24. Maeve
CHAPTER 24
MAEVE
Preparing myself for rehearsal while ignoring people openly talking shit about me is harder than I imagined. When Lyla first started here, it was this bad or worse for her, but I don’t think I’ve ever given full credit to her grace and poise through it all until this moment.
I dress as if their eyes aren’t following my every movement, like they don’t know exactly what I look like naked and carefree. I follow Lyla’s lead. She talks and laughs like this is a normal day, and I do the same. My smiles are thin, my eyes slightly watery, but she gives me encouraging smiles that tell me I’m managing to keep it in.
“Her stepbrother, what a whore,” one of the girls says as we’re walking out of the room.
Much to my surprise, Lyla turns to her. “I’d worry about your form before worrying about anyone else, Celeste.”
The other girls laugh at her, and Celeste blushes so deep she’s beet red. I can’t help but smile, the last of my tearfulness drying. I have never seen that side of Lyla, but I have to admit I like it.
“Thank you,” I tell her as we move to the stage.
“No need. I just told her the truth.”
Though my cheeks are still burning, I feel less and less uncomfortable. Eduard is at the top, talking quickly in French with his assistant. He barely glances at us. Part of the reason I respect him so much is that he’s never treated Lyla differently, not when she was a pariah, and not now that she’s the star. The lack of attention from him suits me fine, much better than him having some grande reaction to my presence.
Getting into position, I tip my head high, and the adagio begins, the music softly rising around me. It fills my senses and helps me to push out the misery, pain, and embarrassment of the past few days. Why is it that there is still something warm for Diego beneath all of it? Can I really feel so guilty that I believe I deserve this, or am I just pathologically addicted to the way he plays with me?
In the first act, I’m soft and seductive, like that first night in his mother’s house when he was still pretending to have some warmth and kindness for me. My arms make serpentine patterns as I move into an arabesque. Eric, who plays Prince Siegfried, arrives. He meets my gaze for a millisecond, and his cheeks burn in response.
I’ve never minded rehearsing this part with him in particular, but now that he’s seen me naked, his touch is uncomfortable. When he goes for my waist, supporting my pirouette sequence, I fight very hard not to shiver against the touch. This has gone from a normal part of my job to its own kind of torture, and I can thank Diego for that.
I swallow my true feelings once again because they don’t matter. I’ve been lying for so long, this should come naturally. I move into a penché arabesque, and when I’m back, I notice the tattoo blazing on my skin beneath the lights, still unhealed and rough. The black ink has stained the neck of my leotard as it rubs the skin.
Diego keeps staining my life, pushing my limits, and ruining everything I am. Why didn’t I run far and fast? I’ll ask myself a million times and never have an answer. I want to crawl into a hole and die, but instead, I keep dancing with my head raised. As the solo approaches, my sense of confidence rises. No matter what they’ve said about me or will say, no one can pretend I’m not nailing this routine.
My footwork is impeccable, and I grow my Black Swan attitude at each turn I nail. There’s nothing but my own movements, the music, the lights burning above me. I pretend that Diego is in the audience, and I’m dancing just to show him how little he’s affected me. The performance is a lie, but so is everything else about me. It doesn’t matter.
The iconic Swan Lake moment is about to arrive. Mikhail may have changed a lot of things about this production, but this point is pivotal. A deep breath fills my lungs as I prepare for the show’s most complicated move, more so even than Lyla’s. Part of me wonders if that’s why Mikhail wrote the part this way, so the real risk would be taken by someone other than her.
It doesn’t matter; all that matters is I can do this. I did it before, and I’ll do it again. Before, I was just using skill, but now I’m using rage too, my need to escape blazing deeply in my soul. I have to be good because they want me to stumble and cry. Diego wants me to fall for everything my father has done. I don’t.
The wind rushes past me as I spin. I hold my body to a point of excellence I know few can deliver. I keep my breath even despite the instinct to lock down. Staying loose is the key to the movement, surrendering to the momentum while holding your form perfectly. Because I perform best under pressure, I deliver thirty-three fouettés, my leg extending behind me gracefully as I slow my momentum and land perfectly on the flats of my feet.
Before a full breath passes, I’m following with a grand jeté, leaping into the air like I didn’t just expend most of my energy. My face keeps character, but my body begs for a rest. There’s no other option but to win when people are betting against you. I push myself in a way I never did on a stage, and I finish in my final pose.
This is my ultimate moment of deception as the Black Swan, the spins disarming and confusing my prey, the prince. I can’t help but see the similarities between Diego and me, and the way he lured me in. My arms extend as the swan, and while I’m satisfied with my performance, I think I’m the ultimate fool.
Right then, someone tosses the picture on my feet. Like a rose after a perfect performance, but my reward is a picture of myself during an intimate moment I never wished to share with anyone. My arms are still in the air, and my legs are in position, but my eyes are on the picture.
The room explodes in laughter, and my eyes drop to my tits on full display. I want to joke and remind them it’s a great pair of tits. Why should I be embarrassed? But I don’t say anything. My arms fall gracefully to my sides as Eduard crosses the stage. He crouches in front of me with his back to the audience as he picks it up. He arches an eyebrow and shakes his head, and I’m ready for an Eduard special earful. Instead, he crumples the picture in his hand.
“Good work today, Maeve.”
I nod and pause, waiting to see if he has anything else to add, but he stands and walks back over to the crew member he was talking to. His eyes dare the room to talk, and it’s the first time I feel like Eduard doesn’t completely hate me. His kindness is enough that I’m about to cry in front of them, but rather than giving them what they want, I take my leave.
I shake as I change my clothes. Pride swells through me at managing to do what Lyla asked, but it was too much, and I’m seconds from falling apart entirely. I need to get the hell out of here, but where will I go that will feel any better? Home to my husband who did this to me? I faced them, and I danced my ass off, but what relief did I earn myself?
When I’m finally out of the theater, I breathe a lungful of cold air. I still can’t cry, not with Diego around. I won’t let him know it worked that well, not after losing my entire family over the weekend. I check to see if his car is still at the same stop waiting for me, but it’s not. I know he’s somewhere; I’m his captive. He has eyes on me even when I don’t think he does. My hopes aren’t for escape but a little peace.
Instead of worrying how I can keep myself kidnapped, I cross the street and decide to grab a donut. It has been a day and a half, and I could use the sugar and carbs. Diego will find me, I have no doubts about that. I’m not worried about pissing him off because I’m not running, and I never told him I would be waiting for his orders. If he can’t find me when he gets back, that’s his own damn problem— and he’s got no shortage of them.
The second I open the door, the smell of sugary carbs hits me, and I feel a little better. God, I might just get a dozen and eat my misery away. I select my favorites and go for half a dozen instead because I’m trying to be reasonable. I don’t even wait. The moment I’m out the door, I’m sinking my teeth into the peanut butter one.
Fucking asshole, I seethe as I chew.
It’s perfect. At least one thing I can rely on still.
I’m just crossing through an alleyway when a hand closes over my mouth and drags me back. I drop the box of donuts, and the loss is a deep stab to my heart. My bag hits the ground too, but no one hears me shout against his palm.