Page 14

“Come in,” the raspy voice from my nightmares commands behind the closed door.

Acid roils in my stomach and I grip the doorknob, steeling myself before entering Sir Ian’s office at ABTC.

Can I do this? Face this man my body seems to fear?

Work closely with him in the foreseeable future and impress him so I can finally get promoted?

Maybe my reaction was a fluke. After all, I don’t remember my monster. It was probably some subconscious stress triggering a vivid flashback.

It’s a conversation I’ve had many times in my head, to no avail. But I know this—I’m not jeopardizing my career at the country’s best ballet company unless I know something definitively wrong about this man.

Drawing in a shallow inhale, I twist the doorknob and step inside. My eyes dart around the spacious room, doing everything I can to delay looking at the man himself.

Sir Ian has already put his stamp into the space. Gone are the feminine touches of fresh floral arrangements and brightly colored cushions. The office now radiates with masculine appeal. Dark wood paneling and intricate coffered ceiling frame the large windows overlooking Central Park. Golden plaques and trophies, no doubt from the accolades he has accumulated over the years, beckon at me from the walls and shelves, as if to say, how can someone so talented and respected in the community be a monster?

The man himself sits behind a grandiose oak desk in the center of the room. I knot my hands in my shapeless black sweater. I’m sweating faster than I can wipe the moisture away.

“S-Sir Ian.” I hate how I stammer in his presence. I straighten up. Fuck. What’s wrong with me?

He sets a fountain pen on the desk, sits back in his plush leather chair, and observes me. I’m caught by surprise at how much he looks like Charles. Less imposing, definitely thinner, but the same nose and eyes. But unlike his nephew, whose presence only makes me want to get up in his face, Sir Ian puts every atom of my body on alert, ready to run away.

I stare back, forcing myself to smile in his presence, even though I’m sure I look like I’m grimacing instead.

After a few seconds of terse silence, made even more uncomfortable by the unusual stillness in his figure and shrewd eyes, his lips curve up in a smile. “I hope you’re doing well, Ms. Peyton-Anderson. Do you mind if I call you Taylor?”

I let out a stale breath. I nod. “Taylor is fine.”

He motions to the seat in front of him.

I hurry forward and take a seat at the edge of the chair, my tote bag on my lap. Placing my hand at the opening, where a pepper spray is within reach, I force myself to take even breaths.

Citrus. I take a deeper whiff. Yes, citrus, like oranges.

Not peppermint. See? It was probably all in your head that day.

My body relaxes marginally.

Sir Ian clears his throat. “The reason I asked for this meeting is to make sure you’re fine with this arrangement.”

I frown. “Arrangement?”

“Me working here. You being one of my dancers,” he explains, his voice gentle. “I know I shouldn’t mention the unusual circumstances in how we met,” he pauses and stares at me, and my skin heats, “but I wouldn’t be a good boss if I don’t make sure any concerns are aired out before my employment here begins.”

Sir Ian leans forward, and I shrink back, slowly pushing the chair farther away from the desk. My fingers automatically inch toward the pepper spray.

He says, “I’ve reviewed tapes of your past performances. You’re talented, Taylor, one of the most promising dancers I’ve seen in a long time. Obviously, you have issues dancing Odette, but your Odile… It’s frankly one of the best Odile’s I’ve seen in a while.”

I grip my handbag tightly and the leather crinkles under my nails.

Issues dancing Odette. That’s the understatement of the century—I’m afraid I’ll never be able to master the role of the white swan. How can I perform a role that’s the epitome of innocence and grace, of the sanctity of love?

“I’d like to keep you on, but only if you’ll respect me as your artistic director. I can’t afford to have any disruptions like at our first meeting. There’s too much at stake for both ABTC and for Bank of Columbia,” he concludes and settles back in his seat.

I breathe a sigh of relief at the distance.

“Your nephew’s company.”

He grabs the fountain pen on his desk and twirls it in his fingers. I stare at the ruby on it instead of looking at him. It glints like blood in the cold daylight.

He replies, “It’s my family’s company. My mother started it and Charles has done a wonderful job so far.” Something in his voice gives me pause, but when I look at him, he’s smiling warmly. He obviously loves his family. That is something I can identify with. Unease still prickles me, a background noise that seems louder in the presence of this man, but I feel more comforted right now. A monster won’t love his family, right?

“I’d like to reiterate, I don’t know what you went through in the past, but I have nothing to do with it. I haven’t met you before ABTC.” His fingers still—his pen poised in his grasp. “Do we have a problem with each other, Taylor? Or are you okay with working under me?”

A quiet intensity radiates from him as he waits for my response.

My skin itches again, and I fight the impulse to scratch at it or to run home and take a scalding hot shower.

One second drags to two, then to three, but Sir Ian doesn’t waver. He calmly sits there, a serene smile on his face, as he patiently waits for me to answer him.

He hasn’t made any inappropriate remarks. He hasn’t even tried to touch me. He’s been professional and even…kind.

It can’t be him all those years ago.

But why does it feel so real? Why is my gut telling me this man isn’t all he appears to be?

But you have no evidence. No basis in reality, Taylor. Even you aren’t sure. Don’t sabotage yourself.

I knot the straps of my tote around my fingers and pull, relishing the lash of pain as the leather digs into my hand. The pain grounds me. The pain tells me everything is under my control.

“I don’t have a problem, sir.”

Sir Ian nods and stands. I follow suit. He motions to the door. The meeting is over. “Enjoy the rest of your evening and I’ll see you Monday for practice.”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

My feet carry me as fast as I can out of the office and I collapse against the door after I shut it, my legs trembling, sweat rolling down my back.

I hope I didn’t make the biggest mistake of my life.