbye.
It’s only after I hang up, I realize I never mentioned my run-in with Vaughn. But then again, Sayaka never really trusted him, and after the distressing texts and calls I received after his move to Russia, she grew to hate him, urging me to move on.
Not to mention, I doubt I’ll see him again. London’s a big city, and he has no interest in knowing me again. He made that more than clear when we ran into one another.
And , in an interesting turn of events, my coworker, Igor, has invited me to go to a gallery opening on Friday night. I was dragging my feet in accepting his invitation. I’m not a huge art connoisseur, despite the fact he mentioned it was a Russian artist, and there would be champagne, caviar, and vodka served.
In that moment, I decide, Why not? I’ll go!
Opening his message from earlier, I hit respond.
I’d love to join you on Friday night! Thanks for inviting me.
A moment later, three little dots appear.
Delightful. How about we meet for a glass of wine before the show?
Sounds great , I type.
He gives me the address of a nearby wine bar, and I give his response a thumbs-up.
Art connoisseur or not, I need to make a life for myself here in London, and I may as well start by fortifying my RAB friendships.
I hop off the bed and open my closet, trying to figure out what one wears to a gallery opening in the chicest city in Europe.
***
“You look amazing, Sasha.”
I don’t know how “amazing” I look, since I decided to play it safe. I opted for a short, black cocktail dress from H&M, black kitten heels, a black clutch, and silver jewelry. My hair is down, in soft, sleek waves with a silver clip over my right ear, although I did make one daring choice. Taylor Swift red on my lips.
Igor’s been solicitous, kind, and funny, and I find I’m enjoying his company. I assumed he was from St. Petersburg since he danced with the Kirov, but it turns out he grew up in Siberia for most of his childhood, which I found fascinating. In fact, all things equal, I wouldn’t have minded missing the art show and talking more over wine. Though I suppose that’s what second dates are for.
There’s a red carpet and stanchions outside of the gallery as we approach.
“My gosh! This is fancy.”
“It’s by invite only.” Igor reaches for my hand. “Do you feel important?”
“A little. I’ve never been to a gallery opening before.”
“Well, I love this artist,” he tells me. “Her name is Anna Skladmann, and she did this amazing series of photographs fifteen years ago. This is a retrospective.”
“Wait,” I say. “It’s photographs? I thought it was art?”
He chuckles, but it isn’t mean, more bemused. “Isn’t photography art?”
“Yes! Of course,” I say, feeling relieved. “But I thought it would be modern paintings or abstract sculptures or something. I love photography!”
“Then you’re in luck.”
He takes an invitation out of his pocket with his free hand and shows it to the woman at the door, who waves us inside.
Igor whispers close to my ear. “Anna Skladmann is a German photographer who went to Moscow in 2010 and took pictures of Russian children in their extravagant homes. Her book, Little Adults , was a fascinating statement about the wealth of the oligarchs.”
On the wall in front of us, a little girl, no more than ten or eleven, sits on a dining room table with her face in her hands, as though crying. She’s wearing a massive fur coat and tiara, and over her head is a crystal chandelier that belongs in an opera house, not a private home. The walls are a deep cerulean blue, and in the back of the room is a rack of expensive-looking clothes.
I stare at the child in the fur coat and wonder what was making her cry. Where are her parents? Why is she being photographed? What happened right before this photo was taken?
I have a million questions.
“What do you think?” Igor asks.
“Spellbinding,” I whisper.
“Come,” he says, pulling me to the next photo.
A little boy in a red and green soldier costume stands on a cream-colored bookcase in the foreground. Behind him, an opulent room in tones of gold and cream. Cream marble floor. Cream leather easy chairs. And above him, the golden twinkle lights of a crystal chandelier. A little boy playing soldier amid an outrageous display of wealth.
“A nutcracker,” I murmur.
“You know,” says Igor, “I’ve been a fan of Skladmann’s work for years, but I invited you tonight specifically to see this photo. I figured it would resonate.”
“It does,” I say, turning to smile at him. “Thank you, Igor. You’re so thoughtful.”
“I like you, Sasha,” he says. When he smiles at me, his brown eyes are warm and kind. He chuckles ruefully, a pleasant sound. “I think I’m trying to impress you.”
“You’re doing a good job,” I tell him, feeling my cheeks flush.
A waitress offers us champagne, and Igor takes two glasses, offering one to me.
“Shall we see more?” he asks, still holding my hand as we glide to the next photo.