17. Maggie
MAGGIE
A knock sounds against the door.
“You decent?” Jules calls through the wood.
I smile while fastening the last button on my blouse. “Depends who's askin’.”
“The fabulous gay best friend who has saved your life approximately twelve times this month,” he says dryly.
A laugh slips out. “Come in.”
Jules pushes open the door and looks me over from head to toe. His eyebrows climb. “Well, don't you look adorable.”
I smooth my hands down the front of my blouse. “You think?”
“Honey, if Alexei sees you in that outfit, you’re never makin’ it to the dance rehearsal.” He leans one shoulder against the doorframe and crosses his arms.
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Oh hush now.”
“I'm serious.” Jules points toward me. “That man looks at you like you're the last biscuit at Sunday dinner.”
I roll my eyes, grabbing my purse from the desk. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he says with a smug grin, “I'm right.”
He absolutely is. I hate that he's right.
Jules studies me for another moment, the teasing fading from his face. “You okay?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. I nod, though it takes me a second. “Yeah,” I say softly. “I think so.”
He watches me for another beat as though he knows exactly what I'm not saying. Then, because he's Jules, he claps his hands together and ruins the moment completely.
“Excellent. Go collect your billionaire. Ivy has informed every living soul within a fifty-foot radius that she's starring in the greatest dance performance in modern history.”
A laugh escapes me as I shake my head. “She's excited.”
“She's vibratin’, Maggie.” Jules falls into step beside me as we head into the hallway. “It's honestly a little concernin’.”
I spot Ivy immediately. She's standing beside Mr. Pickle’s kennel, her sparkly dance bag hanging from one shoulder.
Alexei stands nearby, speaking quietly with Luka. He somehow manages to look like a billionaire magazine cover while discussing security.
Life really isn't fair.
As though sensing me watching him, Alexei turns. The conversation with Luka stops immediately. His attention settles on me, and the intensity in his expression sends warmth rushing straight to my cheeks.
Mercy.
That look ought to be illegal in at least forty-eight states.
I make my way toward them. Ivy sees me first.
“Maggie!” she squeals, bouncing on her toes. “Guess what? Mr. Pickles says he's supporting my dancing too.”
I blink. “Mr. Pickles told you that, huh?”
Ivy nods solemnly. “He said all great artists need emotional support.”
I laugh. “Well, Mr. Pickles sounds very wise.”
“He is,” Ivy assures me.
Alexei's gaze never leaves me.
“You're starin’,” I tell him when I reach him.
“I’m aware,” he replies, completely unapologetic.
I laugh and brush a strand of hair behind my ear. “Well, bless your heart.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. The tiny smile shouldn't affect me as much as it does.
Luka clears his throat beside us.
Alexei doesn't look away from me.
Poor Luka. I have a feeling years of Bratva experience didn’t prepare him for this.
I look at Ivy and smile. “Ready to go dance, sugar?”
“I'm not dancing,” Ivy says, fixing me with a scandalized look. “I'm rehearsing.”
“Forgive me,” I say, placing a hand over my heart.
Ivy gives me a patient look that suggests I am deeply uninformed. “Miss Hannah says rehearsals are very important.”
“I'm sure they are,” I assure her, fighting a smile.
“They're basically dance practice for professionals,” she explains, nodding solemnly.
Alexei finally lowers his gaze to his daughter. “Are you prepared?”
Ivy gasps and presses a hand to her chest. “Papa. I've been prepared for three days.”
Jules snorts loudly behind us.
I turn to find him leaning against the reception desk with his arms crossed.
“I'd like everyone to know,” he announces, “that I personally survived twenty-seven descriptions of rehearsal hairstyles this morning.”
Ivy narrows her eyes at him. “Twenty-nine.”
“See?” Jules says, throwing his hands in the air. “This is my life now.”
The Savannah Performing Arts Center buzzes with enough energy to power half the city.
Children race across the lobby in brightly colored leotards while exhausted parents hurry after them, carrying dance bags, water bottles, curling irons, and enough hairspray to violate environmental regulations.
Every surface seems dusted in glitter. The scent of perfume, stage makeup, and fresh coffee hangs in the air, blending with the constant hum of excited voices.
Ivy practically vibrates beside me.
“Miss Hannah said we're doing the finale twice because Addie forgot her turn yesterday,” she explains while dragging Alexei and me toward the auditorium doors.
Her dance bag bounces wildly against her hip as she talks.
“And Sophie got new tap shoes, but they're squeaky, so Miss Hannah says she has to practice walking normal.”
“That sounds traumatic,” I say solemnly, tightening my grip on her hand so she doesn't disappear into the crowd.
“It is,” Ivy agrees with a grave nod.
Alexei's hand settles against the small of my back as we walk. The gesture has become so natural that I barely notice it anymore. I simply lean into him automatically.
A woman with dark hair pulled into a severe ponytail strides toward us from the opposite side of the lobby. She wears black leggings, a studio jacket embroidered with the dance school's logo, and the permanently frazzled expression of somebody responsible for dozens of small children.
“Ivy!” she calls.
Ivy immediately brightens. “Miss Hannah!”
She launches herself at her dance instructor with enough enthusiasm to nearly knock the woman backward. Miss Hannah laughs and steadies herself before wrapping Ivy in a hug.
“Goodness gracious,” she says with a chuckle as Ivy finally steps back. “Somebody's excited.”
“I've been practicing,” Ivy announces proudly.
“I know you have.” Miss Hannah smooths a hand over Ivy's hair before looking up at Alexei and me. “Mr. Agapov. Maggie. It's good to see both of you.”
“It's good to see you too,” I tell her.
Miss Hannah's expression grows gentler as she glances down at Ivy. “I have to tell you, she's had a wonderful week. After everything that happened, I wasn't entirely sure how she'd do coming back.”
Alexei's arm immediately circles my waist.
Miss Hannah smiles warmly at Ivy. “But she's been wonderful. Happy. Focused. The old Ivy is finally coming back.”
Emotion swells so quickly inside my chest that I have to blink several times.
Ivy notices none of it. She's already talking again.
“I showed everybody pictures of Winston,” she says proudly. “Sophie says he's ugly, but I think she's wrong.”
Miss Hannah wisely declines to involve herself in elementary school politics.
“I think all my dancers need to head backstage,” she says instead, clapping her hands loudly. “Come on children. Let's get ready.”
A chorus of groans and protests erupts around us as children reluctantly begin saying goodbye to their parents.
I crouch in front of Ivy and straighten the sleeve of her sweater. “Listen to Miss Hannah.”
“I will,” Ivy promises, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“No runnin’,” I continue.
“I know,” she says, drawing the words out.
“No cartwheels indoors.”
Ivy gasps and stares at me as though I've suggested canceling Christmas. “Maggie.”
I fight a smile. “I'm just checkin’.”
Beside me, Alexei lowers himself into a crouch and adjusts the sparkly headband perched on Ivy's head. The huge man handling pink sequins with such care still makes my heart do funny little things.
“You stay with your class,” he says, brushing his thumb across her cheek.
“I will, Papa.”
“At all times.”
“I know.”
His hand remains against her cheek for an extra breath before he finally lowers it.
The gesture tugs at something inside me because he's been doing it all afternoon.
A hand at her back. Fingers brushing her hair out of her face.
Pulling her closer whenever she wanders more than a few feet away.
It's subtle enough that Ivy doesn't notice, but I do.
I glance up at him, and he catches me watching. Neither of us says a word, yet somehow the silence says everything. Then Ivy hugs both of us fiercely before racing toward the backstage doors with the other dancers.
As soon as she disappears, the auditorium suddenly feels much too quiet.
“Well,” I say, slipping my hand into Alexei's as we walk toward the seating area, “look at us. Empty nesters.”
“We’ve been alone for approximately eight seconds,” he replies dryly.
“Still counts.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
We slip into seats near the center of the auditorium while Luka positions himself near the back wall. The other two security guards spread out near opposite exits so naturally that most people probably never notice them.
I do. Mostly because I've grown accustomed to spotting Alexei's security before they spot me. Honestly, that’s a bizarre life skill to possess.
Parents continue filing into seats around us. Conversations drift through the auditorium about costumes, school schedules, summer camps, and carpool arrangements.
Normal conversations. Normal problems.
Lord, I miss normal.
The house lights dim and music fills the auditorium. Tiny dancers begin filing onto the stage.
For the next hour, my entire world consists of six-year-olds attempting choreography. It's glorious.
Several children forget entire sections of routines. One little girl sits down halfway through a dance because she decides she's tired. Another spends an entire number enthusiastically waving at her grandparents in the third row.
I love every second.
Ivy spots us and launches into an enthusiastic wave involving both arms and several excited jumps.
I laugh and wave back enthusiastically.
Beside me, Alexei remains perfectly still.
I turn toward him in disbelief. “You need to wave.”
Without taking his eyes off the stage, he replies, “I acknowledged her.”
“Alexei.”
“I made eye contact.”
I stare at him.
He finally glances at me.
“Wave at your child,” I whisper, trying not to laugh.