After, we lie tangled on the couch, too exhausted to move. His hand traces lazy patterns on my back—S-O-N-Y-A over and over—while our breathing slowly returns to normal.
"I love you," he says into the quiet.
"I know." I kiss his chest, right over his heart. "I love you too."
We fall asleep there, wrapped around each other, the wine forgotten and the world temporarily held at bay.
Just this. Just us.
For one perfect Sunday evening, that's enough.
WEEK TWO: WARRIOR EMERGENCE
Monday-Tuesday, October 18-19
I'm at eighty-five percent strength. Dance practice is full intensity now—complete Giselle variations, thirty-two fouettés, sustained adagios. Everything is perfect. Flawless. I need to be principal-level ready.
Combat training escalates. Multiple attackers scenarios—Sergei sends two guards to spar with me while Maksim directs. I hold my own for three minutes before they overwhelm me.
"Again," Maksim says.
We run it five times. By the end, I last seven minutes.
Narrow corridor fighting—simulating Juilliard's underground rehearsal studios and storage spaces where Anton's been building his trap. Confined spaces, limited movement options, using walls for leverage.
Weapons defense. What to do if someone has a knife. A gun. How to create distance, disarm, escape.
I'm bruised. Exhausted. More capable than I've ever been.
Firearms practice is daily now. By Tuesday, I'm hitting center mass consistently at fifteen feet. Maksim teaches tactical shooting—moving while firing, reloading under pressure, clearing malfunctions.
"You're not going to be a sniper," he says Tuesday evening at the range. "But you can defend yourself if it comes to that."
"Will it? Come to that?"
"I hope not. But hope isn't a plan."
Tuesday night, we video conference with Sergei in Philadelphia. He's been coordinating security for Lincoln Center—Juilliard blueprints, Anton's probable locations, exit routes, positioning Maksim's men throughout the venue.
"He's been seen bringing in final construction materials," Sergei reports. "Whatever he's building is almost complete. We have surveillance on the main entrances, but there are at least a dozen maintenance access points to the underground spaces."
"Can we get blueprints for the underground?" I ask.
Sergei's eyebrows rise slightly—Maksim's ballerina asking tactical questions.
"Working on it," he says. "Juilliard's underground is a labyrinth. Rehearsal studios, storage for sets and costumes, mechanical rooms, connecting tunnels between buildings. Mapping it all takes time."
"We have nine days," Maksim says.
Twelve days until Halloween. Until Lincoln Center. Until Anton's finale.
Wednesday-Thursday, October 20-21
Integration week. Morning: dance. Late morning: tactical planning via video conference—studying Juilliard layouts, discussing positioning, reviewing contingencies. Afternoon: combined combat and firearms training. Evening: foundation details.
We've planned the Elena Petrov Foundation down to scholarship criteria and board composition. Mental health support for dancers. Physical therapy resources. Emergency financial assistance. Everything Elena would have wanted.
"She would have loved this," Maksim says Wednesday evening, reviewing the final proposal documents. "Would have thrown herself into it completely."
