Liam: Since I listened to “Serenade,” Spotify’s algorithm has been serving me all these ballets. Just finishedConcerto Barocco.Incredible. Have you everperformed it?
A smile overtakes her. Shehasperformed inConcerto Baroccoset to Balanchine’s choreography—one of his most celebrated plotless ballets.
Fitting, she thinks, as she wonders ifshe’sthe one losing the plot now.
Chapter Eleven
Petra steps into Gavin’s apartment and is immediately body-slammed by his cologne. The air is so saturated with it she half expects to see it condense into visible clouds, hovering like smug ghosts. It’s a scent with a name like Dominion or Empire Reserve, something engineered in a boardroom to suggest power but really just reminds you of the smell at a duty-free fragrance shop in the international JFK terminal.
Everything at Gavin’s place has its spot and purpose. A leather couch that has never been napped on and never will be. Chrome surfaces polished to a sheen that makes Petra conscious of her fingerprints, like she’s committing tiny crimes just by touching them. Even the fruit bowl looks staged, the apples unnaturally symmetrical, as though they auditioned for the honor to be displayed.
And then there’s Gavin. In the bedroom, bathed in soft lighting, he’s conducting his nightly liturgy of self-admiration. Adjusting his hair with his overly moisturized hands, rolling his shoulders with the confidence of a man who has never once lost a staring contest with his own reflection. He studies himself as if preparing for a role. Which, of course, he always is.
For a beat, she lingers in the doorway, bag still sliding from her shoulder, struck by how thoroughly Gavin manages to fill a space without ever acknowledging that anyone else could be in it.
“You’re cutting it close,” he says. “We need to leave in five minutes. They’ll only hold the reservation for so long.” He pauses then considers what he said. Petra can see his ego inflating. “Who am I kidding? I’m Gavin Bradford; they’ll hold it all night for me.”
“Can we just stay in tonight?” The words escape before she can catch them.
Gavin spins around, one eyebrow performing its signature arch, a move she’d once found charming and now views as antagonistic.
“Stay in? You’re joking, right?”
“I’m not. Let’s stay in, cook something, open a bottle of wine. I can order some salmon from Citarella. It’ll be better than any restaurant in the city.” Her voice gains momentum, carrying the sentiment she’s been trying to articulate for months. “Plus, I want to talk to you about something important.”
His sigh could power a small wind turbine. “Petra, come on. You know I’d love to, but this isn’t the time to go off the radar. My movie premiere is in two weeks. Staying visible keeps me relevant—keepsusrelevant. It’s all part of the game.”
The game.Alwaysthe game. Like they’re pieces on some cosmic chessboard, and she’s perpetually stuck being a pawn with nowhere to go, only useful in service of the queen.
“It’s always the game, isn’t it? I’m trying to have a real conversation with you, Gavin, and it’s kind of hard to do that when we’re at a restaurant with people constantly interrupting to take pictures or ask for autographs.”
He shrugs, turning back to his mirror like she’s background music he can tune out. “It’s part of the package, babe. People want a piece of me, and I can’t say no. They’re the ones who buy the tickets, pay for the streaming services, spread the word. Visibility equals box office sales and streams. And all that equals career longevity. You know this.”
Babe.When had that word started feeling like a dismissal instead of endearment?
“What about what I want? I’ve spent years supporting you, understanding your world, adjusting to your schedule.”
“Whoa, whoa. Where’s all this coming from? All this negative energy, Petra,” he says, finally turning to face her fully.
“Why can’t you just listen for once?”
“I am listening,” he says. His brow furrows in what she’s learned to recognize as his version of concern, like he’s reading lines from a script titledHow to Look Like a Caring Boyfriend. “What’s this all about, Petra? You’ve got that look like you’re about to drop some big bomb on me.”
She exhales. “I’ve been offered a principal role—”
“All the more reason to go out and celebrate—”
“With the Royal St. Petersburg Ballet Company.”
For a moment, Gavin’s composure falters, his mental processing almost visible.
“That’s not in New York, is it?”
“Russia,” she says. “And it’s one of the most prestigious companies in the world. They want me to join as a principal. It’s everything I’ve been working toward.”
His blank expression is almost comical. Then comes the scoff. “You’re not seriously considering going…”
“Yes, Gavin, I am.”
