He stands and steps back, giving me space. Control without confinement, while my life up until now swims around my mind in sad acceptance. Everything he has said is exactly right.
“Let me show you the rest of the barn, then I need to finish up with your boss,” he nods towards where his car is parked just outside the front door, and I shiver.
“Pakhan,” I say, the word not completely lost on me even if I don’t understand it. “That’s Russian, right? Like the mafia?”
Avros snorts a laugh. “Bratva,sovershenna. We are the Dubovich Bratva.” He pulls me to standing. “Come, I want you to see your studio.”
I frown. He lets me take my time, limping on my ankle as we walk through the converted barn to the very far end, where the entire space has been made into a perfect dance studio. Mirrors, several barres, a small changing area, exercise equipment, a music system and a piano…
Tears fill my eyes.
“You did this for me?” I ask.
“I know dancing is in your blood, your soul. You need a space like this. And if you ever want to teach… well, I’m sure I can arrange something with my uncle to allow people on to this part of the property.”
“It’s perfect,” I say quietly, pressing my good foot against the floor and finding it exactly right for ballet.
“You’re perfect. In every way. I’ll destroy anyone who tells you otherwise.”
The door closes behind him with a soft, decisive click when he leaves.
I don’t move.
I stand in the middle of the studio, staring at my reflection like it might blink first. The mirrors show me from every angle, every line exposed, every flaw magnified. No forgiving stage lights. No music to hide behind. Just me, standing on one good foot and one that throbs in sharp protest.
This is real.
The barn. The estate. The man who has been watching me for a year and a half. The fact that he didn’t flinch when he said the wordchild, like it was as ordinary as breathing to make a baby with someone you only just met…
I press my palm flat against my stomach, grounding myself in the familiar shape of me.
Why am I not hysterical? My boss tried to rape me, I was essentially taken from my apartment and brought to a home, which has clearly been built with me in mind, and told that I will be married and pregnant somewhat imminently.
Yet I can’t seem to find it in myself to panic or be scared. All I feel is grief.
Grief for the life I lost the moment I was injured, but refused to bury. Grief for the future I thought I had carefully crafted already.
He said it out loud, the thing that no one else would. What I’ve been ignoring for months, pretending the pain would disappear if I was disciplined enough, obedient enough, perfect enough.
Last nightwasmy final performance.
The truth lands fully now, sharp and unforgiving, and my knees threaten to buckle. I lower myself onto the floor slowly, careful of my ankle, and lie back on the sprung floor. The cool vinyl presses into my spine, anchoring me as the ache in my chest swells.
I gave everything to ballet.
My body. My childhood. My ability to want anything else.
I let myself cry for it now, silently, shaking as tears spill down my temples and into my hair. There’s no one here to see me break. No director to disappoint. No fellow dancer to silently judge my weakness.
Just me in the space he built for me.
I drag in a shaky breath and look around the studio again. The barre is exactly the right height. The floor has just enough give to protect my joints. The mirrors are angled precisely, professionally. This isn’t decorative. It’s intentional. Thoughtful.
Loving, in its own terrifying way.
He didn’t just plan our future. He plannedme.
I wait for the feeling of disgust or horror to creep beneath my skin. What kind of man watches a woman, learns a woman, stalks a woman for eighteen months if he is any kind ofnormal?
