Silence.
Then my grandmother says, “You will end the marriage.”
“Yes.”
“And you will return to Moscow to marry Maxim.”
My stomach lurches. “Do I have a—timeline?” The word almost chokes me. “I have a contract, the season—”
“You will be allowed a week for them to prepare your replacement,” she says, merciful in her way. “We must manage appearances. But I will expect your cooperation. No more marriage scandals. No more disappearing acts.” Her gaze pins mine. “You will get back in line, Katerina.”
I nod slowly. I feel like I’m signing something in blood.
“And Scottie?” I ask, my voice scraping raw. “He won’t… agree. If he finds out I’m divorcing him for his father’s sake, he’ll refuse. He’ll fight. He’ll never sign.”
“Then you must not tell him the real reason,” she says calmly. “You’re a trained performer. You understand the importance of playing your part, yes?” She watches me flinch. “He cannot know that Markov is part of the deal. I will simply ask them to tell Mr. Easton that a sponsored spot opened up. If you tell him, if he refuses, the offer is withdrawn. The trial spot vanishes. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Good.” She adjusts her gloves, like we’ve just completed a business transaction. “A penthouse has been prepared for you at a property I own. Your belongings will be transferred. You’ll have security. A driver. Your whereabouts will be known again, as they were before you refused your father’s help years ago. I’ll expect you back in Russia after your last performance next week. Are we understood?”
I nod. No words will come out.
The cage slams shut with a velvet-lined click.
The limo pulls to the curb outside The Commons.
“Pack what you need,” she says. “My man will oversee the move. Tell him tonight, Katerina. I expect you back in my penthouse with your belongings before the Hawkeyes game ends tonight.”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
My legs feel numb as I climb out of the car.
Rain mists against my face.
I walk into the lobby on autopilot.
Packing is… brutal.
I start with the practical things: dance bag, rehearsal clothes, my warm-up sweaters. Toiletries. Makeup. Everything I packedover a month ago when my brother moved me here to marry Scottie.
Then I moved to his bedroom to pack the necklace Maxim gave me.
His t-shirt is still on the floor beside the bed where he dropped it last night when we made love like it might be our last, but he swore to me that it wouldn’t be, and I wanted to believe him. I wanted so badly to believe that we were going to find a way to be together.
My throat tightens.
I pick it up and press it to my face, breathing in his scent. I add it to my bag. I know I shouldn’t take it, but it’s the only thing I’ll take with me. Just something to remember that he happened… that we happened. That’s the one thing that my grandmother, my father, and Maxim can’t take from me… that Scottie happened.
I drop my ring on top of his dresser.
I leave it. I can’t bear the idea of taking it. It hurts too much to know I’ll never get to wear it again.
In the living room, the pictures Juliet insisted on printing from our wedding day sit on a console table—one of us laughing mid-spin on the dance floor. More candid shots that, looking back now, I think we both already knew.
I take one.
Just one.
