Sonya is in the third-floor studio teaching foundation students—five in person, three more from New York joining via video. I watch from my usual position by the window, laptop open but mostly ignored, attention on her.
Twelve weeks pregnant. First trimester ending. The morning sickness has finally subsided, replaced by energy and renewed strength. She moves with confidence again, demonstrating positions, correcting form, being the teacher she always wanted to be.
The small bump is visible now when she wears form-fitting dance clothes, but she's radiant. Healthy. Thriving.
After class ends at 11:30 AM, she joins me by the window. "What are you working on?"
"Foundation enrollment numbers. We're at twenty-two students now across both cities. Applications are coming in faster than we can process."
"Twenty-two." She leans against me, satisfied. "Elena would be so proud."
"She would be. And so am I."
We spend the afternoon planning—not foundation work, but personal things. The nursery, which we've been putting off. Baby's first Christmas, though they won't be born until summer. Holiday decorations for the mansion, which Irina has been asking about for weeks.
Normal life. Building toward a future that feels almost within reach.
At 3:30 PM, we're in the study looking at nursery furniture online when Sonya gasps, hand going to her stomach.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing wrong. The baby—I think I just felt movement. First flutter." Her face lights up. "Twelve weeks. Right on schedule."
I place my hand over hers on the bump. Can't feel anything yet from the outside, but knowing our child just moved, just announced their presence—
"Active little dancer," I murmur.
"Takes after their mother."
We're still sitting like that, hands on her stomach, when Sergei appears in the doorway.
His expression destroys the moment before he speaks.
"Package arrived. Addressed to both of you. Postmarked Manhattan, sent yesterday."
The happiness evaporates instantly.
Sergei brings the package to the desk. Plain brown wrapping, no return address. We've seen this before—same as the one on Thanksgiving.
Sonya opens it with shaking hands.
Inside: A formal printed invitation on expensive cardstock.
You are cordially invited to the Final PerformanceFriday, December 17th, 8:00 PMCarnegie Hall, Main StageFeaturing: Anton Kozlov & Sonya MorozovaRSVP Required: Attendance Mandatory
Beneath the printed invitation, handwritten in elegant script:
Sonya, my Giselle:
I showed you I've been watching you. Now I invite you to our finale. Friday night, Carnegie Hall, 8:00 PM. You will dance with me one last time. The performance that was interrupted at Lincoln Center will be completed properly.
Come alone. Come ready to dance. Come willing to give me the closure we both need.
If you refuse, if you bring your army, if you try to evacuate the venue,everyone will pay for it. I've placed explosives in two of Manhattan subway stations. Rush hour Friday evening. Hundreds of thousands of commuters passing through.
Your choice: dance with me at Carnegie Hall Friday 8:00 PM, or watch them die.
With anticipation,
