“I imagine so,” Skylar says with a laugh.
I turn slightly, scanning the narrow space without meaning to.
And then I see him.
Vladimir stands at the far end of the corridor, just inside the backstage threshold, dark coat open, posture relaxed but intent. The noise dulls around me as our eyes meet. He doesn’t look away. His gaze settles on me with unmistakable focus—warm, assessing, undeniably hungry in a way that has nothing to do with the performance.
My breath catches.
He starts toward me, unhurried, certain.
And in that single, charged moment, surrounded by flowers and fading music, I know exactly who he has come to see.
Vladimir stops in front of me as if the rest of the corridor has dissolved, leaving only the two of us suspended in the afterglow of the performance.
“You were extraordinary,” he says quietly. His voice is low enough that it feels like it belongs only to me. “Not just beautiful. True.”
Heat rises into my cheeks. Compliments after a performance usually slide off me, absorbed and forgotten in the rush. This one doesn’t. This one settles.
“Thank you,” I manage. “I was terrified.”
“I know,” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “That’s what made it compelling. You held the entire ballet together. The Lilac Fairy is the axis—everything turns on her.”
I blink, surprised. Not many people understand that.
Before I can respond, he lifts his hand. The movement is unhurried, deliberate. His fingers brush my cheek, barely there, as if he’s testing whether I’m real. The touch sends a shiver through me, sharp and undeniable.
I hold still, suddenly hyper-aware of my breath, the warmth of his skin, the intimacy of the gesture amid so many people.
His eyes darken, and there is no mistaking what I see there. Admiration, yes—but also desire. Focused and intent, like he has already decided something and is simply waiting for the right moment to act.
I drop my gaze, shy and flustered, a smile tugging at my lips despite myself. “You shouldn’t,” I murmur, though I don’t move away.
He lets his hand fall, but the space where his fingers touched me still burns.
I glance to the side, needing air, needing something solid. That’s when I notice him—standing at the edge of the crowd, half in shadow. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way he holds himself, pricks at my memory.
I frown slightly.
I know him. Or I should.
The light shifts as someone passes in front of him, and for a moment I think I catch the outline of his face—but then it’s gone again, swallowed by movement and noise. My attention drifts, curiosity tugging at me harder than it should.
“Anya?” Vladimir says.
“I’m sorry, I thought I saw… Never mind, I couldn’t have,” I ramble before taking a deep breath and focusing my attention on Vladimir. “You came to the opening?”
“Of course I did,” he smiles. “You were breathtaking. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you.”
I flush and avoid meeting his eyes. “Thank you.” When I finally get the courage to look at him, he’s frowning as he follows Skylar with his eyes. I hadn’t noticed her leaving my side. “Is something wrong?”
“No, but I need to go. I’ll let you get back to your fans. You were amazing. I plan on coming to your next performance just to see you again.”
Then he’s gone.
Confusion curls low in my stomach. I stand there, suddenly very aware of how exposed I feel—still in costume, adrenaline ebbing, the world settling back into place around me.
My cheek still tingles where Vladimir touched me.
