4. Katya
Katya
I'm exhausted. Tired to my core. So much so that when I come home several hours earlier than normal—since tonight isn't a show night—I plan for nothing more than a lukewarm shower, my building never has hot water, and sleep.
Unfortunately, the minute my shower is over, Luc Nero, one of my best friends, is at my door with three bags of my favorite Chinese food, with Lacey and Nico right behind him.
I'm disappointed by their presence.
I am wrung dry, and I wanted a quiet night to myself. Not that I would ever say that out loud. I couldn't. These are some of the most important people in the world to me, which means I'm going to eat silently while they gab, and then try to convince them that I need to rest.
"So how did cocktails go?" Nico asks, interrupting my quiet irritation.
"Who did you have cocktails with?" Luc asks.
I swallow the food in my mouth, groaning internally.
Luc's strong jaw clenches slightly, and I know he's annoyed. I hold back a sigh. Luc is the most protective man I've ever met, and I know if I don't head this off, I'm in for a lecture. He means well. He's like a brother to me, but still—it can be exhausting.
"It was a work thing." I keep my voice casual, like it doesn't matter at all, but it is too late. "Some donor wanted to meet me."
This is technically true. What I don't mention is the way he looked at me, or the wrist kiss, or the fact that I haven't been able to stop thinking about him for two days straight. His head would spin if he knew about the café.
Luc nods, going back to his fried rice, and I feel myself relax slightly. Crisis averted. "How can you eat so much?" I laugh, pointing at his plate, trying to change the subject.
"I'm a growing boy."
Nico looks him up and down. "You certainly are."
Most other men would be uncomfortable with Nico's come-on, but Luc takes it in stride. Probably because his ego is huge. I love him, but he's the type of man who knows he's attractive and loves when other people know it as well.
"I heard the guy was insanely hot," Lacey's eyes spark with mischief.
"Lacey!" I scold. "Stop!" She heard that from me—in confidence.
I'm going to kill her. Slowly. And with a very dull knife.
Nico squeals, and Luc stops eating again. He's clearly not happy.
"Who was it?" Nico asks, clapping his hands. "Stratford?"
Lacey snorts. "He's older than dirt!"
"And richer than God," Nico leans back, pretending to swoon. "Imagine the experience."
I roll my eyes. "Someone new," I shrug. I'm not in the mood to share. Which is ridiculous because I don't even know the man. "He was just some bigwig that Jonathan is trying to lock down for next year. Apparently, he's really into the arts."
"Or looking for a tax write-off," Lacey mutters.
"Probably."
Luc looks at me, his eyes narrowing slightly, and I know he doesn't believe me. He's always been able to read me too well and has known me too long to fall for my casual deflection. "He was nice. We had a drink?—"
"You drank with him?" There's accusation in Luc's tone, and I roll my eyes.
"He drank, and I had a club soda," I correct. "It was maybe fifteen minutes."
"And the coffee?—"
I glance at Lacey, narrowing my eyes.
She holds up her hands. "Was it a secret?"
Yes. Obviously.
Now both Luc and Nico are looking at me with suspicion. Luc puts his fork and plate down. "You had coffee with him?"
"He was meeting with someone on the board. It's the same place I always go?—"
"You need to change your routines. I've told you that." Luc's voice is stern. The playfulness is completely gone, and he's looking at me with narrowed eyes.
Lacey snorts. "Good luck."
I'm annoyed. I can feel irritation bubbling in my chest, hot and uncomfortable, because Luc is acting like I'm incapable of taking care of myself, like I'm still the scared teenager who needed protecting. "I'm a grown woman, Luc," I snap. "I can get coffee where I want."
"Not if someone is following you."
The words hit harder than they should because part of me has been wondering the same thing. The cocktail party, then the coffee shop—it does seem coincidental. But really, only to paranoid people.
"Woah, woah, woah—" Nico holds up his hands. "Are we thinking stalker?"
Lacey's eyes go wide, and I know she's now officially worried. Lacey and Nico know my past, and I can see how Luc's reaction is making them concerned.
"Possibly," Luc pulls out his phone. "I'm going to talk to my security?—"
"Security?" Lacey's eyes are wide as saucers. She glances at me. "Do you think she needs?—"
I shake my head and snatch Luc's phone from his hand. "Stop it, right now," I scold. "I don't need security."
Luc looks like he's about to strangle me. Not that I care. I know he won't do anything. He's all bark and no bite, and frankly, he's being unreasonable.
"Kat—" He reaches for his phone, but I move out of his way.
"No," I snap. "He was meeting a board member. He wasn't there for me. We talked for another few minutes, and then he left. I haven't seen him since. If he's a stalker, he sucks at it."
"That doesn't mean?—"
"If you try something, I won't talk to you again." I'm fuming. This is a boundary I'm not going to concede.
Luc looks taken aback, and I feel a twinge of guilt because I know I'm being harsh, but I also know this is the only way to make him back down. Luc responds to boundaries when they're firm, when I draw a line and refuse to move.
"This is my life, and I'll live it how I see fit." I place my container on the coffee table. "Now I'm tired, and I need to sleep."
Nico and Luc sigh, but they get up to leave. Lacey stays behind. "I need to talk to you about something," she says. "Okay if I stay for a few minutes?"
I nod.
Nico pats my head affectionately, and Luc reaches down to press a kiss on my crown. "Call me tomorrow."
I nod again, because what else am I supposed to do? He's my oldest and closest friend, and I'm incapable of staying mad at him for long. Even when he drives me absolutely insane.
When they leave and I hear their boots echo down the hall, I turn to Lacey.
"You didn't mention to Luc that the guy asked you to dinner."
I inhale sharply. "I already told you?—"
She reaches out, taking my hand in hers, her face serious. "I didn't think about what this could mean."
"It doesn't mean anything," I tell her, giving her a tight smile. It can't mean anything. I said no. It's over.
"He's Russian. Another fact you kept from Luc and Nico."
"Because I knew Luc would freak out."
The combination of his nationality and our repeated encounters would have sent Luc into full protective mode, and I would have security trailing me everywhere whether I wanted it or not.
And I couldn't really blame him. It is suspicious. "But Russian mafia types aren't really ones to kidnap from coffee shops and cocktail parties," I say. "They are more—grab you out of your apartment and slice your fingers off to send to your loved ones."
I laugh, but Lacey scrunches up her nose in disgust. "I totally do not get your family."
"Same," I say, which is exactly why I live a world away. "Now," I stand up, dusting crumbs from my lap. "I wasn't kidding that I need to sleep."
Lacey rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah," she says, standing up. She reaches out and squeezes my hand. "Try not to get murdered. I still need to beat you."
Despite how annoyed I am, I laugh.
The next morning I'm up by five, out the door by six, and at the studio promptly at six-thirty. We rehearse for hours, pushing our bodies to the max until we break at noon for a short lunch.
Normally, this type of grueling schedule fuels me. I thrive on the pressure, the physicality, the way dance demands everything from me and leaves no room for thoughts about mysterious Russian men with winter eyes.
Today is different, though.
I'm off.
My body won't cooperate. I can't focus, can't find my center, and can't execute movements I've done thousands of times.
"Come back when you learn to dance," Jonathan snarls as I grab my bag.
I freeze for a moment. A part of me wants to tell him to fuck off and remind him he's a shit director. As I look around, though, and notice all the winces and people glazing over, looking everywhere but at me, I deflate.
He's not wrong. I was off.
I fell out of my turns. My hands were sloppy, and I wobbled on my feet.
I'm tired. The events of the last two days, coupled with last night's interrogation, left me feeling on edge. Luc is upset with me, which I hate, and even worse, I can't stop thinking about Mr. Orlov.
About the way he said my name. About the wrist kiss that I can still feel days later. About how he asked me to dinner and I said no, even though part of me desperately wanted to say yes.
"Are you alright?" Nico asks, mopping the sweat from his brow.
I nod. "I didn't sleep well." I spent most of the night replaying our two encounters, analyzing every word, every look, every gesture, trying to understand what they meant.
Lacey frowns. "Are you getting sick? Please say yes."
I laugh. I can't help it. "Sorry. Just an off day."
She grumbles, but there's no real heat in it.
"Do you two want to get some coffee?" I ask as we make our way out of the studio.
Nico and Lacey look at one another, both their eyes wide. "Maybe she is sick." He lifts his hand to feel my forehead, and I chuckle.
"Stop being ridiculous," I shoo him away.
"You hate when people eat lunch with you," Lacey says. "You used to hide in our dorm."
I frown, but before I can remind her of all the many times we've had lunch together, Mrs. Soap, the old receptionist, stops me.
"Miss Popova!"
I groan internally. Mrs. Soap runs this place like a tight ship, and I prepare myself. If she's pulling me aside, it means something is wrong, and that also means she's going to make sure I know it's my fault.
"Later," Nico salutes me as he scurries away.
"Hey!" I reach for him. "Don't leave me."
Nico shakes his head. "Sorry, she's hated me since she caught me and Aaron Snyder in the music room. I cannot hear about that again."
"Coward!" I snicker, turning to Lacey, who is looking past me, eyes wide and unblinking.
I inhale, bracing myself, before turning around.
"Here," Mrs. Soap shoves a massive bouquet of flowers into my arms. I stumble a bit under the sudden weight. "Next time, ask your boyfriend to send these to your home."
"Boyfriend?"
The word doesn't register at first because I'm too busy trying not to drop the heavy glass arrangement.
Wrapped in my arms is a huge vase filled with white roses. A lot of them. I count them slowly, my brain struggling to process what I'm seeing—fifty-one. An odd number.
Fifty-one white roses.
My heart stops.
"Holy shit," Lacey says, somehow putting words to my thoughts.
She reaches out and grabs the small card before I can stop her. I'm too stunned to protest, too busy staring at the perfect white petals that must have cost a fortune.
"Hey!" I try to balance the vase and grab it back, but I can't, and before I know it, Lacey is reading the note—or at least trying to.
"This is Russian."
I snort. "No, really?" Of course it's in Russian. Of course he wrote to me in our mother tongue because he knows what that would mean to me, how it would feel to see Cyrillic letters instead of English.
She narrows her eyes and shows me the words. My breath catches, and I feel a shiver go down my spine.
The handwriting is bold and confident, each letter perfectly formed:
Красота заслуживает уважения. Позвольте мне оказать вам честь за ужином.
Beauty deserves to be honored. Allow me to honor you at dinner.
Below the words is a phone number. Nothing else.
"What does it say?"
My cheeks feel hot, and I know I'm blushing—I can feel the heat spreading down my neck—because this is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me, and I don't even know his first name.
"Katya!"
I bite my lip. "He's asking me to dinner. Again." In the most romantic way possible. Not just with flowers and a note in our mother tongue, but with sentences that flow like poetry, that make me feel seen in a way I've never felt before.
"Please say you're going to go."
I sigh, shifting the heavy vase to my hip and walking toward the locker room. "No, you know I don't date, especially during the season." I place the bouquet in my locker. It barely fits, and I try not to wince as I watch some of the pure white petals drop. "Besides, I thought you were all worried."
Lacey laughs. "That was before I realized you're right. Someone trying to kill you probably isn't going to woo you."
"Is this wooing?" I ask, even though I already know the answer, even though my heart is racing and my hands are shaking and I can't stop staring at the flowers.
She looks at me as though I'm stupid, and I feel silly.
Of course it's wooing. Fifty-one white roses, a note in Russian, and a dinner invitation that makes my chest ache with want.
"Let's just say, if you don't go out with him, I'm stealing his number and doing it myself."
Lacey flips her hair and walks out, probably to go gab about this with Nico.
I'm frozen in the locker room, looking at the flowers. The petals are perfectly white, unmarred by even the slightest bit of rot. They must have cost a fortune, and he sent them here, to the theater, where everyone could see—where it's public and obvious and impossible to ignore.
The sight of them makes my stomach turn, but I'm not sure if it's from fear or anticipation.
Fifty-one roses. Not a casual gesture. A serious one.
White roses mean purity, new beginnings, honorable intentions. They're what you give when you're courting someone properly, when your intentions are marriage-minded, when you want to show respect.
I pull the card out again, running my thumb over the phone number written beneath the Russian words.
I could text him. Could say yes to dinner.
Could finally learn his first name and stop thinking of him as "Mr. Orlov" like he's some character in a novel instead of a real person who makes my pulse race.
I save the number in my phone without texting, close my locker on the white roses, and walk out of the dressing room with my heart racing and my hands shaking and absolutely no idea what I'm going to do.