Arabelle
New York
Eleven Years later…
The crowd’s thunderous cheers reach the dressing rooms near the back of the theater. After several standing ovations and curtain calls, the energy buzzing around all the dancers is electrifying as we make our way offstage.
The reaction and energy of the crowd are why I love to dance. This atmosphere makes my hard work and all my lonely nights worthwhile.
It’s the final show of a month-long performance at the New York City Ballet, and while I’m glad it’s over, I won’t have time to relax. Tomorrow, I leave for a month-long press tour for the company, which includes photoshoots, interviews, and galas. I’m not looking forward to it. It’s the part of my job I like the least. I wish I could dance and not have to do all the extra stuff.
I walk toward my dressing room, accepting congratulations on a job well done from members of the stage crew and by thefew dancers who don’t hate me. When I reach my dressing room, I push the door open and stop in my tracks.
“Oh. My. God.”
I slowly enter, my hands covering my mouth as I look around the room. It’s like I’ve stepped into a beautiful rose garden.
A fairy tale.
“Who did this?” I ask as I take in the room filled with long-stem, blood-red roses in gorgeous crystal vases.
With every performance, I get a private room, which is why the dancers hate me. They see it as preferential treatment. It’s not my choice but required by the theater, so I know these bouquets of my favorite flowers are for me. They cover my vanity and the tables throughout the room. There are at least thirty vases of roses.
Who goes through all this trouble? And who spends all this money?
My father, Arthur Williamson, comes to mind. However, I dismiss that thought. My father wouldn’t waste his money on something like this if he got no reward for it. He stopped giving me roses a long time ago.
The next person I think of is Dale Austin, my attorney and only friend. He’s been more interested in me lately outside of our business relationship. Although flattering, I don’t think it’ll ever work, so I haven’t returned his interest. I don’t have that fire or butterflies in the pit of my stomach when he’s around, even though I wish I did. He’s honest and cares about me, but even this is a little too extravagant for him.
“Absolutely beautiful,” I say as I move around the room, smelling the fragrant flowers and brushing my fingers over the delicate petals. I inhale the sweet-smelling aroma. “This had to cost a fortune. And they smell so different.”
A knock sounds at the open door. I whirl around, coming face-to-face with Samuel Foster, the company director, andanother man in a tuxedo. A very handsome man, but not in the conventional way. He has a rugged, harsh beauty about him. The stranger’s long, wheat-colored hair is pulled into a low ponytail, and his piercing gray eyes gaze at me like he’s staring into my soul, pulling me closer to him.
However, Samuel’s oddly colored green eyes always darken when he sees me, so I keep my distance. He gives me the creeps, and the way he looks at me is worse when I’m in my performance leotards.
Although I’m grateful for the opportunity to perform, he’s not one of my favorite people to be around. Samuel doesn’t look at you. He leers, and by the look on his face, you can see what he’s thinking. I don’t like it. It makes my skin crawl, like a thousand spiders are moving underneath the surface. Just thinking about it, my body shivers. I can’t stand being around him.
I’ve heard from the other dancers about what he expects them to do for patrons when attending our mandatory parties. I find it disgusting even if they find nothing wrong with it if it advances their careers. Although I’ve experienced nothing other than the occasional sexual remark, with Samuel’s disregard for my concerns, I wouldn’t put anything past him, which is why I try not to be alone with him. Ever. He’s sleazy despite what he portrays to people like this guy with him right now.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, Arabelle.”
Samuel walks further into the room, reaching out to touch my arm, but I step away, which catches the eyes of the stranger. Samuel masks the look of anger that briefly replaces his once stoic face. Samuel doesn’t recognize personal space, and when he’s close to you, he just wants to touch you with his chubby, clammy hands.
“No worries.” I plaster a smile on my face while keeping my distance. “How can I help you, Samuel?”
“Where did all the flowers come from?” Samuel’s confusion quickly switches to anger. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Arabelle.”
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” I ask, ignoring his comment because it’s none of his business whether I have a boyfriend, although I don’t.
“They are beautiful,” the stranger answers. “Someone thinks you’re a very special woman, Miss Williamson.”
I turn to him and smile. He returns the gesture. “And you are?” I ask.
Samuel clears his throat. “This is Mr. Florian Larsson. He’s one of our biggest supporters and a big fan of yours, I’m told. He wanted to speak with you for a moment.”
Surprised that anyone would be a fan of mine, my eyes widen. “Really?” I ask. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Larsson.”
I grasp his outstretched hand to shake, but he lifts mine to his lips, kissing my knuckles. I giggle, and Samuel mumbles something under his breath that I’m sure Mr. Larsson heard, too, but neither of us comments on it.
