Chapter Eleven
Petra steps into Gavin’s apartment and is immediately body-slammed by his cologne.
The air is so saturated with it she half expects to see it condense into visible clouds, hovering like smug ghosts.
It’s a scent with a name like Dominion or Empire Reserve, something engineered in a boardroom to suggest power but really just reminds you of the smell at a duty-free fragrance shop in the international JFK terminal.
Everything at Gavin’s place has its spot and purpose.
A leather couch that has never been napped on and never will be.
Chrome surfaces polished to a sheen that makes Petra conscious of her fingerprints, like she’s committing tiny crimes just by touching them.
Even the fruit bowl looks staged, the apples unnaturally symmetrical, as though they auditioned for the honor to be displayed.
And then there’s Gavin. In the bedroom, bathed in soft lighting, he’s conducting his nightly liturgy of self-admiration.
Adjusting his hair with his overly moisturized hands, rolling his shoulders with the confidence of a man who has never once lost a staring contest with his own reflection.
He studies himself as if preparing for a role. Which, of course, he always is.
For a beat, she lingers in the doorway, bag still sliding from her shoulder, struck by how thoroughly Gavin manages to fill a space without ever acknowledging that anyone else could be in it.
“You’re cutting it close,” he says. “We need to leave in five minutes. They’ll only hold the reservation for so long.” He pauses then considers what he said. Petra can see his ego inflating. “Who am I kidding? I’m Gavin Bradford; they’ll hold it all night for me.”
“Can we just stay in tonight?” The words escape before she can catch them.
Gavin spins around, one eyebrow performing its signature arch, a move she’d once found charming and now views as antagonistic.
“Stay in? You’re joking, right?”
“I’m not. Let’s stay in, cook something, open a bottle of wine.
I can order some salmon from Citarella. It’ll be better than any restaurant in the city.
” Her voice gains momentum, carrying the sentiment she’s been trying to articulate for months.
“Plus, I want to talk to you about something important.”
His sigh could power a small wind turbine. “Petra, come on. You know I’d love to, but this isn’t the time to go off the radar. My movie premiere is in two weeks. Staying visible keeps me relevant—keeps us relevant. It’s all part of the game.”
The game. Always the game. Like they’re pieces on some cosmic chessboard, and she’s perpetually stuck being a pawn with nowhere to go, only useful in service of the queen.
“It’s always the game, isn’t it? I’m trying to have a real conversation with you, Gavin, and it’s kind of hard to do that when we’re at a restaurant with people constantly interrupting to take pictures or ask for autographs.”
He shrugs, turning back to his mirror like she’s background music he can tune out.
“It’s part of the package, babe. People want a piece of me, and I can’t say no.
They’re the ones who buy the tickets, pay for the streaming services, spread the word.
Visibility equals box office sales and streams. And all that equals career longevity. You know this.”
Babe. When had that word started feeling like a dismissal instead of endearment?
“What about what I want? I’ve spent years supporting you, understanding your world, adjusting to your schedule.”
“Whoa, whoa. Where’s all this coming from? All this negative energy, Petra,” he says, finally turning to face her fully.
“Why can’t you just listen for once?”
“I am listening,” he says. His brow furrows in what she’s learned to recognize as his version of concern, like he’s reading lines from a script titled How to Look Like a Caring Boyfriend. “What’s this all about, Petra? You’ve got that look like you’re about to drop some big bomb on me.”
She exhales. “I’ve been offered a principal role—”
“All the more reason to go out and celebrate—”
“With the Royal St. Petersburg Ballet Company.”
For a moment, Gavin’s composure falters, his mental processing almost visible.
“That’s not in New York, is it?”
“Russia,” she says. “And it’s one of the most prestigious companies in the world. They want me to join as a principal. It’s everything I’ve been working toward.”
His blank expression is almost comical. Then comes the scoff. “You’re not seriously considering going…”
“Yes, Gavin, I am.”
His laugh is dismissive, exhaling the sound of someone who’s never learned the difference between humor and cruelty. “Petra, come on. Who in their right mind would move to—what is it? Saint Wherever-It-Is?”
“Saint Petersburg,” she responds. “One of the most beautiful cities in the world. A place with more cultural history than you could ever imagine.”
He waves his hand like he’s swatting away her words, dismissing centuries of art and beauty with the arrogance of someone who’s never looked beyond himself. “Sure, but it’s cold. It’s miserable. And, let’s be honest, it’s the middle of nowhere compared to what you have here.”
“The middle of nowhere?” she repeats, her voice climbing despite her efforts to control her mounting frustration.
“It’s one of the greatest ballet capitals of the world, Gavin.
The Mariinsky Theatre, Tchaikovsky’s music, some of the most celebrated dancers in history.
How can you just write it off like that?
Not to mention I have family there, some relatives of my father. ”
“It just doesn’t make sense,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re already making a name for yourself here. Why would you throw all that away to run off to Russia?”
“This isn’t throwing anything away. This is about taking the next step in my career—about performing the roles I’ve dreamed of since I was a child.”
“And you can’t do that here?” he shoots back, his voice gaining an edge. “You’re so close to getting a principal spot here. Why not stay and finish what you started?”
“Because there are no guarantees here,” she says. “Nilas was clear about that. This offer in Saint Petersburg is certain. I would finally be able to dance Aurora and the Sugar Plum Fairy—the roles I’ve spent my entire life working toward.”
Aurora. The Sugar Plum Fairy. Names that probably mean nothing to him, roles that are just words in his ears but contain entire universes in hers.
“And what about us?” His voice turns cold. “You’re just going to leave? Pack up and go halfway across the world without thinking about what that means for me?”
“For you?” she says. “Do you even hear yourself? This isn’t about you, Gavin. For once, this is about me. My career. My dreams.”
“Your dreams?” he says with a bitter laugh. “What, you think running off to Russia is going to magically make you happy? You’ll be miserable there, Petra. You don’t know the language, the culture—it’s not what you think it is.”
“As if you know,” she fires back. “And for your information, I do know the language. My father was Russian, or did you forget that too?”
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, a rare moment of Gavin Bradford speechlessness that might be funny under different circumstances.
She steps closer, thinking of every compromise she’s made, every dream deferred, all the time she’s devoted to being his beautiful accessory.
“I’ve supported you through everything, Gavin.
Every red-carpet premiere, every photoshoot, all those endless dinners where I sat there smiling while people treated me like I didn’t exist. And the one time I ask you to listen, to support me, you can’t even pretend to care. ”
“That’s not fair,” he says, but his defensive tone betrays the truth they both know.
“It is fair,” she snaps. “Because the truth is, you don’t care about me. You care about what fits into your perfect little world. My dreams and opportunities—they’re just obstacles to you, aren’t they?”
“Petra—” he starts, but she holds up her hand.
“No,” she says firmly. “I’m done. I’m done rearranging my life for someone who can’t see past his own reflection.”
Gavin stares at her, his confident facade cracking for the first time. “You’re seriously ending this? Over…what? A job?”
“It’s not just a job,” she says, grabbing her coat and bag. “It’s my future. Something you were never willing to be part of.”
She steps toward the door.
“You’ll regret it if you walk out that door, Petra. What I have, where I’m headed—I could open so many doors for you.”
“I don’t want someone else to decide which doors I can walk through.”
With that, she leaves, closing that door for good.