Chapter Thirty-Nine
Petra’s footsteps click down the corridor like a metronome counting beats toward destiny.
Walking down the hallway to Alexei Volkov’s office feels less like a commute and more like a countdown, every step inching closer toward a conversation that will have career-defining implications.
Her breath maintains its steady rhythm while her pulse is anything but steady, thumping hard and heavy in her wrist, in her neck, everywhere.
Why Volkov has called to meet with her, she’s unsure.
But what she does know is this: In his short time as artistic director thus far, he has delivered on his promises to the board and the company’s dancers.
He’s arrived just as advertised, a disciple of the Balanchine method who believes technique is the foundation of artistic expression.
At fifty-three, he moves through the studios with the energy of someone who still takes class every morning, his corrections delivered in a baritone that never needs to be raised to command attention.
Where Nilas ruled through favoritism and theatrical displays of power, Volkov operates with clinical efficiency.
He posts casting lists without drama and maintains the same expression whether watching a principal dazzle or a first-year corps member stumble.
His feedback is specific, technical, and devoid of personal commentary.
“Your arabesque dropped three inches in the second act,” rather than “You look tired.” Some dancers initially found him cold, but they’ve come to appreciate the clarity.
You know exactly where you stand with Volkov, which is wherever your technique places you.
When she reaches his office door finally, Petra takes one final deep breath, composing herself for whatever’s next. Then she knocks.
“Come in.”
She pushes open the heavy door, entering an office that immediately announces itself as the antithesis of Nilas’s baroque display of power.
Where Nilas surrounded himself with excess—mahogany and assorted memorabilia—Volkov has created a space that whispers rather than shouts.
Minimalist. Modern. Almost monastic in its commitment to the essential.
Clean lines that suggest decisions get made here without emotional interference.
Muted tones that refuse to distract from the business at hand.
Volkov sits behind his sleek desk. His posture, rigid. His expression, inscrutable.
His gray hair is kept short, almost military length, and his pale blue eyes miss nothing—not an unpointed foot, not a rushed transition, not the politics simmering between soloists.
He wears the same uniform every day: black pants, white shirt, no jewelry.
The simplicity is intentional. Nothing should distract from the work.
“Miss Montgomery. Please, sit.”
She does.
“You’ve been working hard, as I expected.”
“Thank you. Yes, I’ve been trying to stay laser focused.”
His head tilts slightly, features giving away nothing.
“Do you know why I wanted you to come to Saint Petersburg?”
She stiffens, as a shiver rushes down her spine.
“Because you saw potential in me,” she manages, though the words feel insufficient.
“I saw more than potential. I saw a dancer worthy of principal status. That is why I offered it to you outright.”
Her hands grip the fabric of her skirt beneath the desk while her face and body language remain composed.
“I won’t lie,” Volkov continues, his voice maintaining an evenness. “It was disappointing to offer you a principal role at Royal St. Petersburg and have you turn it down.”
Another chill runs through Petra’s spine. Here it comes: The punishment for rejection, the consequence of choosing New York, choosing Liam, choosing wrong.
“And that is why,” he leans forward slightly, “I was so pleased when I was offered this position.”
A smile flashes across his face, so quick she almost misses it.
“Because it meant that I would finally have the opportunity to work with you.”
Petra suppresses a smile.
“And I see now that I was right.”
Her chest tightens.
“I am promoting you to principal.”
Six words that justify every sacrifice, every bleeding toe, every night she chose rehearsal over friends, over love.
“You’re—I mean, I—” she stutters.
Volkov lifts one eyebrow with the economy of someone who doesn’t repeat himself.
She stares at him, trying to process it like trying to understand infinity.
Principal.
The word echoes in her mind’s cathedral, bouncing off every dream she’s ever had, every moment she’s stood in the wings watching someone else dance the roles she dreamt of performing.
Her fingers curl in her lap, trembling. She’s pictured this moment countless times—with champagne, with Liam there to celebrate. But never like this. Never in the aftermath of everything falling apart. Never feeling so hollow while being handed everything.
But Volkov isn’t finished.
“Your debut performance as principal will be in The Nutcracker, performing Sugar Plum.”
Sugar Plum. The role every little girl dreams of, the pinnacle of classical ballet’s holiday tradition, the part she’s understudied and envied and imagined until she could dance it in her sleep.
“The evening performance of December fifteenth will be your debut,” he continues.
December fifteenth. The stage will be hers.
The role will be hers. Everything she’s worked for, crystallizing into one night, a single chance to prove that every sacrifice was worth it.
Her mind races through the logistics: rehearsal schedules, costume fittings, the mounting pressure of a debut that will define how she’s seen as a principal.
The stakes have just ascended to heights that require oxygen masks.
She’s made it. Finally, she’s made it.
But sitting here in Volkov’s minimalist office, principal title still playing on repeat in her mind, she can’t shake the feeling that victory tastes different than she expected. Less sweet, more complex, with notes of isolation she didn’t know success contained.
Volkov leans back in his chair. “This is your moment, Petra. Make it count. As you know, we have several other more senior principal female dancers in the company who will be cast this year as Sugar Plum as well, so we can only cast you for the performance on the fifteenth.”
She nods while inside something celebrates and mourns simultaneously.
She has everything she’s ever wanted professionally, yet she’s lost everything she never knew she needed personally.
Success and happiness really are different currencies, and yet most don’t realize we’ve been saving the wrong one until we try to make a withdrawal and find ourselves bankrupt in the account that matters.
December fifteenth. One night to realize her dream.
The date hangs in the air like a prophecy.
She’ll dance Sugar Plum, claim her place as a principal, and validate every choice that brought her here even if she has to do it alone.
Even if the person who helped rebuild her into someone capable of this won’t be there to see it.
The show, as they say with exhausting reliability, must go on.