I don't have an answer to any of this. I know he's right. And if he could read me so easily, could others? I'm blushing furiously now.
“There's nothing to be ashamed of. Most dancers are masochists. Did you know ballerinas have a pain threshold three times higher than the general population? I wonder if that's training or if it's self-selecting. Maybe only the strong survive. That's why you were drawn to Conall.”
“No! I never wanted him to hurt me.” I don't care who Sebastian is or how much power he has to destroy me, he will not imply that I somehow asked for the things Conall did to me. The way he hurt me, abused my trust, made me live in so much panic that the only safety for me was the sanctuary of the studio or the stage—where everything was controlled and nothing was unpredictable.
“Shhhh. I know. You thought you saw a kind of dominance that you needed. It's so easy for the young and uninitiated to think they see dominance when it's really just abuse. I know what you need. But if I had come to you, you would have run from me. You would have taken one look at my scarred face and...”
“It doesn't make you ugly,” I say. And it doesn't. His photograph used to be splashed across every dance magazine in the world. So I know what Sebastian Trent looked like before the accident that ended his career, but the scars don't lessen his beauty. I guess there’s a level of attractive nothing can touch.
“But they make me look dangerous. And after Conall, you never would have come to me on your own.”
I sigh. I can't deny it. That's probably true. And he does look dangerous. He looks lethal. Not that I can see him right now. He's hidden in whatever shadowy nook he lurks in.
But though he may look dangerous, his hands on me feel like home. Is that why he thought I wouldn't show up tonight? That look on my face on stage? That flinch?
Did he think it was revulsion? That all my little fantasies were shattered in a moment at the reality of the scars marring his perfection? Did he think the world he'd created for us on this secret stage was shattered now as clean beautiful lines were replaced by sharp broken ones?
“What happened Sunday? How did you end up on stage with me?” I ask because I have to know. No one knew much the night of the performance, and the decision makers at the company who do know seem to have taken a vow of silence on the issue.
Even though Sebastian is a disembodied voice, even though he's still hiding from me, our typical formality is broken in the wake of this revelation which I haven't been able to stop thinking about for three days.
“I was backstage, careful not to draw attention to myself. I stayed in the shadows and out of your path. I wanted to watch your first principal performance from the wings. There are so many unique things to see from that vantage point: your quick costume changes, you working through your nerves before going onstage, your elation coming off stage, words of congratulations and great job from the other dancers waiting in the wings to go on. It's something I can't get from a box seat.”
I warm up at the barre in my soft canvas ballet shoes as he speaks.
“Frederick was showing off in the wings five fucking minutes before he was supposed to join you on stage. He fell and broke his ankle, though we didn't know it was broken at the time. He's out for the season. The understudy couldn't be found with only minutes to go on stage. I was there. I knew the part. I wasn't going to just leave you out there without a partner. I made Frederick strip and took the costume. Apparently while we were dancing, the paramedics took him out of there naked. I was fucking furious, so I hardly cared. And you know the rest. We danced.”
What we did was so much more than dance. My breath catches in my throat at the memory of the moment when his hands spanned my waist with such certainty I knew exactly who had me.
“I-I didn't know you could still dance,” I say.
“Of course you did. You've been dancing with me for months.”
“But I didn't know it was you. I thought you retired because you were too injured.”
Sebastian sighs. “There was a lot of rehabilitation, and I'm not sure I'm quite back where I was technique-wise. But it was mostly the scars on my face. It's not exactly a ballet aesthetic. You know? And I didn't want pity or people to come see me out of some morbid fascination like some sideshow freak.”
I understand this. The world of ballet is all about beauty and the illusion of perfection. A beautiful top male principal dancer, lusted after by nearly everyone who watches him, suffers a disfiguring accident... There’s pity and shock. And he's going back on stage? Not in this lifetime. I get it.
“Who will I be dancing with for the rest of the season?” I ask. I don't hate the understudy, but I'm not nearly as comfortable with Shane as I am with Frederick on stage.
“Me,” he says. “Apparently, after Sunday night, you and I are the talk of the dance world. So, I guess I'm back.”
“The company hired you?”
He laughs. “I own controlling interest in the company. Trent is a name I invented to perform under and hide my family money. My real name is Sebastian Grant of Grant Enterprises. After I retired, I found this company struggling and offered to help. I wasn't planning on performing again, even though I was asked to. Now, after Sunday night, people are a lot more insistent.”
A giddy thrill runs through me at the prospect of being partnered on stage with THE Sebastian Trent for the rest of the season.
“But if you're dancing with me, why have I been rehearsing with the understudy the past two days?”
I can almost hear the shrug in his voice. “Because it took the company that long to convince me to come out of retirement. I'll be dancing with you tomorrow night.”
Sebastian Trent and me, up on the big marquee in front of the theater for the entire run of the Firebird.
“Put the blindfold on,” he says.
“But, I've seen you.”
