"Breathe, little ballerina."
I flinch. Hard. The endearment—Anton's endearment—from Maksim's mouth.
He realizes immediately. Pulls back like I burned him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"
"It's different when you say it," I whisper, still shaking. Still trying to breathe.
Because when Maksim says it, it feels like belonging instead of ownership.
Sergei clears his throat, uncomfortable with the intimacy. "There's more. Anton's been seen entering and exiting Juilliard's underground facilities—the rehearsal studios and storage spacesbeneath the main performance halls. The labyrinth where they keep old sets, costumes, equipment. He has access somehow. Forged credentials or bribed staff."
"He's building something," I say, my voice steadier now. The panic receding enough to let me think. "He called the note 'Act II.' Lincoln Center is where he wants the performance. The finale."
Maksim's hands tighten on my shoulders. "You're not going anywhere near Lincoln Center."
"I'm the only one who knows how he thinks." I turn to face him. "His patterns. You need me."
"I need you alive." His voice is fierce, protective. The cold distance from breakfast evaporating. "Not walking into whatever trap he's building in those tunnels."
"So what? I stay here? Hide in Philadelphia while he plans whatever twisted finale he has in mind?" I stand, ignoring the soreness, ignoring everything except the anger building in my chest. "I didn't survive five years of rebuilding myself just to let him win by making me afraid."
"He's already won if you're dead."
"And he's already won if I'm hiding too."
We stare at each other. Sergei shifts uncomfortably, watching something he clearly shouldn't be witnessing.
"What happened between you two?" Sergei observes quietly.
Neither of us responds.
He continues, speaking to Maksim now. "In fifteen years, I've never seen you like this."
Maksim cuts him off, his voice ice again. "Ms. Morozova and I had a lapse in judgment. It won't happen again."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"Of course," I say, matching his coldness. "We were both dealing with stress."
But his eyes tell a different story. And the soreness between my legs, the scratches hidden under his turtleneck, the way we're both lying—all of it screams that it meant everything.
Three days pass in a tense armed truce.
Maksim increases security around the mansion. More guards. Better systems. He has Sergei monitoring my calls, my emails.Every time I mention returning to the city for gallery business, his jaw clenches, but he says nothing.
We avoid each other in the mansion's public spaces. When we must be in the same room—meals, briefings about Anton—we maintain careful distance. Professional. Cold.
But at night, I see him pacing in the north wing. And I know he hears me dancing in the guest room, working through the anxiety with the only outlet I have.
But at night, I can't sleep. I imagine him in his master suite, pacing like I dance—both of us working through what we can't say.
Friday passes. Saturday. By Sunday morning, I can't take it anymore.
The insurance investigators need to meet with me in person. The gallery damage requires my presence for the final documentation. Maya has been handling everything, but there are decisions only I can make, signatures only I can provide.
And Anton is in New York. The endgame is in New York.
I need to be there.
