Electric shock. Heat. Awareness.
He jerks back like I burned him.
"Sorry," I mutter.
"Don't apologize."
But he moves his chair further away.
I watch him all afternoon—can't help it. The way he rolls up his sleeves, exposing forearms. How he loosens his tie around 6 PM. The way he runs fingers through his hair when frustrated on calls.
Everything he does is somehow magnetic and I hate myself for noticing.
At dinner, I mention needing to return to New York soon. "The gallery needs me there. In person."
His jaw clenches. "No."
"Maksim—"
"No. We're not having this conversation. You're staying here until Anton is found."
"You can't just keep me here indefinitely."
"Watch me."
We glare at each other across the table. Then both retreat to separate wings without finishing our food.
Wednesday night, 2 AM. I can't sleep.
Too aware of him somewhere in this massive house. Too confined despite the mansion's size. Too full of unexpressed energy.
I miss dancing. Miss my midnight ritual. Need to move, need to think, need to feel like myself for a few minutes.
I find my pointe shoes in my bag. Slip out of my room in a thin nightgown—all I brought for sleeping. Creep through the dark mansion halls.
The east wing. The locked door.
I try it, expecting it to be locked.
But it opens.
He forgot to lock it. Or—maybe he left it unlocked on purpose.
I step inside and stop breathing.
It's a ballet studio. Professional-grade. The entire top floor of the east wing—soaring ceilings, windows along two walls, perfect flooring. Barres, mirrors, sound system.
And in the corner, a shrine.
Elena's photograph—the same one from his desk but larger. Red pointe shoes mounted in a shadow box. A small brass plaque.
Elena Volovna PetrovPrima Ballerina, Moscow BolshoiBeloved Wife, Cherished Mother-to-BeDancing in Heaven
I stand in the doorway of Elena's preserved space, my pointe shoes in my hands, and understand exactly how frozen Maksim Petrov has been for fifteen years.
This isn't just a studio.
It's a tomb.
