And I understand why. While he dances as beautifully as he ever did, he has a severe scar on his face that makes him look intense and frightening. I couldn't help the flinch.
“Are you sleeping with him?” Henry asks.
“W-what?” I have to fight not to shriek that. There is a live performance going on just yards away after all. And I have to go back on soon. Someone hands me my next costume, and I start stripping down while Henry helps me change and continues to talk.
“I mean... I'm sorry, but that looked like fucking on stage. It was seriously intense. That kind of chemistry doesn't just happen. Are you seeing him? Have you danced with him before?”
“I...” I don't even know what to say to this. So I don't say anything. I don't have time anyway. Instead, I ask, “Where's Frederick? We have to go back on in two minutes.”
“He fell and hurt his ankle. He's on the way to the hospital.”
“What about the understudy? Who the fuck am I dancing with?” I hiss.
I haven't practiced this recently with the understudy. I don't know how to do the rest of this performance with the understudy. I move to the wings, and nobody has miraculously appeared. Moments before we're supposed to go back on, someone is behind me, his hand in mine.
It's Sebastian. I let out a sigh.
He doesn't say anything to me; he just leads me out on stage, and we dance. We dance the rest of the ballet together. Maybe the director and choreographer thought it would be a bad idea to have three different Prince Ivans for one opening performance. Besides, the audience might have launched a full-scale mutiny if Sebastian didn't return to them. So deep is their love for him... and the thrill of his unexpected return to the stage.
If they noticed the scar, they don't care about it. If I thought the standing ovation after our initial scene together went on forever, the one at the end of the ballet goes on so long I actually want them to stop because I'm getting hungry. I need to eat. I need to rest. I need to be off this stage. And I need to talk to Sebastian. Maybe not in that order.
Actual roses are thrown on the stage. I've seen this happen a few times before, but it's usually at really high profile performances. Though I guess we just became high profile. New Firebird and Sebastian Trent all in one night. There’s a sense of breathlessness in the air about all this.
As we take our final bows, Sebastian's gaze locks with mine. His intense expression is inscrutable. I wish I knew what he was thinking right now. He grips my hand so tightly, and for a moment, I'm not sure whether he'll take me away and lock me in a tower, or if he'll slip out of my grasp forever.
When we get off stage, Sebastian runs. Like runs. He moves so fucking fast I could never hope to catch him. In this moment, I'm so afraid I'll never see him again, but I'm swept up again in a chorus of cheers and congratulations. Henry drags me to the opening night after party. And of course, Sebastian isn't there. He is a ghost.
Fourteen
It's Wednesday night. I've barely eaten anything the past two days. The company hasn't settled down from the buzz of excitement over Sebastian's mysterious appearance at the show followed by his subsequent disappearance and what it might mean and if he'll be joining the company, and what in the fuck is actually going on?
Literally everyone has asked if I'm sleeping with him. This question has made me blush more times than I can count because clearly that entire audience had some sort of voyeuristic experience with Sebastian and me. If everyone in the company thinks we're sleeping together, then the audience definitely did. It feels as though they've intruded on our privacy, our intimate moments on our private stage.
I've spent the past two days rehearsing with Shane, the understudy for Prince Ivan. Shane is nice enough, and he's a good dancer, but he isn't Frederick. And he's definitely not Sebastian. But I’m polite and professional, and when he nearly dropped me on a lift yesterday, I bit back the urge to scream at him—to ask if he wanted me in the hospital, too! Difficult prima donna is not a good look, and I don't want to become a ballet monster before Natalie's spot at the barre is even cold.
I've asked Mr. V. and Morgan about Frederick. When he's coming back. How long he has to be off the foot. When he can dance again... but they've been tight-lipped. No one is talking about it.
I reach the old Opera house a few minutes before nine. The spotlight lights up the stage and the barre as usual. But there’s silence. It's a silence so loud and oppressive I find myself looking over my shoulder, wondering whether I'm alone, wondering if someone else or something else might lurk in the shadows watching me instead of the man I'm hoping to find.
“Sebastian!” I call out. It's the first time I've spoken his name out loud. No answer. He's not here. I feel a tear sliding down my cheek at the thought that he would abandon me after everything. Why? Because I saw his face? What difference can that possibly make now?
“Sebastian, are you here? Please, answer me.”
I walk down the darkened aisle and climb the steps of the stage. I'm about to get ready for our weekly ritual, but I don't know which shoes to wear. I don't know which he wants. I don't even know if I'm alone right now. A choked sob escapes my throat, and I crumple to the ground and start to cry.
His voice booms over the speaker. “I'm surprised you're here.”
I look up and around, as I always do, never quite sure where he actually is. I feel relief. “Of course I'm here,” I say. “I have to come here or you'll ruin my life.”
He chuckles at that. “Oh, Ms. Lane. That's not why you come here. You knew after the first few weeks I wouldn't report you.”
“I did not!” Did I know that? I'd stopped thinking about it or caring about it because I started to crave this... thing between us. This secret.
“You kept coming here because you need this. You need the pain. You need the judgment. You need my eyes on you, demanding your obedience. You dance to obey. You stand at that barre every day obeying the commands of the ballet master because you need that thrill you get when you please him.”
“It's not sexual.” But I don't deny the rest of it. There's no point. That’s why I dance. I need the control. I need someone else besides me to be in control and tell me what to do. I need to just worry about executing the steps perfectly and nothing more. I need the peaceful space it creates inside my brain.
Another chuckle. “Isn't it? Isn't it just another kink, cupcake? I took your dark little needs out of the shadows and made them explicit. I made you exist for me on my stage. And you kept coming back for more because I saw you. I saw what you needed, and I gave it to you. But if I'd met you in any normal way, you would never have done it. You needed permission. You needed just a little threat to push you over the edge into my arms.”
