Paris. Vienna. Prague. Milan.
My fingers tremble as I spread them across the bed, organizing them chronologically. The dates blur together, but the pattern is unmistakable. Opening night in Paris—he was there. The matinee in Vienna where I’d nearly fumbled a turn—he was there. The evening performance in Prague when I’d felt so homesick I’d cried in my dressing room—he was there.
Every. Single. One.
But Dante was in New York when my ballet company was touring in Europe. We talked on the phone every morning, and I always felt terrible for calling him because of the time difference. I was touched when he said he didn't mind our morning calls. But…he was in Europe the entire time?
I pick up the stub from the Prague show—the one where I’d called him in tears, telling him how lonely I felt, how much I missed home. I remember his voice, low and soothing, telling me I was doing amazing, that my family was so proud of me. That he was proud of me.
“I wish someone was here to see it,” I’d whispered.
"They are," he’d said. "In spirit."
My stomach twists. Not in spirit. In person. He was there. Probably just leaving the theatre while I poured my heart out to him on the phone, never knowing he was mere blocks away.
I spoke to him about everything. My fears and dreams. And he listened. For three weeks, we talked every morning. I was touched that he kept track of my performance schedule, but Christ, he was lying to me.
But why?
Why hide it? Why not tell me he was there? I would have been thrilled—relieved, even—to know I had a friend in the audience. To know I wasn’t alone in those foreign cities.
Unless…
My eyes drift to the paperweight holding the stubs in place. It looks like just another decorative object on his nightstand. But now, with my stalker’s letters fresh in my mind, I really look at it.
Black glass, expertly crafted. A rose.
I toss the stubs onto the table, and my hand shakes as I reach for the paperweight. The weight of it is solid in my palm, cool and smooth. A black rose made of glass, and it’s exactly like the one my stalker draws on every card and letter.
My stalker.
I glance up when Dante steps into the room, and he stops when he sees what I’m holding. His eyes move to the ticket stubs tossed on the nightstand and then back to my terrified face.
“Gia–”
“Don’t,” I cry out, scrambling back and grabbing the sheets to cover my body. I notice the molten gold in his eyes darken. “Don’t come any closer to me, Dante. Don’t!”
“Gia, I can explain–”
“Explain what?” I cry out, my finger tightening into a death grip on the sheets. “Explain that you’ve been stalking me for months?”
“Gia–”
“You were at all my shows in Europe. Are you going to deny that?”
“No.”
God.“We talked every day, and I felt so horrible about waking you up. But the whole time you were in Europe. Why?"
"Because I was jealous," he admits, his eyes firing up. "I couldn't tell you I was there, Gia. Watching you dance turns me on, and I knew I couldn't watch you and keep my hands off you if I saw you after a show." He runs a hand through his hair, his frustration seeping through. "Fuck it, do you have any idea how fucking hard it was watching you dance with another man, Gia? There on the stage was the woman I wanted, and all I could think about was fucking you and strangling the man dancing with you. You wouldn't have been able to handle the man who followed you to Europe, Gia. He was dangerous and possessive."
“So, you left me flowers and letters instead.”
The hand in his hair pauses, and those wild eyes flash at my words, turning puzzled. “What flowers and letters?”
"You sent me flowers and letters after every show." I pick up the paperweight I dropped earlier and lift it for him to see. "The letters were always signed with a black rose. Christ, are you going to pretend that wasn't you when it's clear you've been lying to me this whole time—"
“Gia,” his voice is calm when he speaks. “What letters are you talking about?”
