He considered my demand for a moment, probably scratching his beard and leaving his wife at the dinner table. Tzotzi was an... interesting man. He'd worked for my father and my grandfather, and while none of us knew much about him, we knew he did a damn good job. He was discreet in everything he did and more efficient than a hundred men. Which is why I trusted him to make me the theater's new owner by the end of the night.
"I'd say... about thirty minutes. Perhaps less."
"I'll be awaiting your text."
Tzotzi hung up, and I sat back in my chair while Nikolai stared at me, mouth agape. "You're really fucking buying the damn ballet."
“I’m not buying just the ballet,” I said, my voice sharp. “I’m buyingher.”
December 26th
Nikolai
Aunt Maria, help me!
It’s your son!
He’s gone CRAZY!!!!
Aleksandr
Wrong number, asshole.
My chest was still heavingas the curtain fell, the cast members remaining perfectly posed while the audience's applause echoed around us. It was an intoxicating feeling—their praise, their excitement. Producing something beautiful, something that moved people, was a big part of why I loved performing.
I'd always loved to dance. The studio was the place I could express myself using my body rather than with words that never got listened to at home. And my parents encouraged it because it meant getting me away from the house and away from them. When I expressed interest in a school several hours away—where one of the most robust dance programs in the world was—they were more than eager to sign their names on the checks.
Anything to make me disappear.
Ballet was everything to me. I'd sacrificed so much to be there. My school, my friends, even my true name. All so I could be here, on the stage, feeling the applause rattle my bones.
Mia wrapped her arms around my shoulders and squeezed tightly. "You did it, Evie! Your first show is done!"
"Here's to many more, Vale." Another dancer squeezed my wrist, though with the blinding lights and raucous noise, I couldn't tell who it was. It was such a close-knit community of people supporting each other that it could have been anyone.
Mia and I hugged each other behind the curtain for a few more moments before we made our way into the crowded dressing room, where every dancer swarmed a small area, gasping and pointing.
"What are they looking at?" Mia mused, her hands already tugging at her perfect blonde bun and the many pins keeping it in place.
"I don't know... wait, is thatmymirror?" I asked. The crowd must have heard me because they parted as soon as I got close.
The largest bouquet I'd ever seen sat atop my station, swallowing the mirror and all of my belongings whole. It was an explosion of pink, soft blushes, and deeper rouge layered together in perfect harmony. Like something torn straight out of a painting of the Garden of Eden. Part of me wondered if the city had any flowers left after someone created this. There had to be hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars’ worth of flowers here.
The stems were wrapped in heavy cream paper, crisp and expensive, tied off with a ballet pink silk ribbon. Hydrangeas the size of my head pressed against pale ranunculus, spray roses spilling outward in careful excess, and woven through it all were thick clouds of peonies, full and lush. My breath caught at the sight of the cloud-like flowers. They were my favorite, reminding me of a spring-filled world covered in coquette ecstasy.
“Oh my God,” someone whispered behind me. Probably Mia, judging from the crassness of their next question. “Eva, who the fuck did you sleep with?”
“I didn’t,” I said automatically, though my voice came out thin. My fingers hovered before finally brushing the petals of a peony, soft and cool beneath my touch.
Who would do such a thing? My brother was out of the question. Jules had come to my opening night with a lovely bouquet of pink roses for me and an equally large one of sunflowers for Elsie. He wouldn't have gone from something nice and simple tothis.
Mia stepped forward and pulled a ripped piece of something that looked a lot like our program. I took it from her with shaking fingers.
To my solnyshka.
Mine.
No name. No flourish. Just neat, confident lettering, like whoever wrote it never doubted I’d know it was meant for me. A strange warmth unfurled low in my stomach, equal parts thrill and unease.
