I take a deep breath, turn the water off, and step out of the shower. I look up at the camera when I get out, wondering if he's watching me on the monitor. I wonder if he can see the fear in my eyes. I'm afraid of what I feel, afraid of what I want, afraid of this dark slithering thing he's awakened inside of me.
Six
Yesterday Mr. V. taught me more in the small private studio. People are beginning to notice this attention he lavishes upon me. There are whispers when I pass in the hall. There are questions. Are we having an affair? What are we doing in that studio for two hours?
I swear if Mr. V's voice wasn't older and so much different from the stranger in the abandoned opera house, if his dancing style weren't so different, I would be sure it must be the same man. There’s nothing sexual in Mr. V.'s manner, but his sudden interest in me is just as intense—even if channeled in an entirely different way.
I'm pondering all this as I pass by Mr. V.'s office. The door is partly opened and there’s a man with dark hair facing away from the door, staring out the window at the view of the city. The man is tall, broad, athletic. Even though I can't see his face, I know he's beautiful. A new dancer?
Then he speaks. “I'll be here for the board meeting tomorrow afternoon. We can discuss it then.”
That voice. It's him. I move closer to the door. Has he already been discussing me with Mr. V.? Is that why the ballet master started teaching me more? Does Mr. V. know what's happening? No, that doesn't seem right. But I could confide in him. I could tell him this man is hurting me.
But is this man hurting me? I'm so confused. I don't know what to think anymore. If I speak up, nothing will stop him from revealing my crime and ruining my life. More importantly, if I speak up, everything ends. And I'm not sure I want it to end. And now, seeing the smallest glimmer of his sheer physicality... it's even harder to want to break away from this beauty.
I've felt him against me. I could have guessed. But to see it is something different.
Turn around. I silently beg. I need to know who this man is. Would I recognize him?
Mr. V. is suddenly standing in the doorway. “Can I help you, Ms. Lane?”
I look over his shoulder and see the other man's body go rigid. I'm supposed to be in Studio A right now, and I'm sure he knows that. One of the choreographers is in there working with the company, but I'm not in that part, so I slipped out to get some air.
Mr. V.'s stare is dark and inscrutable. And his question is obviously rhetorical because he doesn't wait for me to answer him. He simply shuts the door and locks it. The blinds to the window facing out into the hallway shut in a sharp snap of disapproval.
I return to rehearsal, trying not to think about who is in Mr. V.'s office, how well Mr. V. might know him, and what, if anything, I can or should do about this new knowledge.
When we break for lunch, I knock on Mr. V.'s now open door.
“Yes?” he asks, looking up from a pile of papers on his desk.
I scan the room, searching for any sort of evidence from the earlier meeting that may have been left behind. But there is no glaring sign with my blackmailer's photo and name on it anywhere.
“W-who was that man in your office earlier?”
“He is our most generous benefactor. He wishes to remain anonymous.” Mr. V.'s eyes hold a challenge. He stares me down like an alpha wolf waiting for the beta to lie down and offer his belly.
I look down at the ground instead—close to the same thing, I guess. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... eavesdrop.”
“What did you hear?” he asks.
“N-nothing. I-I swear. Nothing.” I chance a glance up at him. “Are you upset with me?”
My real question is... are you going to stop teaching me in the private studio? But I don't ask it.
He smiles kindly and shakes his head, causing me to release a slow breath.
“No, Cassia. It's my fault. I shouldn't have left the door open. He'd just arrived, and I got distracted. Don't worry. Everything is fine. No harm done.”
I quickly nod and excuse myself before he has a chance to change his mind.
Seven
It's Wednesday. Two weeks have passed since the thing happened in the shower. At our last meeting, nothing happened. Nothing sexual at least. I danced. We danced together. I showered. Alone. Is he upset with me? Has he lost interest? Did something happen in the shower that night that made him not want me? Did he decide I wasn't something he wanted after all? Is he angry? Is he punishing me for almost catching him in Mr. V.'s office?
I've spent the past week obsessing about this like some pathetic lovesick teenager. Why doesn't he want me? Why hasn't he called me? That's basically the thought train that runs through my head even though I know he would never call me. It would leave a record. Evidence. A thin string tying the two of us together—not that I would ever pull the string. I can't. It's mutually assured destruction.
Suddenly his whispered soon seems farther and farther away—a broken promise lying in shards between us. I have masturbated like a sex addict since that night together in the shower, thinking of him each time. Each time my fantasy gets dirtier, darker, so disturbing I wish I could make it stop. But the more completely he owns and controls me in the fantasy, the stronger my orgasm, the louder my moan, which bounces off the walls of my bedroom. There’s no one there to hear it, but he told me to make these sounds. So I do. And somehow it seems to make the pleasure stronger when I don't hold them back—like a small reward for my obedience.
