“I’m just trying to build something,” Claire says.
“Well, if my apartment helps you get clients, I want a referral bonus,” I tell her.
She grins. “I’ll name a bookshelf after you. The ‘LeClerc Collection.’”
“Perfect,” I say. “You really made magic in such a short time.”
Petra chuckles, then nudges Claire with affection. “Well, get used to it. You’ll be seeing a lot more of her once she starts school in the fall.”
And there it is, the fault line in the conversation.
Claire’s smile falters for half a second. Her fingers tighten on her phone like it might escape. The mask slips just enough for me to see what’s underneath: the burden of a lie that’s getting heavier every day.
Petra, still in the dark about the whole situation, still glowing from the game, from the victory, from the simple joy of things going right, misses it entirely. But I see it. The way Claire’s gaze drops, the way she presses her lips together like she’s physically holding words inside. After all, she is.
The wind picks up on 10th Avenue, so I hail a cab, and we slide inside it. Petra keeps talking, her voice bright. The city blurs past in streaks of neon and taillights, painting patterns on the window.
But I’m not watching the city pass by from my passenger seat. I’m watching Claire, watching the way she stares at her phone like it holds answers to questions she’s afraid to ask.
Her secret sits between us like a fourth passenger, invisible to Petra but increasingly visible to me. Every mention of Parsons, every casual reference of her moving here, every assumption about the future—they all land on Claire like small cuts, each one deepening the inevitable wound that will come when the truth finally breaks free.
I’ve been where she is, in a different way. Holding something broken, pretending it’s whole, hoping that if you just don’t look at it directly, maybe it won’t shatter completely. But the truth doesn’t work that way.
The question isn’t if this will explode. It’s when. And whether any of us will survive the blast.
But tonight, I scored twice. Tonight, I proved I’m still worth something. Tonight, Petra looked at me like I hung the moon even though we all know I can barely hang a picture frame.
So, I let the secret sit. Let Claire wrestle with her conscience. Let Petra have her happiness for a little while longer. Because sometimes that’s all we can do—hold the good moments while we have them, knowing that tomorrow always comes to collect its debts.
Chapter Twenty
On the night of the ballet’s annual fall gala, Lincoln Center glows with a sheen that makes everyone walking by look wealthy. At the plaza’s center, the iconic fountain shoots water jets skyward. A red carpet stretches toward the Koch Theater like a tongue leading to the mouth of high society, ready to swallow anyone who doesn’t belong. Press and photographers cluster, flashing cameras and pointing microphones at every passing celebrity who strolls down the carpet.
I watch a famous actress float past in what I’m told is Tom Ford—though honestly, it could be Target, and I wouldn’t know the difference—while men in tuxedos that cost more than my first car exchange handshakes that probably determine stock prices. These are the people who run things: from Wall Street to Broadway, and they’re all here tonight.
Inside, the second-floor promenade features massive windows offering views of a city that belongs to these people. Grand chandeliers hang high above us from the soaring ceilings.
Waiters navigate the bustling crowd, offering French champagne I can’t pronounce and food I can’t identify. Caviar toppings. Foam on some finger foods. Reductions on others.
Yet somehow, Petra and I fit in here. Or rather, Petra fits, and I’m successfully cosplaying as someone who belongs. She looks devastating in black—in the kind of dress that makes you understand why people write poetry. Her hair is swept up in a chignon. Diamond earrings sparkle throughout every corner of the room.
I’m in a tuxedo that Petra made me buy instead of rent, insisting that every man needs to own formal wear, which makes me concerned about how often I’ll need to feel this uncomfortable. But I clean up well—or at least well enough that people don’t immediately identify me as someone who usually smells like sweaty hockey equipment.
We’ve just escaped a conversation with a patron wearing enough jewelry to fund a small nation’s healthcare system when Petra’s entire body language shifts. It’s subtle but obvious, the kind of tension change you only notice if you’ve spent months learning to read someone’s physical cues through leotards and arabesques.
I follow her eyes and find the source of disruption: Kate Steel. Because of course she has a name like that.
Petra has mentioned Kate the way people mention food poisoning—necessarily but begrudgingly. Both Petra and Kate are soloists, which in ballet hierarchy means they’re successful enough to have enemies but not successful enough to ignore them. Kate is what happens when ambition develops sentience and gets a spray tan. From Boston and old money that comes with its own coat of arms, she’s built a reputation as someone who collects careers like trophies—specifically, other people’s careers that she’s ended.
Kate walks towards us. She’s taller than Petra with a lean frame and long legs that make her presence hard to miss. Her eyes are dark brown and set under neatly arched brows. She wears her hair long and straight, the dark strands falling past her shoulders in a glossy sheet. Her features are strong and symmetrical: high cheekbones, a narrow nose, and a mouth that rarely curves into a real smile.
“Petra,” Kate greets us with the warmth of a refrigerator.
“Hello, Kate,” says Petra.
“And this must be Liam.”
The way she says my name makes it sound like she’s been briefed. Like there was a whole intelligence-gathering operation involved.
