The apartment is small but beautiful—one bedroom, decorated with Russian art, dance photographs, books everywhere. Ballet barres along one wall where I practice sometimes, though myreal midnight dancing happens downstairs in the gallery where I need the mirrors, the open floor, the stage-like feeling.
This is where I've lived for three years. Where I built my safety after the Mariinsky destroyed me.
And Anton knows every inch of it.
He probably knows my routines, my habits, the way I dance alone at midnight. The thought makes my skin crawl.
I pace until dawn, my ankle throbbing, my mind spinning. Around 6 AM, I finally attempt to sleep. Manage maybe an hour before my alarm goes off at 7:30.
I shower, dress in yoga pants and an oversized sweater—comfort clothes because I'm too exhausted for anything else. Make coffee. Stare at my apartment and try to figure out how to pack for "a week" in Philadelphia.
At exactly 9 AM, there's a knock on my door.
I check the peephole—habit, even with guards outside. It's Maksim, looking infuriatingly well-rested in dark jeans and a henley that shows off his arms. How does he look this good after the night we had?
I open the door. "You're punctual."
"I'm always punctual." His eyes sweep over me, cataloging the exhaustion on my face, the messy bun, the comfort clothes. "You didn't sleep."
"Did you?"
"No." He steps inside without being invited, and suddenly my small apartment feels even smaller with him in it. He takes up too much space, too much air, too much of everything.
His eyes move over my apartment—the Russian art on the walls, the dance photographs, the ballet barres, the books stacked everywhere. He stops at a photo of me in Giselle’s costume, the same role I was performing when Anton destroyed me.
"This was before," he says quietly.
"Yes. Two weeks before the fall. When I was still happy." I wrap my arms around myself. "I didn't know what was coming."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Pack a bag. You're coming to Philadelphia."
"About that—"
"No." He turns to face me. "No arguments. No negotiations."
"I can't just abandon my gallery," I protest weakly. "Maya can't run things alone. I have appraisers coming, auctions to coordinate, collectors to meet—"
"Your assistant can handle it. You can work remotely. The gallery will survive a week without you." He moves closer, his presence overwhelming. "Will you survive a week with Anton hunting you in a city where you're exposed?"
I don't have an answer to that.
"Philadelphia is safer," he continues, his voice dropping lower. "It's my territory. I can keep you safe there. Here? This is neutral ground, and he's already struck once."
I notice his hand moving—tracing on my kitchen counter. Letters. Unconscious.
"You're doing it again," I say quietly.
He looks down, sees what he's been tracing. E-L-E-N-A-S.
His hand stills. "Why is the S for?"
He looks at what he's written, seems startled by it. Pulls his hand back like the counter burned him.
"Pack," he says, voice rough. "Please."
The 'please' costs him. I can see it in the tension of his jaw, the way his hands form fists.
"One week," I concede. "Then I'm coming back."
