Chapter Twenty
On the night of the ballet’s annual fall gala, Lincoln Center glows with a sheen that makes everyone walking by look wealthy.
At the plaza’s center, the iconic fountain shoots water jets skyward.
A red carpet stretches toward the Koch Theater like a tongue leading to the mouth of high society, ready to swallow anyone who doesn’t belong.
Press and photographers cluster, flashing cameras and pointing microphones at every passing celebrity who strolls down the carpet.
I watch a famous actress float past in what I’m told is Tom Ford—though honestly, it could be Target, and I wouldn’t know the difference—while men in tuxedos that cost more than my first car exchange handshakes that probably determine stock prices.
These are the people who run things: from Wall Street to Broadway, and they’re all here tonight.
Inside, the second-floor promenade features massive windows offering views of a city that belongs to these people. Grand chandeliers hang high above us from the soaring ceilings.
Waiters navigate the bustling crowd, offering French champagne I can’t pronounce and food I can’t identify. Caviar toppings. Foam on some finger foods. Reductions on others.
Yet somehow, Petra and I fit in here. Or rather, Petra fits, and I’m successfully cosplaying as someone who belongs.
She looks devastating in black—in the kind of dress that makes you understand why people write poetry.
Her hair is swept up in a chignon. Diamond earrings sparkle throughout every corner of the room.
I’m in a tuxedo that Petra made me buy instead of rent, insisting that every man needs to own formal wear, which makes me concerned about how often I’ll need to feel this uncomfortable.
But I clean up well—or at least well enough that people don’t immediately identify me as someone who usually smells like sweaty hockey equipment.
We’ve just escaped a conversation with a patron wearing enough jewelry to fund a small nation’s healthcare system when Petra’s entire body language shifts.
It’s subtle but obvious, the kind of tension change you only notice if you’ve spent months learning to read someone’s physical cues through leotards and arabesques.
I follow her eyes and find the source of disruption: Kate Steel. Because of course she has a name like that.
Petra has mentioned Kate the way people mention food poisoning—necessarily but begrudgingly.
Both Petra and Kate are soloists, which in ballet hierarchy means they’re successful enough to have enemies but not successful enough to ignore them.
Kate is what happens when ambition develops sentience and gets a spray tan.
From Boston and old money that comes with its own coat of arms, she’s built a reputation as someone who collects careers like trophies—specifically, other people’s careers that she’s ended.
Kate walks towards us. She’s taller than Petra with a lean frame and long legs that make her presence hard to miss.
Her eyes are dark brown and set under neatly arched brows.
She wears her hair long and straight, the dark strands falling past her shoulders in a glossy sheet.
Her features are strong and symmetrical: high cheekbones, a narrow nose, and a mouth that rarely curves into a real smile.
“Petra,” Kate greets us with the warmth of a refrigerator.
“Hello, Kate,” says Petra.
“And this must be Liam.”
The way she says my name makes it sound like she’s been briefed. Like there was a whole intelligence-gathering operation involved.
“Liam, this is Kate Steel. Kate, Liam LeClerc.”
Kate extends her hand with freshly manicured nails. Her handshake is expertly calibrated, firm enough to establish dominance and brief enough to establish disinterest.
“Nice to meet you,” I lie, because that’s what you do at these things.
“You two make quite the pair,” she observes, which could mean anything from “you look good together” to “I’m surprised either of you can maintain a relationship.”
The air between them has the quality of a demilitarized zone: technically peaceful but we all know it’s littered with landmines.
Kate takes a deliberately slow sip of champagne. “It’s been quite the year for you, hasn’t it, Petra?”
“It has,” Petra responds as she takes a sip as well.
Kate’s eyes flick to me like I’m evidence in a case she’s building. “And Liam, what an impressive return to the ice. I saw the headlines. Everyone’s talking about you again.”
“Appreciate that,” I say.
Kate tilts her glass, watching champagne swirl like she’s divining the future from bubbles. “I have to say, I never would’ve pictured you with a ballerina. Or pictured Petra with a hockey player for that matter. Then again, Petra always did have a way of keeping people guessing.”
I feel Petra’s posture shift into what I’ve learned to recognize as pre-combat positioning.
“Well, Liam isn’t exactly predictable either,” Petra counters.
Kate laughs. “Is that right? Funny, because if there’s one thing I know about you, Petra, it’s that you like to be in control.” Another calculated sip. “And yet, some things always seem to slip through the cracks.”
The temperature drops about ten degrees. We’re in full psychological warfare now, and I’m just a civilian caught in the crossfire.
“I don’t let things slip, Kate,” Petra says with the kind of controlled fury that makes me grateful she’s on my side. “That’s more your style.”
Kate’s faux smile doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes sharpens like she’s just scored a point in a game only they understand. She studies Petra.
“Well,” she murmurs, setting down her glass, “I suppose some of us just know how to play the long game.”
Before Petra can respond with what I’m sure would be a devastating retort, Kate’s attention shifts to the entrance with the attentive eye of someone who’s been tracking arrivals.
“My boyfriend should be arriving soon. He was just finishing up photos on the red carpet.” She scans the room then lifts her hand in an airy wave, her voice dripping in satisfaction. “Ah, here he comes now.”
I follow her gaze, and there he is: Gavin Bradford.