I scan the crowd once more, searching for the shadowed figure, for Vladimir, for anything familiar.
But all I see are strangers, and the echo of a moment that feels unfinished, as if something has been interrupted before it could fully begin.
The shine of the evening is wearing off, and I realize that all I want is to change and go home. Leaving the noise behind me, I head for my dressing room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: VLADIMIR
I sit back, hands folded loosely, telling myself I am here to observe—to assess a performance I already know well. The Sleeping Beauty offers no surprises. Or it shouldn’t.
She moves with a calm that borders on dangerous. Not fragile, not ornamental—commanding. Her arms open slowly, deliberately, shaping space, shaping time. She holds each balance long enough to test the audience’s nerve, and she never wavers. Strength concealed beneath serenity. Control so complete it feels effortless.
I realize my jaw is tight.
I have watched great dancers before. I know how to admire technique, measure line and musicality, and appreciate precision. But this is different. This is not an analysis. This is absorption.
I don’t take my eyes off of Anya for the entire performance. She is magnificent. I barely notice the other players because all I can see is her. She is a goddess in lavender tulle, spinning a web that draws me in.
Anya does not perform for the audience. She assumes our attention as a given. Her gaze travels across the stage, neversearching, never pleading. When she turns, when she gestures, it is with the quiet authority of someone who knows the world will obey.
My chest tightens unexpectedly.
I understand the role now—not intellectually, but viscerally. The Lilac Fairy is not the center because she demands it. She is the center because everything else relies on her. Without her, there is no mercy, no guidance, no future. Watching Anya embody that truth feels intimate, almost intrusive, as if I am witnessing something private she did not intend to reveal.
And yet she does.
Each movement strips away my detachment. I stop noticing the other dancers. The set fades. The story becomes singular: her presence, her restraint, her quiet power unfolding phrase by phrase.
There is a moment—brief, impossible—when she turns downstage, and her gaze lifts. The lights catch her eyes, and for the barest second, it feels as though she is looking directly at me. The sensation is absurd. And devastating.
My breath catches.
This is not infatuation. I know the difference. This is something steadier, more dangerous. Recognition. The unsettling awareness that my attention is no longer optional, that it has already been claimed.
When she completes her variation and withdraws from the stage, the silence lingers before the applause erupts. I do not clap immediately. I sit very still, aware of something shifting irrevocably inside me.
By the time I rise with the rest of the audience, the realization has settled with uncomfortable clarity.
I am no longer watching her simply because she is extraordinary.
I am watching her because she’s mine.
And as the curtain falls and the applause swells around me, one undeniable truth surfaces, quiet and absolute:
I’m not falling in love with her. I’ve already fallen.
As everyone moves around me, I stay in my seat. I can’t pull my eyes from the curtain as I think through what this means. When I decided to come to Russia, I had a plan. That plan did not include Anya. I brought Alexi home so he could take back his rightful place. I’d hoped that by saving his life and bringing him home, I could ensure my control over the territory my father once held. My father wanted more territory, but I only wish to control New Orleans and the Gulf of Mexico. I have plans. Anya was not part of those plans, but now? Now, I can’t imagine anything more important than her.
“We’re headed backstage, are you coming?’ Dominic asks, dragging me out of my thoughts.
“What? Oh, yes. I’m coming,” I say, standing and following him out. “Where’s our friend?” I ask because Alexi is not with us.
“He left before the lights came on,” Dominic explained. “He didn’t want to take a chance on anyone recognizing him.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Only that he’d meet us back at the hotel. He mentioned that he overheard the three assholes discussing Anya. He looked pissed off. I think he left before he pounded them.”
I stiffen at his words. What were they saying about Anya? Picking up my pace, I lead the way backstage and scan the crowd for Anya. I spot her talking with Skylar. My anxiety dips when I see her smiling so wide that I can’t help but smile, too. She looks so incredibly happy. As if sensing my eyes on her, she turns her head to lock eyes with me.
