"Tell me about him."
She takes a shaky breath. "We danced together for two years at the Mariinsky. He was obsessed. Called me his 'little ballerina.' Said I was his muse, his inspiration, his—" She stops. "I tried to end the partnership. Told management he was too possessive, too controlling. They said I was being dramatic."
"What happened?"
"Opening night of Giselle. Right before the lift that ended my career, he warned me that if he couldn't have me, no one else would. Then he dropped me in front of two thousand people." Her voice cracks. "Afterward, when the paramedics were loading me into the ambulance, he said I was his greatest work. That I was beautiful in my brokenness. That he'd made me into art."
Something cold crawls down my spine. Those phrases. That pattern.
"Describe his voice," I say slowly. "When he whispered to you."
She looks at me, confused by the question. "Young? Theatrical, with Russian accent but educated, refined. Why?"
My world stops.
She's watching me now, seeing something in my face. "Why? What's wrong?"
"He killed Elena."
The words come out flat, certain, devastating.
"What?"
I stand, needing distance, needing air. "My wife. Fifteen years ago. Someone murdered her in our bedroom here in Philadelphia while she was seven months pregnant. She was twenty-six years old. We'd been married less than a year." My hands are fists. "The killer called while she bled out. Young voice. Russian accent. Just like you described."
Sonya's face has gone white. "Oh my god."
"He said ballerinas are meant to fall. That Elena was art and I'd turned her into possession. That I couldn't collect them all." I turn to look at her. "Those exact words."
"Anton." She's standing now, swaying slightly. "The timeline fits. Elena died in 2010. Anton would have been twenty-three. He was dancing at the Bolshoi then—same company where Elena was prima ballerina before she married you. Already obsessed with ballerinas."
"He must have been obsessed with Elena in Moscow. When she married me and moved to Philadelphia, he followed her. Tracked her here. Killed her." My voice is hollow. "Then fled back to Russia where he continued dancing, continued destroying ballerinas for another fifteen years before you survived him."
We stare at each other across the wreckage of her gallery, both understanding what this means.
"He's been doing this for fifteen years," she whispers. "How many others?"
"I don't know. But I'm going to find out. And I'm going to end him."
The words hang between us. Fifteen years of searching, and this broken ballerina just gave me the name I needed. Gave me the target for all this rage and grief.
I close the distance between us without thinking. I cup her face in my hands and kiss her.
She freezes for a heartbeat—shock, surprise, uncertainty. Then her hands fist in my shirt, and she's kissing me back.
It's desperate. Messy. Wrong in every way that matters and right in ways I can't name. She tastes like champagne and fear, and I pour fifteen years of rage and need into this kiss.
Her body against mine. Her hands pulling me closer. The small sound she makes in the back of her throat that goes straight through me.
I press her against the nearest wall—careful of the glass, aware we're still in her damaged gallery, but unable to stop. My hands slide into her hair, destroying what's left of her bun. Her leg hooks around my hip, and I can feel every inch of her through that silk dress.
Can feel myself hard against her, wanting her with an intensity that should terrify me.
She breaks the kiss first, both of us breathing hard. Her lipstick is smudged, her hair falling around her shoulders, and she looks beautiful.
"That was—" she starts.
"A mistake," I finish, even though it's a lie.
