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H elene had never been summoned to speak with the director. This could be it—the recognition she had worked so hard for. She pushed thoughts of the troubling duke to the recesses of her mind and straightened her posture. The door to Verón’s office loomed, impossibly imposing. Her hands trembled as she nudged it open.

Verón crouched near a makeshift table, tinkering with a miniature of the theater, complete with the ornate ceiling and the king’s box. The scent of old books and tobacco tickled her nose, a stark reminder of his commanding presence.

“Oh, Miss Beaumont. I’m glad you found the time to visit me. Did you know, when I started building this, I obsessed over every piece? Every seat, every curtain fold—had to be perfect. In this world, I am the dictator. One loose string, one misstep, and the entire production collapses."

His gaze lifted to meet hers. “Do you want it to collapse, Miss Beaumont?”

Swallowing, Helene shook her head, her eyes following the tufts of hair on his spindly fingers.

“I didn’t think so..." He arranged the chairs with tweezers. "Do you know why patrons pay tickets to watch our ballets?”

“They come for the art.”

“Art, you say? They have the Royal Academy for that.” He clicked his tongue. “Ballet is a male sport. They go to a cockfight to unleash their violent impulses, and they come here to unleash lust.”

He must be wrong. Certainly, some males wanted glimpses of uncovered skin. Still, when the audience watched them dancing, it moved them. They glimpsed freedom and, if only between the overture and the coda, felt free, too. She danced for them.

“I dance to inspire.”

He made a strange noise of displeasure.

Helene wrung her hands.

“You left early last night. Was the Duke of Albemarle’s company not inspiring enough?” His voice was affable, almost friendly.

The duke had invaded her space! Was this why Verón summoned her here? To scold her for how she had treated him? "Being forced to mingle with guests after performances is demeaning.”

“Tell me, Miss Beaumont, do you know the Duke of Albemarle holds a considerable financial interest in the theater?”

Her posture stiffened, her smile fading into a tight line as she braced herself. “I’m certain you are much better suited to deal with the theater finances than I am.”

He set down the tweezers and picked up the tiny ballerina figurine, which was half the size of his hand. Raising the delicate doll so she could see it, he snapped it in two.

Helene gasped, staring at the painted little head, now discarded on his table.

He took a step closer, pushing his face into hers. “I have no use for prude ballerinas. If the duke wants you to open your legs, you will grand battement, grand jeté, you will do whatever it takes to show him your pretty cunt in the best possible light.”

Helene slapped him. The sharp sound reverberated in the office, leaving a ringing in her ears and a stinging in her palm.

Horrified, she stared at the imprint of her fingers on his face. The room shrank, the walls closing in on her. What had she done? She hated violence. And worse, she had jeopardized her career. She had committed ballet suicide. If he dismissed her, how would she support herself?

The door swung open. Katherina glided inside, carrying a monumental bouquet.

Helene cradled her hand and turned from Verón, trying to control her breathing.

“This arrived for Miss Beaumont," Katherina chimed. "The duke’s liveried servant delivered it in his name.”

Helene’s breath caught. Flowers? From him? But why would he… after the way she had treated him?

Katherina’s continental elegance prevented her from widening her eyes at the tableau inside Verón’s office, but Helene didn’t doubt she understood what was happening.

She made a show of placing the burden atop Verón’s desk. “The duke must be besotted indeed to have been so thoughtful. Helene, the class will start soon. Pray don’t be late.” With that remark, she left.

Helene froze. Why wasn’t Verón screaming at her? The heady scent of flowers pierced the stale air of the office.

The director shook himself, his hand brushing absentmindedly across his reddened cheek, admiring the duke’s gift. Dozens of red roses crafted into a stunning bouquet—certainly the most expensive in the hothouse. Was she supposed to feel flattered by such an impersonal gift? They didn’t match the man with the stormy eyes. The duke, yes, but not the man.

She must be losing her mind. To feel disappointed by a present, when she despised its owner.

Verón broke a bud from the stem and placed it in his coat pocket.

“Who thought you had it in you, Miss Beaumont?" Laughing, he clapped his hands in a staccato rhythm. "Brava!”

Helene didn’t like it. Applause was sacred, not a weapon to mock others.

“You got yourself a besotted Englishman. A more befuddling race has yet to be born. But aren’t they the ones who like to hunt foxes? Such tiny beasts they can’t even eat?”

A fox—eagerly hunted, and readily discarded. Was her worth to be measured not by her art but by a male’s interest? A sudden chill invaded the office, and brushing her arms, Helene seized the moment to leave.

Verón caught her wrist. “Don’t forget our conversation today, petite fox. Your employment and those of your friends depend on it. You’d better give the duke a merry chase.”