“Yeah, he does.”
“Oh,” I held back another sob. At this point, I had no idea what I was crying over anymore.Liar.
“He believes he’s accepted it, but if he knew it was Mitch, he couldn’t. This is not the first time Mick took something Mitch loves. This won’t be the last time Mitch will let him have it.”
He stopped me from picking at my nail. It was the only alternative. I couldn’t move my foot back and forth because his position stopped me.
“Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
He grinned but lifted one finger.Once more.That’s all he’d give me. “Tell me.”
I went for it, went for honesty. “Violet said that I should worry about you. About you and Jane. She said that I was naïve for believing you. You had a naked woman in your room. I had been gone for over three years—over three years without a woman.” My gaze hardened on a chipped piece of nail.
“Tell me what you believe.”
It took a moment to answer him. “I believe you,” I said, meeting his eyes. He had been right; letting go of my fears, I could feel his truth. “I hit a nerve. She knows I’m right. She was just lashing out.”
He rose to his feet when I moved to get up. I sighed, kicking off my shoes, turning my back on him.
“You have a long flight. We better—”
“I’m not going,” he whispered.
I stood, frozen with shock. The sweater held tight in my hand fell to the floor with a soundless push of air.
“Repeat that.” My voice was just as low as his. “Please.”
“I’m not going,” he said louder, leaving no doubt left to linger. “I have time built up, vacation time. Three months. All I’ve done is work, Scarlett. After—” He refused to say the wordsafter we had separated. “I’ll go back for two weeks. Then fly back to you for two weeks.”
Stunned silence.
He cleared this throat, shattering it. “There’s room for only one, an all-consuming woman. You. You leave no room for anyone else.” He cleared his throat once more, his voice still hoarse when he spoke. “You didn’t eat much today. We’ll eat more of what you cooked. You can tell me about all of the places we’re going to go while we do.”
Chapter Nineteen
Scarlett
I should have noticed the change in my “fans” after my dance in the underground club. It started slowly, at first. It was a look that lingered longer than deemed polite. A shy smile when I caught an eye, or a hesitant approach. Until the stares became impolite, shyness became boldness, and someone cut off a piece of my hair with a knife while I was out to dinner with Brando.
Olivier Nemours seemed to be at the core of all these changes. He had been around more often, somehow slithering in during Brando’s absence—right after a show, or sometimes during rehearsals. His intent was made quite clear.
“I want you,” he had said to me, taking me aside during a break in practice. “I need you to dance for me. I can take you beyond the sky if you will just give me the opportunity. I have already spread your name, no? You areDanse de Dame.You need to come back to me.”
I interpreted his latter sentence as meaningyou need to dance at Sous Rosa again. He had also explained that he neither confirmed nor denied my true identity. The mystery surrounding who I was only heightened the excitement.
Colette was somehow linked to the underground world. She’d make sly remarks here and there about how impactful my dances had been and how much that world had missed me. Sometimes she’d get plain and say, “Your two stars have been connected. Your career will never be the same. Your life will never be the same. He is attempting to turn you into a mythical creature.Prendre plaisir!”Enjoy!
Her idea of enjoyment and mine seemed to wildly differ.
More influential people had started stopping by after my performances. During free time, random people on the street stopped me. Some of them would breathe out, “Danse de Dame…it is her.” Neither Brando nor I gave them the time; if we did, we confirmed their suspicions.
Others would approach me as Scarlett Rose Poésy, ballerina.
Brando had no problem when people approached me about the ballet. It was the times that referenced what I had done to him, when I shared what had been something sacred between the two of us, that drove him mad. Therefore, it was harder to heal. It was a constant reminder thatDanse de Damehad been born out of betrayal.
For the admirers ofher, Olivier’s version of Odette/Odile, I had become some sort of dark-magic dancer. For Brando, it was a constant light being shed on a private moment that had been meant for him alone.
