3. elena #2
I should have said no. Every instinct cultivated by years of caution and professional propriety told me to politely decline, to maintain appropriate boundaries with this intense stranger who looked at me like I was something he’d decided to acquire.
The same instincts that had kept me safe, that had helped me navigate the complicated politics of the ballet world, that had taught me to be careful about who I trusted and how much of myself I revealed.
Instead, I set down my champagne glass and said, “Lead the way.”
His smile was genuine this time, transforming his face into something almost boyish despite the hard edges.
He didn’t touch me as we walked toward the terrace doors, but I felt the heat of his presence at my back, the way he positioned himself slightly behind and to my left, as though already assuming some protective role he hadn’t been assigned.
The October night was cool against my bare arms as we stepped onto the terrace, the city spreading below us in a carpet of lights.
The sounds of the gala faded to a muted hum, replaced by the ambient noise of traffic and distant sirens.
We were alone out here, the other guests apparently content to remain in the climate-controlled comfort of the ballroom.
Dominic moved to the railing and looked out over the city, his profile sharp against the illuminated skyline. I joined him, maintaining a careful distance, aware that we’d crossed some invisible threshold by leaving the party together.
“So,” he said, not looking at me. “Elena Voss. Prima ballerina. Twenty-eight years old. Trained at the Royal Danish Ballet School before joining Boston Ballet six years ago. Currently rehearsing for the winter season. Lives in Back Bay. Drinks Sancerre when she’s stressed.”
I stared at him. “You really did look me up.”
“I’m thorough.” Now he turned to face me, leaning one hip against the railing. “Your turn. What did you learn about me?”
“That you’re a center for the Admirals. That you’re brilliant but difficult. That you hate events like this.” I paused. “That you’re from Southie originally. That hockey is the only thing you care about.”
“Not the only thing.” His gaze was direct, unambiguous. “I care about winning. About control. About knowing what I want and going after it.”
“And what do you want?”
“Right now? To know why a woman who looks like you, who moves like you, who clearly has better places to be, is standing on a terrace with a stranger instead of working the room like she’s supposed to.”
The observation was too accurate, too perceptive. I looked away, focusing on the city lights. “Maybe I’m tired of performing.”
“You’re a ballet dancer. Performance is what you do.”
“On stage, yes. Off stage, I’d prefer to be a person.”
“Fair enough.” He was quiet for a moment, and I could feel him studying me, that intense focus I’d noticed across the ballroom now concentrated entirely on decoding whatever he saw in my face. “Someone’s bothering you.”
It wasn’t a question. I turned to look at him, startled by the certainty in his voice.
“What makes you say that?”
“The way you reacted when I said stalking. The way you’re standing right now with your weight balanced, ready to move. The way you keep glancing toward the doors like you’re tracking exits.” His expression was serious, almost grim. “Someone’s making you feel unsafe.”
I should have deflected. Should have laughed it off, made some joke about occupational hazards or overeager fans. Instead, I found myself saying, “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.” The words came out harder than I’d intended, defensive. “I don’t know you, Dominic. I’m not going to unload my problems on a stranger I met twenty minutes ago.”
“Then let me not be a stranger.” He pushed away from the railing, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating from his body. “Have dinner with me. Tomorrow night. Somewhere quiet where we can talk without performing for anyone.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
Because you’re too intense, I thought. Because you look at me like I’m something you’ve decided to possess. Because I’m already dealing with one man’s obsession and I don’t need another, even if this one comes wrapped in expensive suits and legitimate interest.
“Because I don’t date,” I said instead.
“Ever? Or just not right now?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.” He reached out slowly, giving me time to move away, and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
The gesture was intimate, presumptuous, and I should have stepped back.
I didn’t. “It matters because if you don’t date ever, I’m wasting my time.
If you don’t date right now, I just need to convince you to make an exception. ”
“You’re very confident.”
“I know what I want.” His hand lingered near my face, not quite touching but close enough that I could feel the warmth of his palm. “I saw you across that ballroom and something clicked. You felt it too. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
I had felt it. That electric jolt of recognition, the sense that something significant was happening even though we were just two strangers at a charity gala.
The feeling terrified me precisely because it was real, because Dominic Russo was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with Marcus Webb’s obsession and everything to do with the intensity I could see burning behind his eyes.
“One dinner,” I heard myself say. “Somewhere quiet. No expectations beyond conversation.”
His smile was triumphant, possessive. “Give me your number.”
I recited it, watching as he entered it into his phone. He called immediately, my phone buzzing in the small clutch I’d brought. “Now you have mine. I’ll text you tomorrow with details.”
“You’re very sure I’ll say yes to wherever you choose.”
“I’m very sure you’re curious enough to find out what happens next.” He stepped back, creating space between us, though his gaze remained locked on mine. “Go back inside, Elena. Work the room. Be the prima ballerina everyone expects. Tomorrow night, you can just be yourself.”
He left first, disappearing through the terrace doors without looking back, leaving me alone with the city lights and the unsettling awareness that I’d just agreed to something that would change everything.
I stayed on the terrace for another ten minutes, letting the cool air clear my head, trying to convince myself that dinner with Dominic Russo was a terrible idea.
The arguments were compelling: I didn’t know him.
He was too intense, too confident, too much like someone who wouldn’t accept no for an answer.
I was already dealing with Marcus’s unwanted attention; I didn’t need to invite more complications into my life.
The arguments were logical, reasonable, exactly what Lucia would say if I told her about this conversation.
I was going to dinner with him anyway.
When I finally returned to the ballroom, Victor caught my eye from across the room and nodded approvingly. I’d stayed long enough, performed adequately, fulfilled my obligations. I could leave now with my professional reputation intact.
I collected my coat from the check and stepped out into the October night, the city alive around me with Friday evening energy.
My apartment was a fifteen-minute walk, close enough that I usually didn’t bother with a car service.
Tonight, though, I felt exposed, aware of every shadow and doorway, wondering if Marcus was out there somewhere with his camera, documenting my departure from the gala.
Wondering if he’d seen me on the terrace with Dominic, and what conclusions he might draw from that conversation.
I pulled out my phone and ordered a car, waiting in the hotel’s well-lit entrance until it arrived.
The driver was a middle-aged woman who didn’t attempt conversation, for which I was grateful.
I watched the city slide past the windows, watched the familiar streets and landmarks pass by, and tried not to think about the photograph waiting in my apartment’s drawer, or the new one that might arrive tomorrow.
Tried not to think about Dominic Russo’s hazel eyes and the way he’d looked at me like I was something worth pursuing, worth claiming, worth whatever effort it took to break through my defenses.
Tried not to think about how much I wanted to let him try.
The car dropped me at my building’s entrance.
I nodded to the night doorman, Marcus. A different Marcus, the coincidence of the name something I’d stopped finding ironic months ago.
I took the elevator to the eighteenth floor, my apartment was exactly as I’d left it, the lights on timers creating the illusion of occupancy, the space clean and ordered and mine.
I locked the door behind me, engaged all three locks, and leaned against the solid wood for a moment, letting the day’s exhaustion wash over me.
My feet ached. My shoulders were tight from hours of holding tension I couldn’t release.
My mind was a tangle of Marcus Webb’s surveillance and Dominic Russo’s intensity and the constant, grinding effort of pretending everything was fine.
I walked to the kitchen and poured another glass of Sancerre, then opened the drawer where I kept Marcus’s photographs.
Seventeen images of my unwilling participation in his fantasy, each one a small violation, a theft of privacy I’d allowed to continue because I didn’t know how to stop it without making everything worse.
Tomorrow I would have dinner with Dominic Russo.
Tomorrow I would sit across from a man whose intensity both attracted and frightened me, whose interest felt like the beginning of something I couldn’t control.
Tomorrow I would continue performing the role of Elena Voss, prima ballerina, woman who had her life together, person who definitely wasn’t being stalked by an obsessed fan or contemplating a dangerous attraction to a possessive stranger.
Tonight, I would finish my wine and go to bed and try not to dream about cameras or hazel eyes or the feeling of being watched by men who thought they had the right to my attention.
Tonight, I would pretend that everything was fine, because the alternative, admitting that my carefully constructed life was fracturing under the weight of unwanted attention and dangerous desire, was too terrifying to contemplate.
I closed the drawer on Marcus’s photographs and walked to the windows, looking out over the city that had become both my home and my prison.
Somewhere out there, Marcus Webb was probably reviewing today’s images, adding them to his collection, planning tomorrow’s surveillance.
Somewhere out there, Dominic Russo was probably already planning our dinner, choosing a restaurant, deciding how he would pursue this thing between us that had ignited on a terrace overlooking Boston.
I was caught between two kinds of attention, two kinds of obsession, and I had no idea which one was more dangerous.
The only thing I knew for certain was that I was tired of being careful, tired of performing, tired of living my life in the narrow space between professional obligations and personal fear.
Tomorrow, I would have dinner with Dominic Russo and see what happened when I stopped being careful. Tonight, I would drink my wine and watch the city lights and try to remember what it felt like to want something for myself, instead of simply enduring what others wanted from me.
The Sancerre was excellent, crisp and cold and exactly what I needed. I finished the glass and poured another, watching the city below and wondering what tomorrow would bring. Wondering if I was making a terrible mistake, or if maybe, just maybe, I was finally doing something right.