21. Katya
Katya
I make rules.
This is how I have always survived, by reducing chaos to choreography, by finding the structure inside the thing that wants to break me. When I was twelve and my pointe shoes split open the backs of my heels for the first time, I made rules.
No crying until after class.
Pain is just information.
Bleed in the bathroom, not on the barre.
When I was seventeen and my first corps director told me I was too soft for principal roles, I made rules. Two extra hours in the studio every night until I could do the moves in my sleep. Conditioning. Dieting. I would do everything I could to get a role.
Now I am twenty-four years old, married to a man I hate, and the only way I am able to cope is by making rules.
Keep dancing. Keep your friends. Keep yourself. Survive at all costs.
Those are the rules I need to survive this marriage.
At least, that is what I tell myself.
I return to work immediately. There's no need to spend time away. After all, my marriage is fake, and since the consummation, I've avoided Artem.
We won't be taking a honeymoon. And though we are married, we don't need to share space. I've done my part, so I do everything I can to stay as far away from Artem as possible.
I spend my time at the studio or Lacey's. Basically, anywhere but my new home.
It's the only way I'm able to cope.
The studio smells the same. Rosin and sweat and the warm-wood scent of a sprung floor. Today, I take a deep inhale, allowing the familiarity to comfort me.
"You sure you don't want to take a few days off?" Lacey whispers. She's been my rock throughout this, but I'm starting to get exhausted by the constant questioning.
"Lace—"
"It's just that you aren't yourself?—"
"I'm fine," I snap at her before she can finish and wince, but I don't apologize. I'm not at my best. It's noticeable, and it's only a matter of time before people start talking, if they haven't already.
Nico comes over and places a hand on my shoulder. I turn to look at him. His eyes roam over me, and I can tell he is checking to see if there are any visible signs of abuse.
There aren't.
Artem favors psychological warfare over physical.
"I'm fine," I squeeze his forearm. My ring catches the studio light, sparkling beautifully. My stomach clenches at the sight of it. I'm wearing it to placate Artem. I'm not stupid, and I'm sure he has eyes everywhere. "Let's get warmed up."
Nico and Lacey nod, and a tense silence settles over us as we start our routine. I can feel everyone's eyes on me, and I know they are dying to ask questions.
I ignore them and focus on myself, breaking in my new shoes as I prepare for rehearsal.
Jonathan arrives at nine sharp, which is when I know something is wrong. He's never on time. He blows in late to everything, coattails flying, coffee in hand, as though the rehearsal schedule exists primarily as a suggestion.
Today he walks in at eight fifty-nine and he's not carrying coffee, and there's something in his eyes that makes my stomach clench. This isn't good, and as everyone exchanges sidelong glances, I know we are all thinking the same thing.
"Company," Jonathan says, and we gather.
He doesn't waste time. That's the second sign. Jonathan loves to talk, loves the sound of his own authority, and today he gets to the point in under thirty seconds. Casting adjustments. Last minute. The Nutcracker opens in three weeks and he's making a change to the principal roles.
The room goes very still. Everyone holds their breath, some in anticipation and others, like me, in dread.
My heart drops when he says Lacey's name, and then says Sugar Plum.
The silence that follows is the loudest thing I have ever heard in a rehearsal studio.
Lacey makes a sound beside me, something small and involuntary, and I know without looking that her hand has gone to her mouth.
She's been my friend for nearly a decade, and I know she's thrilled and horrified in equal measure, that she's already looking at me, that she needs me to tell her it's okay to take this role.
From me.
Because that is who she is taking it from. Me.
And as much as I want to reassure her, I can't. Because I'm pissed.
"Katya will be taking on the Dew Drop," he says, his tone careful. He's not looking at me.
My ears are ringing, and I feel overheated at the eyes on me.
Someone asks why we are shaking up roles we've already blocked and prepared for, and this time, Jonathan focuses on me. "This isn't a punishment," his voice is stern as he speaks. "You need a rest."
I nod, swallowing. "Of course." My voice comes out clean and even, controlled. "Congratulations, Lacey."
I'm still looking at Jonathan, but I hear her exhale behind me.
I am crushed. Devastated even. I'd suffer through multiple weddings before I'd choose this.
Jonathan moves on. He has to, there's nothing else to do, and I turn back to center, and I wait for the music and I dance.
I get through four hours of rehearsal.
We are doing The Waltz of the Snowflakes, which I know in my sleep, which I have danced so many times that my body runs it without my mind's participation.
I move and I do not think about anything except the line of my arm, the placement of my foot, the eight count that leads into the turn sequence.
This is rule one. Keep dancing. No matter what.
Lacey finds me at the water fountain during the break.
"Katya—"
I force a smile. "I'm so happy for you. This is a stepping-stone to a promotion."
She searches my face. She's known me long enough to understand what I'm giving her, which is permission to be happy about this even while I'm furious. The two things can coexist. I love her. That doesn't change because I am also currently trying to keep myself from coming apart.
"I swear I didn't know until this morning when everyone else found out. I'm not sure why?—"
"I know." And I do. Lacey doesn't lie to me. She doesn't know how. I force the smile again. I really, really don't want to take this away from Lacey. "It really is fine."
She puts her hand on my arm for a moment. I cover it briefly with mine. Then I pull away and go back to work, and I stay there until Jonathan calls us back.
"We can order Chinese tonight and talk."
I'm being cruel and petty, and yet, I can't help what I say next. "I think it's time I go home."
I don't stick around to see how she reacts.
I can't. My control is snapping.
I find Jonathan in his office.
His mouth is downturned, and he looks exhausted.
I honestly do not give a fuck. He's lucky I don't take that stupid tie he wears and strangle him with it.
"Jonathan—"
"Katya." He gestures to the chair across from his desk. "I assumed you were going to have something to say. Why don't you have a seat?"
"I'd rather stand." I fold my hands in front of me, the ring pressing against my own fingers. "I want to know why."
He presses his lips together.
"I told you that you need to rest. Giselle is coming up, and I'm considering you for the lead."
I glare, clenching my fingers. "You and I both know that is Hannah's role, and she's considering retiring this year. This was my last principal role until next year, and you took it."
He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I thought you'd be happy. Lacey is your friend, correct?"
Tears spring to my eyes, a mixture of frustration and sadness. I look away for a moment as I try to gather my control. I will not cry in front of this asshole. That's a rule, and I don't break them. "Are you demoting me? Is that what is happening?"
He is quiet for a moment. Long enough that I know he's deciding something. Then he releases a heavy sigh.
"Your husband called me," he admits. "Yesterday. Apparently, he's been trying to get you home."
My stomach drops.
"My husband?"
Jonathan looks past me. "Yes, funny how you didn't mention that you and Mr. Orlov were engaged. Might have saved me some trouble a few months ago."
My tongue feels too heavy to speak. My head is spinning, and I worry I am going to pass out.
No. No.
Artem did not do this. He told me he wouldn't mess with my career.
"He expressed concern about your schedule. The physical demands of a principal role this close to—" He stops. Recalibrates. "He wanted to make sure you had space to settle into your new situation. He was very—" Another pause. "Persuasive."
That is code for the fact that Artem threatened him. I've been wondering if that is how Artem got close to me the night we first met, or if Jonathan was in on it. From the way he accused me, I'm guessing he had absolutely no idea.
"That role was mine." My voice is still even. I am very good at even. "You told me it was mine."
"Next year, we'll?—"
"Thank you, Jonathan." I turn and walk out, fuming. After all, Jonathan isn't my enemy.
No, that would be my husband.
He did this to put me in my place, even after he told me he wouldn't mess with my career. He wants me home. Well, he's about to regret that.
The apartment is lit when I get home. I stayed in the studio after dismissal, running the Dew Drop variation until my legs gave me something to focus on besides my own thoughts. Artem's office door is open. He's at his desk, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled, and he looks up when I come in.
I set my bag down. I pull off my coat. I take my time with it, folding it over the chair by the door, because I need the four seconds to make sure my voice will do what I tell it to.
"You called Jonathan." There's no point in pretending I don't know.
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't recalibrate. He simply looks at me across the length of the room with those pale, steady eyes and says, "Yes."
"You pulled me from my role."
"You wouldn't answer my calls, and I needed you home. I told you that you'd need to be my wife in more than just name. That requires being in our home."
Something hot moves through my chest. I keep it out of my face. "You promised me," I say, my tone accusatory. "You told me you would let me dance. That was the one thing you promised me."
My breath is coming out in short pants. I'm trying to hold on. To be stoic and unaffected, but I can't. I'm barely holding on.
Artem doesn't help. He's quiet, his blue eyes staring at me. "Actions have consequences, Katya." He drops the pen he'd been using. "Besides, you're dancing, aren't you?"
I want to claw his fucking eyes out of his head, but I know he wants a reaction.
Control.
I need to maintain control. I say nothing as I pick up my bag and walk down the hallway to the guest room, and I close the door behind me, and I sit on the floor in the dark with my back against the wall and my knees pulled to my chest, and I do not make a sound.
The music box sits on the windowsill.
I jump up. Grab it. And throw it against the wall.
It shatters spectacularly.