Chapter Twenty-One
Gavin strides toward us in a dark blue tux, exuding a confidence that comes from never having been picked last for anything. There’s a post-photoshoot glow to him, a gleam that says, “I’ve just been professionally admired for twenty minutes.”
He greets Kate with the intimacy of someone who’s been coached on public displays of affection, pressing a kiss to her temple that’s executed for maximum visibility and minimum actual emotion.
I feel Petra go still beside me, her fingers tightening on her champagne flute like she’s considering it as a weapon.
Kate turns back to us and smiles. “Petra, I believe you two know each other.”
Petra, maintaining the kind of composure that makes you understand why she can balance on her toes for hours, exhales through her nose. “Gavin. It’s been some time. How’re things?”
His smile emerges slowly, like he’s savoring each moment before it arrives. “Good, Petra.” His eyes then dart back to me, and the smirk deepens. “And Liam, right? Nice to meet you. Great game the other night.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Nice meeting you, too.”
There’s a silence as Gavin slides his arm more firmly around Kate’s waist. “So, how’s everyone enjoying the evening?”
Kate’s smile is all teeth, like a shark that’s learned to wear lipstick. Petra’s is a masterpiece of controlled grace. I’m pretty sure mine looks like I’m passing a kidney stone.
“Beautiful evening so far. The ballet world really shows up for these galas,” I say. “How’re things with you and your film?” I offer.
Gavin seizes the opportunity. “Just got back from London. The premiere circuit is a whole different beast. You wouldn’t believe the media blitz. Every major outlet, every fashion spread. It’s all Bond, all the time.”
Petra offers a nod that manages to be both polite and completely dismissive—a skill I need to learn. I catch the way her lips press together, processing the reality that she once dated someone who refers to his own life as a “media blitz.”
“Must be exhausting,” I say, in a tone that suggests I mean exhausting for everyone who has to hear about it.
“Exhilarating, actually,” Gavin corrects, missing my sarcasm.
“But it’s part of the job. You wouldn’t believe the sponsorship deals rolling in.
And of course, the invitations…” He glances at Petra like this information might make her reconsider her life choices.
“Apparently, Nilas is a big Bond fan. We had a great conversation with him at a charity event last month, didn’t we, babe? ” says Gavin as he looks to Kate.
Petra stiffens beside me at the mention of Nilas: the artistic director, her boss, the person who decides her professional fate. The casual name-drop lands exactly as intended.
“Oh, speaking of Nilas,” Kate interjects, her champagne flute dangling between her fingers like a prop she’s been directed to hold, “I should probably go find him. He wanted to speak with me. He’s been incredibly supportive, you know.
Of my trajectory with the company. And with The Nutcracker coming up, well…
” She gives Petra a smile. “We’ll see what happens. ”
Petra’s posture remains impeccable, not even a micro-expression escaping, though I know Kate is essentially announcing she’s getting cast as Sugar Plum Fairy, the role every ballerina wants—the role that matters.
Kate takes a sip of champagne, letting the threat settle like sediment. “Ah, there’s Nilas by the staircase.”
We turn to see Nilas across the promenade looking exactly like someone who decides people’s dreams over brunch.
Kate’s smile could freeze vodka. “We should say hello, Gavin. Enjoy your evening,” she says to us as the two of them disappear into the crowd like sharks returning to deeper water.
Petra exhales slowly. “Well, I wasn’t expecting that—though you can never predict what that manipulative witch will do next.”
“What a dick,” I say.
“Which one?” asks Petra.
“Both.”
She smiles, nods, then loops her arm through mine. “Come on. Let’s find our table. Dinner’s about to start.”
The main dining hall is right out of the Gilded Age with coffered ceilings that soar high enough to accommodate the egos of robber barons, their gold leaf details catching light just so.
Marble columns rise from the parquet floors while oil paintings of stern-faced men in morning coats glower down from mahogany-paneled walls as if perpetually disapproving of how casually I hold my fork.
We find our seats at what’s clearly a VIP table. We’re close enough to the stage to see the dancers’ sweat but far enough from the kitchen to maintain the illusion that food appears by magic.
The woman beside me turns, and I recognize her instantly: Bunny Newman, wife of Harold Newman, owner of the New York Sentinels and the guy who signs my paychecks. She’s elegantly dressed in a way that suggests she’s never had to check a price tag.
“My goodness, Liam LeClerc!” She reaches for my hand. “What a pleasure to see you again. It’s been ages.”
“Mrs. Newman, it’s great to see you.”
Bunny has this quality that’s rare in rooms like this—genuine warmth that hasn’t been coached or calculated. She’s rich enough to be horrible but chooses not to be, which is its own kind of power.
She places a hand on my forearm, her bracelet sparkling and shimmering. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re healthy again. Your last game was phenomenal. The team looks so much better with you back on the ice.”
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s been a long road, but I feel good. Better than ever.”
“As you should. Harold and I have been following everything, of course. He kept saying, ‘Once Liam’s back, the team will stabilize.’ I think you proved him right.”
I chuckle, trying not to think about trade rumors. “Glad to hear I’m keeping the boss happy.”
Petra turns to Bunny. “It’s so lovely to see you again, Mrs. Newman. I didn’t realize you and your husband were such supporters of the ballet.”
“Oh, huge supporters,” Bunny says. “Harold and I have been patrons for years. We host a benefit every spring at our home in Greenwich. And, of course, we never miss The Nutcracker. Our grandchildren join us every year—a perfect holiday outing. Speaking of, you’ll be performing this year, won’t you? ”
Petra nods. “I’ll likely be dancing Dew Drop and Marzipan, which I love.”
Bunny arches a perfectly groomed brow. “Not Sugar Plum?”
“It would be a dream if I got cast as Sugar Plum,” she says with warmth. “But for now, I’m happy with where I am.”
The lie is so smooth I almost believe it myself.
Bunny makes a thoughtful noise, swirling her wine like she’s reading tea leaves. “Well, I’ll certainly be keeping my fingers crossed. I have no doubt we’ll be seeing you in that role soon.”
As waiters replace our salads with butternut squash soup, Bunny shifts her attention back to me, regaling us with stories about her impossible children, one who thinks he’s Gordon Ramsay despite barely mastering scrambled eggs, another who insists he’s the next Warren Buffett despite calling home on a weekly basis to ask which mutual funds are the “safe ones.”
“And my daughter, bless her, is very into design,” she continues. “She’s been shadowing some incredible people in the field.”
Petra glances up. “That’s wonderful. Did she study in New York?”
“Yes, I feel we have the best programs here in the city.”
Petra hesitates for a moment before continuing: “My younger sister is actually about to start design school here in a few months.”
“Where?” asks Bunny.
“Parsons School of Design.”
The words land in my stomach like a rock.
Bunny’s face lights up. “Oh, how lovely! I know the school well. I’ve been on the board for nearly a decade now.”
Of course she has.
“I had no idea,” Petra says. “That’s incredible.”
I force myself to pick up my wine glass, keeping my hand steady through sheer will.
“Your sister must be thrilled,” Bunny continues, unknowingly dancing on the grave of truth. “Parsons is truly one of the best.”
Petra smiles. “She’s 100 percent committed. Actually just left the city yesterday after visiting for a week to scope it out and get acquainted with things before she moves here for good.”
Every word is true except for the one fundamental fact that makes them all lies.
“Well, I’d be happy to make introductions if she wants to meet some of the faculty before the semester begins.”
The offer hangs there like a hand grenade with the pin pulled. Bunny Newman, board member of Parsons, offers to make introductions for a student who doesn’t exist.
I take another sip of wine, wondering if it’s possible to drown in twelve ounces of Cabernet.
Petra’s gaze settles across the room, over where Nilas is laughing with Kate and Gavin, the three of them looking like they’re planning either world domination or next season’s casting. Same thing, really.
Petra doesn’t react, not outwardly. But I see it. The slight downturn of her lips that means she’s considering her odds. The extra sip of wine that means she doesn’t like them.
I force myself to stay present, to keep nodding at Bunny’s stories, to play the part of the recovered athlete grateful to be here. But the weight of Claire’s secret presses against my mind, heavy and persistent.
This room is full of people who can make or break careers with an offhand comment, and I’m sitting on information that could detonate multiple lives.
The soup is probably delicious. The wine is definitely expensive. The conversation continues to flow around me like water around a rock.
But all I can think about is how secrets are like injuries: you can ignore them for a while; you can even function around them, but eventually, they demand to be dealt with.
And unlike my hamstring, this one can’t be fixed with ballet.