Principal.
The word echoes in her mind’s cathedral, bouncing off every dream she’s ever had, every moment she’s stood in the wings watching someone else dance the roles she dreamt of performing.
Her fingers curl in her lap, trembling. She’s pictured this moment countless times—with champagne, with Liam there to celebrate. But never like this. Never in the aftermath of everything falling apart. Never feeling so hollow while being handed everything.
But Volkov isn’t finished.
“Your debut performance as principal will be inTheNutcracker, performing Sugar Plum.”
Sugar Plum. The role every little girl dreams of, the pinnacle of classical ballet’s holiday tradition, the part she’s understudied and envied and imagined until she could dance it in her sleep.
“The evening performance of December fifteenthwill be your debut,” he continues.
December fifteenth. The stage will be hers. The role will be hers. Everything she’s worked for, crystallizing into one night, a single chance to prove that every sacrifice was worth it. Her mind races through the logistics: rehearsal schedules, costume fittings, the mounting pressure of a debut that will define how she’s seen as a principal. The stakes have just ascended to heights that require oxygen masks.
She’s made it. Finally, she’s made it.
But sitting here in Volkov’s minimalist office, principal title still playing on repeat in her mind, she can’t shake the feeling that victory tastes different than she expected. Less sweet, more complex, with notes of isolation she didn’t know success contained.
Volkov leans back in his chair. “This is your moment, Petra. Make it count. As you know, we have several other more senior principal female dancers in the company who will be cast this year as Sugar Plum as well, so we can only cast you for the performance on the fifteenth.”
She nods while inside something celebrates and mourns simultaneously. She has everything she’s ever wanted professionally, yet she’s lost everything she never knew she needed personally. Success and happiness really are different currencies, and yet most don’t realize we’ve been saving the wrong one until we try to make a withdrawal and find ourselves bankrupt in the account that matters.
December fifteenth. One night to realize her dream. The date hangs in the air like a prophecy. She’ll dance Sugar Plum, claim her place as a principal, and validate every choice that brought her here even if she has to do it alone. Even if the person who helped rebuild her into someone capable of this won’t be there to see it.
The show, as they say with exhausting reliability, must go on.
Chapter Forty
Zoe walks through my apartment, eyes wide, turning in slow circles, dumbfounded.
“Okay,” she draws out the word slowly. “Who lives here? Because I know it’s not my little brother.”
I smirk, arms folded across my chest, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Yeah, well, I had some help.”
She turns toward me. “Some help? Please. This place went from ‘bachelor cave’ to ‘Architectural Digestcover story’ in the last few months.”
She pivots back to survey the space—sleek modern furniture positioned with actual intention, lighting curated rather than just existing, an aesthetic suggesting someone with opinions about thread counts lives here.
Her fingers skim the dining table like she’s checking if it’s real. “This? This is a statement piece. You used to eat dinner standing over the sink.”
I shrug, because admitting Claire transformed my living space into something adults would recognize feels like surrendering ground in a sibling war I’ve been fighting since birth. “Things change.”
“Things change, sure. But Liam, this is a full-on reversal.” She moves to the living room, running her hand over the various pillows. “You own decorative pillows now. Decorative, Liam. They don’t serve a purpose. They just exist. Like, for vibes. Who even are you?”
I exhale through my nose, reaching into a drawer to retrieve the tickets before this interior design interrogation goes any deeper. “Alright, enough life commentary. I have something for you.”
She turns as I extend the tickets, her expression shifting from mockery to curiosity.
“The Nutcracker?” She scans them with the scrutiny of someone who’s learned to read fine print after being burned by terms and conditions.
“Did you think I wouldn’t come through?”
A smile emerges on her face. “Lila’s gonna freak out. Thank you.” She hugs me.
“Yeah, well, even though you’ll be watching ballet, I know you’ll both really be thinking of me as I dominate the Detroit Spartans.”
“Of course, Liam. We are there with you in spirit.”
