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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

VERITY

Ishould’ve taken a taxi.

I was catcalled by a group of men on my walk to the subway station then stuck out like a sore thumb on said subway and have been catcalled an additional two—

“Hello, sexy. Where you goin’ tonight?”

—three times on my way to the opera house where the ballet is held.

To an extent, I guess it is flattering to know that I look as good as I feel. I’ve had this dress sitting in my closet for the last two years, telling myself I would wear itnext time, which never ends up happening. The heels pinch a smidge; I haven’t worn them much and they’re already rubbing on the back of my ankles.

I feel a touch overdressed, but I try to shove that insecurity aside and enjoy my me date.

I searched pictures online of what my seat looked like and the view from it. It is in one of the more expensive balcony box sections, making me think that Hannah’s boss must be a season ticket holder to have access to such a location. I will have a prime view of the stage and zero risk of some obscenely tall person obstructing my view. In other words, perfection.

Tickets have been selling like hotcakes this season, with the new prima ballerina, Katya Antonova, coming over from Moscow to take on the role of Odette. Everyone wants a shotat seeing the rising star on stage, and here I am, watching her perform for free. I seriously lucked out.

My heels absently click on the stairs leading up to the opera house, and the buzz of the people milling about feeds the anticipation thrumming in my heart.

After going through the security scanner and presenting my ticket to one of the workers, I enter an opulent foyer that is filled with couples and families chittering away. A large chandelier hangs in the center, the crystals shaped like perfect teardrops. The clear gems create a rainbow reflection on the creamy marble walls, which are lined with various pieces of art that depict different ballets and operas.

I take my time, walking slowly, admiring every nook and cranny as I make the trek up two escalators to the top floor. I pass by one of the concession areas, which are undoubtedly fancier up here compared to the ground floor. There’s an entire area just for champagne, and I watch with deep yearning as a woman in a cropped fur coat purchases a glass.

I shuffle closer, trying to see how much a flute costs. For some reason, they don’t just have it displayed above, and I have to bite the bullet and join the line. I fidget with my clutch—which isn’t actually mine but Hannah’s. Nothing I own went with my dress, and Hannah just about had a conniption when I’d tried leaving with my twenty-dollar purse, demanding that I take hers instead.

I open and close the clasp again and again as I try to sneak a peek at the menu on the counter. I’m one person away when I finally clock the prices.

Thirty dollars? For one glass?

I could buy a bottle of prosecco for half that.

Shit.

There is already a massive line behind me. Do I just dip? Do I suck it up and buy it anyway? Ugh. I mean, the ticket was free,so technically I saved money there… And I really want a glass for the whole experience of it all…

“We’ll take two glasses.”

A man slips in front of me and his voice sends a knowing shiver down my spine. I stare at Cullen’s back and the way his suit vest stretches over his broad shoulders in the most delicious way possible. He pays for the drinks and then turns to hand me one.

That hazel gaze glimmers, catching me completely off guard and forcing my body into autopilot. The tips of our fingers brush as I take the fragile stem, my breath barely a whisper as I struggle to inhale in his presence.

He steps past me, his signature cologne filling the air. The scent must turn my brain to mush because I find myself following him. My lips move without my consent.

“What are you doing here?”

Cullen halts, slowly looking over his shoulder at me, one brow raised in that infuriatingly hot yet teasing manner.

“She speaks.”

I press my lips together, unwilling to repeat myself or risk saying something stupid like it was good to see him or that I’d missed him this morning. I’d sooner throw myself into a volcano than tell him I was upset to wake up and realize it was the weekend because it meant he wasn’t waiting outside to walk me to the station, that I even went so far as to head downstairs and check if he was there anyway because some irrational part of my brain held onto a delusional hope.

“I came to watch the ballet.”

He then turns back and continues to walk away, leaving me there, confused, with my champagne.

I’m thrown off by the dismissal. Normally, he pushes to stay around me. These last two weeks, whenever we are together, it’s like he can’t get close enough. Why is he walking away?