And somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice whispers: What if this year's different?
I don't know why.
But I can't shake the feeling.
Chapter Two
KATERINA
The lights on the stage are so bright that I can’t even see the crowd in front of me.
I know that's the point—they're supposed to blind you just enough that you can't see the faces in the audience, can't see their judgment or their boredom or their expectations. But tonight, I feel every single one of them watching.
I stand in the wings, pointe shoes laced tight, my costume—a cascade of white tulle and silk—rustling with every shallow breath. My hands are steady as I adjust the bodice, but my heart is racing.
One last time.
The thought whispers through my mind like a prayer, or maybe it’s a curse?
This is my final performance with the New York Ballet Company. My final bow on this stage. After tonight, everything changes.
I close my eyes and let the familiar pre-show ritual ground me: breathe in for four counts, hold for four, release for eight. Again. Again. My muscles know what to do—they've done this a thousand times. My body is a weapon I've honed since I was six years old, and tonight, I will wield it perfectly.
I have to.
The stage manager touches my shoulder—two minutes.
I nod, rolling my ankles, feeling the tape beneath my toes, the slight ache in my left hip that never quite goes away. It’s an old injury and a small sacrifice. It’s “the price of perfection,” my professor used to tell me at Juilliard, my first year.
The orchestra begins, and my cue approaches.
I step into the light.
The first movement is muscle memory. I could do it half-consciously if I needed to, but somewhere in the second act, I stop thinking entirely. My body takes over, and for a few precious moments, I am not Katerina Popovich, daughter of a powerful man, sister to a defector, prisoner of my own bloodline.
I am just… free.
The music carries me, and I let it. Let my arms float, let my legs extend into lines so sharp they could cut glass. The audience fades. The stage fades. And now there is only movement, and breathing, and this.
It's the only place I've ever felt like I could fly.
When the final note echoes and I sink into my closing bow, the applause of the audience echoes around me like thunder. So loud that the vibration can be felt from my toes to the tips of my nose. Roses land at my feet—red, white, pink—and I gather them with trembling hands, my chest heaving, my legs shaking beneath me.
Not from nerves but from the sweet feeling of adrenaline.
I smile.
It's the smile I've perfected over years of curtain calls—gracious, serene, yet completely untouchable.
But inside, I am screaming.
Backstage, the other dancers swarm me with congratulations, their voices warm and genuine… or at least most of them.
"You were incredible, Kat!"
"That final fouetté sequence—I've never seen you land it so clean!"
"We're going to miss you so much."
