Chapter 60 Sonya
SONYA
Late at night, way past normal hours, I’m in the studio when there’s a knock on the door.
I drag my exhausted, sweaty self to open it, prepared to bite off whoever’s head it is that’s interrupting me. Though technically I should’ve already called it a day.
I know. But my audition is in a little over a week and old habits die hard.
In my defense, I did have a long session with a therapist this morning working through more possible psychological reasons for my performance block. And a lunch with Kavi a few hours ago, therefore taking a real break.
That’s something. More than something.
So is this new routine I’m trying to figure out.
It’s not like anything I’ve ever danced before.
At the door, Adrian’s assistant, Iris, stands beside a clothing rack of zipped up garment bags. In her other hand is a brown paper bag.
“He said you’d still be here,” she says, “but I didn’t believe him.”
I rub the edge of my eyebrow. “What’s happening…?”
“Here are outfits for the gala, in case you want to go.”
My mouth drops open. Honestly, I’d completely forgotten about the gala even though Madame Kozlova has been messaging me nonstop about it, her tone getting more pointed with each one. This morning she even said Bob Pepita might show up.
And yeah, I know how important that is. I know what it means. But with all this rehearsing I’m doing, I shoved it to the back of my mind. I’m overwhelmed. I don’t want to deal with this. But now?
It’s tomorrow.
And I don’t want to go, don’t have time to pick a dress or plaster on a smile and mingle, but if I want a chance at becoming a principal, I also know I don’t have a choice.
All that doesn’t explain why Iris is here.
“How did Adrian find out the gala is tomorrow?” I ask her.
“Your dance mistress emailed him, wondering if he’ll be there.”
My blood boils. Why the hell am I not surprised she did? She still thinks we’re married and wants him there. She wants his name on the guest list, his face in the crowd, his wallet opened wide.
“And what did he say?” I ask.
“Nothing. He told me it’s all up to you.
But if you’re going, he wants to be there if you’ll have him.
” She smiles. “He also said you’re too busy to have to worry about what to wear.
So he sent me here in case you don’t have an outfit for the gala.
And before you say anything, I’m supposed to give you this. ”
She thrusts the brown paper bag towards me.
I open it.
Shocked warmth pulses through me.
It’s the same kind of cookies I devoured back when we were flying to find Jung at the World Championships.
Right on cue, my stomach grumbles because I haven’t had dinner.
What a sneaky evil genius.
Even when he’s away, on the road for a game—he knows what I can’t resist.
There’s also a handwritten note inside.
Sonya, darling. If you’re going, can I come to the gala with you? I promise I’ll behave! Unless you don’t want me to? In that case, I promise to misbehave all night, baby ;)
I’m struggling so hard not to laugh. “Come in, Iris.”
Four cookies in, I’m sprawled out. Blissfully.
Iris also brought dinner, but I’m going to eat that later. Dessert always tastes better first.
“Should we look at the outfits?” she asks, unzipping garment bags so I see what they’ve been covering up.
The gowns are expensive. Designer brands.
That’s not all.
That warmth inside me triples in strength.
They’re all made out of black fabric. Not a hint of any other color.
One catches my eye.
Iris puts a hand on her chest and sighs. “Oh. That’s my favorite, too.”
It’s the night of the gala, and I’m standing on top of a soaring spiral staircase.
The train of my dress trails behind me as I descend.
I’m in a column of black velvet that hugs every inch of me, except for the leg-showing split in the skirt and my bare shoulders.
My hair is pulled back in a polished bun.
Every strand is sleek and without my bangs in the way, my eyes and the delicate arch of my neck are highlighted.
I’m the perfect, brown-skinned ballerina.
Poised. Polished. Exactly what they want to see…
except for my eye makeup. It’s smoky, sharp, and deliberately defiant.
The small rebellion I allow myself, just to feel like me.
The steps I walk are lined with lush, intricately patterned carpet.
That means he doesn’t hear me approach. The staircase curves near the bottom, shielding me from his view, so I stop, just before the turn, tucked out of sight.
I get to admire him first. He’s in a tuxedo, exquisitely tailored.
A few strands of his blonde hair have fallen forward on his forehead, but the rest of his hair is styled back.
He’s adjusting his cuffs and straightening invisible wrinkles in his jacket, these strangely nervous gestures.
He must be exhausted. He flew in directly from an away exhibition game.
It’s the last one before their regular season starts and the Wings have been giving it everything they got, experimenting with different lineups each period.
That’s an update from Adrian—that I requested.
Along with other ones, I’m getting from Quinn that I also seem to want.
Like how they’re doing overall in their preseason games, who is winning, if anyone scored, who was it, has any new lineup worked, what’s the morale of the Wings like, how are they holding up…
Hockey stuff I’d normally never dive into is suddenly imperative to my life.
Adrian cranes his neck, eyes locked on the staircase, waiting for me. Behind him, other guests and waitstaff move around, but to me, he’s the only one in the room. I still haven’t moved.
We haven’t seen each other since he slept over. He slipped out early that morning for his flight without waking me, leaving behind a note covered in drawn hearts, saying he didn’t want to wake me because I looked too beautiful sleeping.
Since then, he’s been traveling with the team, and I’ve been sequestered in a studio, practicing.
It’s a frantic time for both of us. We’re swamped with pressures because massive turning points in our careers are fast approaching.
My Bob Pepita audition. His first game of the regular season.
How well the Wings do means everything when they face off with the GM over their futures.
Anyone would hyperventilate thinking about it all. I’m on the precipice of doing so.
But then I step forward and Adrian sees me.
His breath catches. His jaw clenches, and I catch the quick swallow that betrays him. A quiet ferocity grows his eyes. They carry unspoken adoration that is louder than any words.
And that intense, anticipatory, pressurized limbo feeling I’ve had this week…
The one where the ground doesn’t seem tethered enough to my feet…
Where I’m constantly shifting in my skin, unable to get comfortable…
Because I have no idea what happens next, and the rooms I’m in suddenly feel too empty…
It completely vanishes.
I’m rushing down the stairs and into his arms.
His mouth is warm and hungry.
The way he’s cradling my jaw is with so much care as if I might disappear the second he lets go. Between the coaxing of his tongue, his lips lift off mine, just enough to speak three words.
“I missed you.”
I missed you, too.
It’s not a proper confession if I don’t speak the words, but it’s no less true. Said in the way I chase after his mouth, how I’m pouring myself into this kiss as if the world around us has ceased to exist. Because I have. Missed him in a way I didn’t think was possible to miss anyone.
Slowly, after some time, our foreheads meet.
We both shiver.
“Are you ready?” Adrian whispers.
Am I ready? I don’t know. Past a set of ornate doors is the fundraiser Madame Kozlova is hosting to raise funds for a company who kicked me out.
It’s going to be full of wealthy donors and elite figures in the ballet world.
Everyone I should be networking with because when a principal dancer is picked, it’s not only about their talent.
These kinds of people politics matter, too.
To get ahead, it’s best to impress powerful, usually old and white, men.
Adrian reads my expression. “You hate that you have to do this.”
“Hate’s not quite strong enough of a word. But don’t worry—“ I give him a smile, my wholly fabricated one that I’ve used often on stage before. “I know what I have to do and who they want me to be tonight.”
Adrian’s eyes darken. “I don’t like seeing it.”
“Seeing what?”
“This smile.”
“Really?” My eyebrows have shot up. “I’d think it’s a nice break from my usual, you know?” Taking my finger, I tug the corner of my mouth down, exaggerating the angle.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Sonya darling. I’d rather spend a lifetime with your frowns than have there be a reason you ever have to fake a smile.”
I’ve gotten to see so many sides of him, so it’s not like I expect him to be goofy, joking, or smirking all the time anymore. But this sincere gravelly seriousness makes my stomach dip in a new, swooping way.
“How about you let me carry it,” he insists. “The fake smiling, the small talk, the labor. I’ll make them love you just the way you are.”
“Why?”
“Because I lo—“ He clears his throat. Then wait a pause before winking. “As your husband, it’s my job to make sure you don’t ever have to do anything unpleasant.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Right. How could I forget about that?”
Adrian’s hand comes to rest on my back. “I’ll think of something else. Take ownership for lying, and say I’m not your husband. We don’t have to lie if you don’t want to.”
It’s the reasonable thing to do. There’s no benefit to doubling down, especially since if we don’t clear the air now, this lie is only going to grow bigger and spread further.
The people inside the gala are pillars of an insular community.
If we go ahead with this, soon everyone in the ballet world will know I’m “married” to Adrian Hughes, Captain of the Vancouver Wings.
We shouldn’t—
And yet.
“Maybe a while longer…”
“It’ll help…” he says.
“We’re smart. We’ll figure out how to get out of it later.”
“It’s a tomorrow problem to solve.”
I’m nodding. He’s slowly grinning.
Settling both hands on my hips, he pulls me closer. “I’m your husband.”
“Oh, God. You’re going to be obnoxious about this aren’t you?”
His grin goes crooked and teasing. “Me? Obnoxious?” He laughs. “I’d never be obnoxious to my wife. Because you’re my wife. My wifey forever. And I’m your husband. Isn’t that right, wife?”
I tuck my face against the shoulder of his tuxedo. “That answers my question.”
“Wifeeeee,” Adrian croons, singing it softly above the crown of my head.
It’s going to be a long night of dreadful pandering, but he’s already making it more than survivable. Because the more he sings, the more I’m hiding a genuine kind of unfolding smile.