Petra’s pulse skips then stabilizes.
“The Nutcrackerseason is already completely sold out,” Edith continues, watching Petra’s reaction with interest. “Every show. The entire run. It’s unprecedented that it’s sold out after just a couple days of tickets going on sale.” Edith smiles, glances out the window, then returns her focus to Petra. “And not only that, but our beginner ballet program has been flooded with new sign-ups. A significant percentage of them are young boys.”
This isn’t a scolding or a termination. This is…gratitude?
“We weren’t sure how to handle the exposure at first,” Edith admits. “The way the world is changing so quickly with technology and social media, it’s hard to make heads or tails of certain events. But we’ve since realized that what you’ve done, well, it’s something we haven’t been able to do for years. You’ve expanded the reach of ballet.”
Petra’s at a loss for words. She’d spent days preparing defense strategies, practicing her “I’m sorry but also not sorry” speech. Instead, they’re thanking her.
“Ms. Branson, this is so great to hear. I have to admit, after my meeting with Nilas, I thought this was going to be a very different discussion.”
“Well, as for Nilas…” Edith’s demeanor shifts. “That is a separate matter.”
Petra straightens.
“We’ll be making a public statement soon, but…given the circumstances, I feel I should tell you now.” Edith’s hands fold carefully. “Nilas has been relieved of his position as artistic director, effective immediately.”
“What?” The word escapes as barely a whisper. Of all the scenarios Petra prepared for—groveling, defending, potentially crying—this hadn’t made the list.
“It came to our attention that he was engaged in an inappropriate relationship with one of the dancers in the company.”
Petra’s mind races, connecting the dots: The purple mittens in Nilas’s office. The picture assembles itself with absolute clarity. Edith won’t name her—legal probably advised against it—but Petra knows.
“This company cannot afford scandal,” Edith says. “And frankly, this has been a long time coming. Nilas had too much power for too long, and we let it slide for far longer than we should have.”
Petra can only stare, her brain attempting to process this complete reversal of fortune. Her career isn’t over. Her reputation isn’t destroyed. And Nilas—the man who just days ago threatened her entire existence—is gone.
“Who’s replacing him?” Petra asks.
“The new artistic director of our company will be Alexei Volkov, formerly of the Royal St. Petersburg Ballet.”
The Royal St. Petersburg company. The same company that offered her everything. The same company she rejected to stay here, to stay with—
No. She won’t think about that now.
Edith smiles. “I know he’s very fond of your dancing. I imagine you two will have quite a bit to talk about.”
Petra remains seated, pulse racing. She’d walked into this office expecting professional annihilation. She’d prepared for the end of everything she’d worked for. And yet, the video that was supposed to destroy her has become the company’s best marketing tool in years. The artistic director who threatened her has been removed after a career-ending scandal. And now, the man who ran the company she turned down is about to become her new boss.
Petra sits in Edith Branson’s intimidatingly perfect office, surrounded by evidence that sometimes the chaos works in your favor even when you’re too shocked to appreciate it. Even when your personal life lies in ruins while your professional life inexplicably rebuilds itself.
Petra isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. So instead, she does what she’s always done: she straightens her spine, lifts her chin, and prepares to dance to whatever music comes next even if the choreography makes no sense.
Even if she has to do it alone.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The familiar whisper of ballet slippers against the floor fills the silence that’s permeated my apartment for the last week. My makeshift studio—the spare bedroom that would have been Claire’s if things had turned out differently—welcomes me as I flip on the lights.
It’s not much. A mirror that forces me to confront my own mediocrity, a barre I bought from Amazon, and a speaker that maintains a complicated relationship with Bluetooth. But it’s mine, and it has to be enough. The days of sneaking into real ballet studios with real ballet dancers are over.
The pain of losing Petra is beyond emotional. It’s physical. My body learned the language of ballet through her hands adjusting my posture, through her patience at every turn. Now I’m self-teaching in a former storage room, which feels like a metaphor, yet it’s not.
I shake out my legs and press play on aNutcrackertutorial video as I watch a professional Cavalier move around the stage, commanding it with every turn and leap.
I close my eyes and rehearse the first Cavalier variation in my head. If I want to avoid spiraling back into the injury abyss where I dwelled for all those months, I need this discipline and strength more than ever.
I practice the variation without music first, going through the movements slowly. The preparation for the double cabrioles keeps tripping me up. My body wants to telegraph the jump, to show I’m about to leap. But ballet requires the jump to happen suddenly, without warning.
