“Beautiful evening so far. The ballet world really shows up for these galas,” I say. “How’re things with you and your film?” I offer.
Gavin seizes the opportunity. “Just got back from London. The premiere circuit is a whole different beast. You wouldn’t believe the media blitz. Every major outlet, every fashion spread. It’s all Bond, all the time.”
Petra offers a nod that manages to be both polite and completely dismissive—a skill I need to learn. I catch the way her lips press together, processing the reality that she once dated someone who refers to his own life as a “media blitz.”
“Must be exhausting,” I say, in a tone that suggests I mean exhausting for everyone who has to hear about it.
“Exhilarating, actually,” Gavin corrects, missing my sarcasm. “But it’s part of the job. You wouldn’t believe the sponsorship deals rolling in. And of course, the invitations…” He glances at Petra like this information might make her reconsider her life choices. “Apparently, Nilas is a big Bond fan. We had a great conversation with him at a charity event last month, didn’t we, babe?” says Gavin as he looks to Kate.
Petra stiffens beside me at the mention of Nilas: the artistic director, her boss, the person who decides her professional fate. The casual name-drop lands exactly as intended.
“Oh, speaking of Nilas,” Kate interjects, her champagne flute dangling between her fingers like a prop she’s been directed to hold, “I should probably go find him. He wanted to speak with me. He’s been incredibly supportive, you know. Of my trajectory with the company. And withThe Nutcrackercoming up, well…” She gives Petra a smile. “We’ll see what happens.”
Petra’s posture remains impeccable, not even a micro-expression escaping, though I know Kate is essentially announcing she’s getting cast as Sugar Plum Fairy, the role every ballerina wants—the role that matters.
Kate takes a sip of champagne, letting the threat settle like sediment. “Ah, there’s Nilas by the staircase.”
We turn to see Nilas across the promenade looking exactly like someone who decides people’s dreams over brunch.
Kate’s smile could freeze vodka. “We should say hello, Gavin. Enjoy your evening,” she says to us as the two of them disappear into the crowd like sharks returning to deeper water.
Petra exhales slowly. “Well, I wasn’t expecting that—though you can never predict what that manipulative witch will do next.”
“What a dick,” I say.
“Which one?” asks Petra.
“Both.”
She smiles, nods, then loops her arm through mine. “Come on. Let’s find our table. Dinner’s about to start.”
The main dining hall is right out of the Gilded Age with coffered ceilings that soar high enough to accommodate the egos of robber barons, their gold leaf details catching light just so. Marble columns rise from the parquet floors while oil paintings of stern-faced men in morning coats glower down from mahogany-paneled walls as if perpetually disapproving of how casually I hold my fork.
We find our seats at what’s clearly a VIP table. We’re close enough to the stage to see the dancers’ sweat but far enough from the kitchen to maintain the illusion that food appears by magic.
The woman beside me turns, and I recognize her instantly: Bunny Newman, wife of Harold Newman, owner of the New York Sentinels and the guy who signs my paychecks. She’s elegantly dressed in a way that suggests she’s never had to check a price tag.
“My goodness, Liam LeClerc!” She reaches for my hand. “What a pleasure to see you again. It’s been ages.”
“Mrs. Newman, it’s great to see you.”
Bunny has this quality that’s rare in rooms like this—genuine warmth that hasn’t been coached or calculated. She’s rich enough to be horrible but chooses not to be, which is its own kind of power.
She places a hand on my forearm, her bracelet sparkling and shimmering. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re healthy again. Your last game was phenomenal. The team looks so much better with you back on the ice.”
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s been a long road, but I feel good. Better than ever.”
“As you should. Harold and I have been following everything, of course. He kept saying, ‘Once Liam’s back, the team will stabilize.’ I think you proved him right.”
I chuckle, trying not to think about trade rumors. “Glad to hear I’m keeping the boss happy.”
Petra turns to Bunny. “It’s so lovely to see you again, Mrs. Newman. I didn’t realize you and your husband were such supporters of the ballet.”
“Oh, huge supporters,” Bunny says. “Harold and I have been patrons for years. We host a benefit every spring at our home in Greenwich. And, of course, we never missThe Nutcracker. Our grandchildren join us every year—a perfect holiday outing. Speaking of, you’ll be performing this year, won’t you?”
Petra nods. “I’ll likely be dancing Dew Drop and Marzipan, which I love.”
Bunny arches a perfectly groomed brow. “Not Sugar Plum?”
