His laugh is dismissive, exhaling the sound of someone who’s never learned the difference between humor and cruelty. “Petra, come on. Who in their right mind would move to—what is it? Saint Wherever-It-Is?”
“Saint Petersburg,” she responds. “One of the most beautiful cities in the world. A place with more cultural history than you could ever imagine.”
He waves his hand like he’s swatting away her words, dismissing centuries of art and beauty with the arrogance of someone who’s never looked beyond himself. “Sure, but it’s cold. It’s miserable. And, let’s be honest, it’s the middle of nowhere compared to what you have here.”
“The middle of nowhere?” she repeats, her voice climbing despite her efforts to control her mounting frustration. “It’s one of the greatest ballet capitals of the world, Gavin. The Mariinsky Theatre, Tchaikovsky’s music, some of the most celebrated dancers in history. How can you just write it off like that? Not to mention I have family there, some relatives of my father.”
“It just doesn’t make sense,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re already making a name for yourself here. Why would you throw all that away to run off to Russia?”
“This isn’t throwing anything away. This is about taking the next step in my career—about performing the roles I’ve dreamed of since I was a child.”
“And you can’t do that here?” he shoots back, his voice gaining an edge. “You’re so close to getting a principal spot here. Why not stay and finish what you started?”
“Because there are no guarantees here,” she says. “Nilas was clear about that. This offer in Saint Petersburg is certain. I would finally be able to dance Aurora and the Sugar Plum Fairy—the roles I’ve spent my entire life working toward.”
Aurora. The Sugar Plum Fairy.Names that probably mean nothing to him, roles that are just words in his ears but contain entire universes in hers.
“And what about us?” His voice turns cold. “You’re just going to leave? Pack up and go halfway across the world without thinking about what that means for me?”
“For you?” she says. “Do you even hear yourself? This isn’t about you, Gavin. For once, this is about me. My career. My dreams.”
“Your dreams?” he says with a bitter laugh. “What, you think running off to Russia is going to magically make you happy? You’ll be miserable there, Petra. You don’t know the language, the culture—it’s not what you think it is.”
“As ifyouknow,” she fires back. “And for your information, I do know the language. My father was Russian, or did you forget that too?”
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, a rare moment of Gavin Bradford speechlessness that might be funny under different circumstances.
She steps closer, thinking of every compromise she’s made, every dream deferred, all the time she’s devoted to being his beautiful accessory. “I’ve supported you through everything, Gavin. Every red-carpet premiere, every photoshoot, all those endless dinners where I sat there smiling while people treated me like I didn’t exist. And the one time I ask you to listen, to support me, you can’t even pretend to care.”
“That’s not fair,” he says, but his defensive tone betrays the truth they both know.
“It is fair,” she snaps. “Because the truth is, you don’t care about me. You care about what fits into your perfect little world. My dreams and opportunities—they’re just obstacles to you, aren’t they?”
“Petra—” he starts, but she holds up her hand.
“No,” she says firmly. “I’m done. I’m done rearranging my life for someone who can’t see past his own reflection.”
Gavin stares at her, his confident façade cracking for the first time. “You’re seriously ending this? Over…what? A job?”
“It’s not just a job,” she says, grabbing her coat and bag. “It’s my future. Something you were never willing to be part of.”
She steps toward the door.
“You’ll regret it if you walk out that door, Petra. What I have, where I’m headed—I could open so many doors for you.”
“I don’t want someone else to decide which doors I can walk through.”
With that, she leaves, closingthatdoor for good.
Chapter Twelve
I’m midair when she walks in.
Literally suspended, though I suppose metaphorically too. Lately my entire life feels like one long, graceless leap with no guarantee of landing.
This landing, though, is clean. My feet kiss the floor on the way back down, and for a split second I let myself revel in the small miracle of it.
Then I hear it: her breath. Sharp, involuntary, slicing through my self-congratulatory moment like a referee’s whistle. With Petra, that sound could mean anything: astonishment, or the prelude to dismantling me piece by piece until I understand how catastrophically out of position my arms and feet were.
