Why Volkov has called to meet with her, she’s unsure. But what she does know is this: In his short time as artistic director thus far, he has delivered on his promises to the board and the company’s dancers. He’s arrived just as advertised, a disciple of the Balanchine method who believes technique is the foundation of artistic expression. At fifty-three, he moves through the studios with the energy of someone who still takes class every morning, his corrections delivered in a baritone that never needs to be raised to command attention.
Where Nilas ruled through favoritism and theatrical displays of power, Volkov operates with clinical efficiency. He posts casting lists without drama and maintains the same expression whether watching a principal dazzle or a first-year corps member stumble. His feedback is specific, technical, and devoid of personal commentary. “Your arabesque dropped three inches in the second act,” rather than “You look tired.” Some dancers initially found him cold, but they’ve come to appreciate the clarity. You know exactly where you stand with Volkov, which is wherever your technique places you.
When she reaches his office door finally, Petra takes one final deep breath, composing herself for whatever’s next. Then she knocks.
“Come in.”
She pushes open the heavy door, entering an office that immediately announces itself as the antithesis of Nilas’s baroque display of power. Where Nilas surrounded himself with excess—mahogany and assorted memorabilia—Volkov has created a space that whispers rather than shouts. Minimalist. Modern. Almost monastic in its commitment to the essential. Clean lines that suggest decisions get made here without emotional interference. Muted tones that refuse to distract from the business at hand.
Volkov sits behind his sleek desk. His posture, rigid. His expression, inscrutable.
His gray hair is kept short, almost military length, and his pale blue eyes miss nothing—not an unpointed foot, not a rushed transition, not the politics simmering between soloists. He wears the same uniform every day: black pants, white shirt, no jewelry. The simplicity is intentional. Nothing should distract from the work.
“Miss Montgomery. Please, sit.”
She does.
“You’ve been working hard, as I expected.”
“Thank you. Yes, I’ve been trying to stay laser focused.”
His head tilts slightly, features giving away nothing.
“Do you know why I wanted you to come to Saint Petersburg?”
She stiffens, as a shiver rushes down her spine.
“Because you saw potential in me,” she manages, though the words feel insufficient.
“I saw more than potential. I saw a dancer worthy of principal status. That is why I offered it to you outright.”
Her hands grip the fabric of her skirt beneath the desk while her face and body language remain composed.
“I won’t lie,” Volkov continues, his voice maintaining an evenness. “It was disappointing to offer you a principal role at Royal St. Petersburg and have you turn it down.”
Another chill runs through Petra’s spine. Here it comes: The punishment for rejection, the consequence of choosing New York, choosing Liam, choosing wrong.
“And that is why,” he leans forward slightly, “I was so pleased when I was offered this position.”
A smile flashes across his face, so quick she almost misses it.
“Because it meant that I would finally have the opportunity to work with you.”
Petra suppresses a smile.
“And I see now that I was right.”
Her chest tightens.
“I am promoting you to principal.”
Six words that justify every sacrifice, every bleeding toe, every night she chose rehearsal over friends, over love.
“You’re—I mean, I—” she stutters.
Volkov lifts one eyebrow with the economy of someone who doesn’t repeat himself.
She stares at him, trying to process it like trying to understand infinity.
