2. Katya
Katya
Pulling out my tight bun and bobby pins is a relief that is immediate, like finally scratching an itch that has been building for hours. I close my eyes as I run my fingers through my dark hair, massaging away the tension.
It needs a good brush and a wash, but I'm so tired I can't imagine doing anything when I get home but slipping right into bed.
I'll deal with it tomorrow. After all, I'll be right back here, so really, what does it matter?
"God, I hate you," Nico says, sliding into the chair next to me, already out of his costume and into street clothes.
"Same," Lacey adds from my other side, pulling off her false lashes with the kind of precision that comes from years of practice.
I open one eye, looking at them both in the mirror. "Can I ask why?"
"Because you've been promoted and are dancing a leading part I would kill for," Lacey says, meeting my gaze in the reflection. "Can't tell you why he's mad."
I snort, though I know she's not entirely joking. Even though we've been friends for nearly a decade, we have always been in competition for parts, promotions—you name it.
It's a weird dynamic.
"You'll get it eventually," I tell her. I'm confident she will. Lacey is a brilliant dancer. "You know how Jonathan is. He's punishing you."
Lacey glares at her reflection. She's not angry with me, I know that. She pissed off the director and that has consequences. "It's not my fault his favorite is a fuckboy."
Nico howls with laughter, and I bite my lip to keep from joining in because the whole Stefan situation is still a minefield I'd rather not step into. Lacey's fiery personality gets her in trouble more often than not.
We all know that Jonathan has a thing for Stefan, but we all ignore it.
Except Lacey.
"Anyway," I say, redirecting before this conversation can spiral into territory none of us want to revisit, "why do you hate me, Nico?"
"Because you're going to the cocktail party tonight."
My hands still in my hair, fingers frozen mid-massage. "What?"
Nico's face is apologetic, like he's delivering bad news he knows I won't want to hear. "Jonathan is looking for you. He sent me to stop you from leaving."
"But none of us are allowed to go," Lacey snaps, and I can hear the frustration in her voice because she's right. Dancers aren't invited. "We aren't paraded around until the end of the year when they want the donations to roll in by pimping us out."
I wince. I don't care for these types of things, but I understand the necessity. Ballet is expensive and dying, and if the donors want us to smile and look pretty for a few hours, that seems like a small price to pay for being able to do what we love.
Yes, it's transactional, but what isn't?
This, though.
I'm already uncomfortable because this doesn't feel right. Jonathan doesn't veer from the rules unless they suit him.
Nico holds up his hands. "Take it up with him. I'm just the messenger."
"You must have misunderstood him," I tell Nico. "Jonathan is obsessive about rest and recovery during the season. And he hates bending the rules."
Nico shrugs.
Before I can ask anything else, before I can even begin to process what this means, the dressing room door flies open and Jonathan storms in, his face flushed in the way it gets when he's stressed.
"Good," he says, looking at the three of us. "You're still here."
I glance at Lacey, who's frowning, and Nico and I share a look as we wait for her to say something crazy.
"You need to get dressed," Jonathan demands, pointing at me. "You're attending tonight's event."
"Why?"
"Yeah, Johnny," Lacey's voice drips with sarcasm. "Why does Katya get to break your precious rules?" She arches her brow. "What's in it for you?"
Jonathan ignores her completely, his attention fixed on me with an intensity that makes me want to shrink in my chair.
"One of the donors wants to meet you. He can't attend the end-of-season event, and he's donated millions to the company.
" He pauses, and I can see him trying to soften his tone, trying to make this sound like a request instead of an order. "Put on a dress and a smile. One hour."
I blink several times, trying to process his words because they are coming out of left field.
"Now!" The word cracks through the air like a whip.
I jump, actually flinch at the sound, and suddenly both Lacey and Nico are moving, positioning themselves between me and Jonathan like they can shield me from his temper.
This is why Lacey and I are friends despite the rivalry, despite the competition.
It's because we both know what it's like to be on the receiving end of Jonathan's moods, and we protect each other when we can.
"Relax," Lacey snaps at him, and I love her for it even though I know it'll probably cost her later. "We're all in here changing after a grueling day of shows and following your rules."
"I didn't bring a dress." I stand on shaky legs, very aware that I'm still wearing stage makeup that's far too dramatic for a cocktail party. "I've only got my rehearsal clothes."
Jonathan makes a sound of frustration that's almost a growl. "Put on your costume then."
My mouth falls open. "My costume?"
The one that's practically sheer, that's designed to be seen from a distance under stage lights, that requires careful handling because the fabric is so delicate. Is he completely insane?
I open my mouth, ready to say just that.
"Look," Jonathan takes my hands in his, and his palms are clammy with stress, which only makes my anxiety spike higher.
"This donor is important. Really important.
We're operating in the red this year, ticket sales are down, and if he decides not to give us his donation...
" He trails off, but the implication hangs in the air between us, heavy and threatening.
"That's your problem," Lacey reminds him, and her voice has gone cold in the way it does when she's truly angry. "You're the director. This is your job, not hers."
I sigh. I already know what I'm going to do, have known since the moment Jonathan walked in here looking desperate and demanding. "Fine." The word tastes like surrender. "I'll go."
"Kat—" Nico's eyes are fixed on me.
I shake my head and force a smile I don't feel, that probably doesn't reach my eyes but is the best I can manage. "It's fine. I'll go, meet this donor, smile for an hour, and then I go home. Right?" I stress that last word because I am one-hundred percent leaving within the hour.
Jonathan nods eagerly, relief flooding his features. "Yes. Exactly. One hour maximum, and no alcohol."
He doesn't wait for me to respond, just turns and leaves, completely confident that I'll do exactly what he's told me to do.
And he's not wrong.
I always do what I'm told, have built my entire career on being easy to work with, on taking direction without complaint, on being the dancer who never causes problems. It's what makes me good at what I do—this ability to subsume myself into whatever role is required of me, on stage or off.
I have been doing it so long I'm not sure I know how to stop.
"You don't have to do this," Lacey says softly as I pull my costume back on, and I can hear the genuine concern in her voice as I cringe at seeing the outline of my nipples through the thin fabric. "This is insane. You've been working all day. You need to rest. Jonathan isn't going to pay you?—"
I shake my head, forcing a smile. "Bet you're glad he gave the role to me now, aren't ya?" I try to joke, but she doesn't smile.
"Here," Nico hands me a warm-up cardigan, the soft knit one I usually wear between rehearsals. "Use this to cover up."
I wrap it around myself gratefully, clutching it closed over my chest, trying not to think about how exposed I'm going to feel if I need to take it off.
"Jonathan can't fire you," Lacey says, but we both know it's not true. "You're too good, and the board would shit a brick."
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Come on, Lacey.
You of all people know he can and will if he wants to.
" I dab a bit of lip gloss on my bottom lip, trying to make myself look more polished, more appropriate for a cocktail party even though I know it's a losing battle.
"It'll be fine. I'll smile at some rich guy who probably doesn't know anything about ballet but likes seeming cultured, and I'll be home in an hour. "
Lacey's frown deepens, but she doesn't argue, and I appreciate that even though I can feel her worry like a weight on my shoulders.
"It'll be fine," I repeat, trying to convince myself as much as her.
I hope.
The cocktail party is exactly what I expect—all crystal chandeliers, expensive champagne, and people in designer clothes making polite conversation about things that don't matter.
When I walk in, still wearing my costume and cardigan because I literally have nothing else, people actually cheer and applaud.
I do a small curtsy, feeling my face flame with embarrassment because this is mortifying—being on display.
I dance because it's my passion, but I absolutely hate being the center of attention, and I especially don't like it in this context.
"Come," Jonathan says, appearing at my elbow and taking my arm with enough pressure that I feel like I don't have a choice.
He steers me through the crowd toward a quieter corner of the room where a man sits alone at a small table, his back to us so I can't see his face.
But I can see his shoulders, broad and powerful under what looks like an incredibly expensive suit, and the way he holds himself with a kind of stillness that makes everyone else in the room seem frantic by comparison.
"Mr. Orlov?"
The man turns, and for a moment I'm speechless.