“Yes, maybe it was,” she says, and her calmness is worse than screaming.
Neither of us moves. The apartment that smelled like domestic success now feels like a crime scene.
“You know what?” she says, that eerie calm now fully settling over her. “It was a mistake. Not maybe. Absolutely a mistake.” She laughs, short and bitter.
I step forward, desperation making me clumsy. “Petra—”
“I can’t do this right now. I don’t think we should do this right now,” she says.
“What are you saying?”
She looks at me, her face and eyes a portrait of exhaustion. “I think we should take a break…from us…from this relationship.”
“Are you serious?” My voice comes out barely audible.
She nods, and it’s the smallest, most devastating movement. “Yes.”
“You don’t just walk away because things get hard,” I counter.
“I don’t think we can fix this right now,” she whispers.
“So what? You’re just going to leave?”
She picks up her bag. I watch in disbelief as she zips her coat, her hands shaking slightly.
“Petra—”
But she’s already at the door, hand on the knob, back to me like she can’t bear to look at what’s being destroyed.
I open my mouth, but everything I want to say gets stuck somewhere between my heart and my throat.
She exits without looking back.
I’m left standing here in my apartment that smells like rosemary chicken and the complete collapse of everything that mattered.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Petra’s hands are sweaty as she stands outside Edith Branson’s office on Lincoln Center’s top floor. She’s spent the past two days marinating in a potent cocktail of breakup trauma and career apocalypse preparation.
A summons to meet with Edith Branson, the company’s most powerful board member, only comes at critical career junctures for company members, if ever. Most often, the summons precedes a dancer’s dismissal.
Petra inhales sharply. Then she knocks.
“Come in,” Edith’s voice is crisp as the autumn air outside.
The office that greets Petra is intimidatingly elegant in that way that makes you check if your shoes are clean. Edith sits behind a desk, immaculately organized, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a view of Broadway, a constant reminder of the cultural empire she helps oversee.
She gestures for Petra to sit. This isn’t going to be a conversation. This is going to be an execution with excellent lighting.
“First,” Edith begins, her voice possessing the steady coolness of someone who’s never had to raise it. “I want to address the video.”
Here it comes—the professional guillotine.
Edith leans forward slightly, a gesture that could mean anything but probably means doom. “We’ve received an overwhelming response in the past few days.”
Petra swallows, trying to maintain some semblance of calm.
“At first, we weren’t sure what to make of it. But, well…. It has attracted an entirely new audience to our company.”
