Page 16

Backstage at the Met Opera is a study of controlled chaos. A frenetic energy hums through the wings in between Acts III and IV of Swan Lake . It’s the inaugural performance kicking off the international tour and also Ian’s debut as the artistic director of ABTC. Naturally, everyone is on edge. A faint smell of sweat and perfume permeates the air and the rushed footsteps of dancers and stagehands dashing across the floor remind me of standing in the middle of Grand Central Station during rush hour.

I silence my phone, but the buzzing still comes through—no doubt updates on the Patterson trial and financial reporting I’m expecting from my finance team. Despite the mountain of work waiting for me in the office, I have to be here today for the inaugural performance. Along with accompanying the ballet company for the first few international stops, I promised I’d be here to show my support when we announced the tour as part of the response to the scandal.

I glance at our family’s empty private box, front and center of the Parterre level, and a twinge of sadness prickles my chest. I’ve avoided that box and instead am watching the performance from backstage because of the feelings it evokes in me. Grandma wasn’t a fan of ballet—she loved opera and musicals more. Liam wouldn’t be caught dead sitting through any of the performances.

Firefly was the only person who would’ve enjoyed this night. I think back to the excited glow in her blue eyes when she grabbed my arm during the last performance we saw together— The Nutcracker —three years before she ended up in the hospital.

“Glad I don’t have to march into the office to drag you here, you workaholic.” She winked before settling down into her seat. “I wish we could do this more often.”

I huffed out a laugh. “Don’t be so dramatic. I’ll always make time for you.”

Liar.

For the next three years, I’d never accompanied her to another performance. There were always other obligations—work, networking, business dinners.

I always assumed I’d have more time with them.

Regret is a corrosive poison—once in your system, it slowly eats away at you little by little, until every movement causes pain.

I swallow, looking away.

“Taylor, will you grab another pair of pointe shoes for Bethany?” Ian asks. “The ribbon tore in her current pair—she has a few extras on her table.”

“Yes, sir.”

The bane of my existence jolts to attention and scurries away from her spot across the wings, where she was staring forlornly at the stage. She’s wearing yet another baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants, looking completely out of place in a field of glittering costumes and bright colors. Her arms are hiked across her chest. I frown—it’s not the first time I’ve seen her wrap her arms around herself like that, and I can count with one hand how many times I’ve seen her in anything that’s not ill-fitting or in funeral colors.

It’s like she’s trying to protect herself or make herself invisible.

But that’s impossible. Her willowy frame, the innate elegance in her features punctuated by the angry countenance hovering over her most days, the pale skin marred by dark makeup and her ever-changing nose piercings.

Can the moon ever blend in with the dark night? I don’t think so.

Really, Charles? Moon and dark night? I’m slowly being driven crazy by her. That’s the only rational explanation.

“Don’t. Poke. The. Bear.”

Flames radiate from my chest when I think back to that day on the steps of ABTC. The woman never backs down, even when it’s good for her. Every time I saw her in the last year and a half, we’d always end up in some strange bickering match over everything. She’d have opinions about my single status, which she said was because women were too smart to fall for my shit, which I’d return with a backhand about her lack of boyfriends, a comment I’m still not proud of today. Then there were countless barbs about my fake smile, my questionable business partners—pretty much if I were to say the sun is yellow, I’m sure she’d have an opposing viewpoint.

The woman fucking hates my guts, that much is obvious.

She tries my patience and drags me down to her level, daring me to erupt—to lash out with no care about my surroundings.

But you like it even though you won’t admit it. Why else would you want to murder the assholes from Legion when they were being their usual lecherous selves?

Fuck that. I won’t engage in this train of thought.

But the most annoying thing about the minx was how she’d shut down whenever I mentioned my uncle. Her face would pale and her snappy barbs wouldn’t come then. It unsettles me.

Ian strides over, his fingers tugging the tie around his neck. He forces out a smile.

“The performance is going very well,” I comment.

I know he’s nervous. After all, this is a homecoming performance. Meaningful.

“It’s acceptable. Bethany is flawless as Odette, but her Odile leaves a lot to be desired.” He frowns as the stagehands transform the scenery into the moonlit lake, where Odette and her prince will meet their tragic ending. “You know your ballet, Charles. Taylor would’ve been better suited for Odile. There’s a fire and power in her that’d show well on the stage. Too bad the roles are typically danced by one person.”

I think back to her haunted eyes when I saw her at The Sanctuary almost two years ago. That fire was missing then.

It was pure terror.

Even to this day, that memory bothers me. I’d rather bicker with her than to see that haunted look on her face.

Ian sneaks a glance at me, his lips twitching. “It doesn’t hurt that she’s beautiful too. I see how you stare at her.”

I flinch. No fucking way. “In hatred, you mean.”

“Why do you hate each other so much?”

Turning toward him, I frown. “She’s the definition of unstable and immature. Did you forget how she socked me in the face the first time we met? How that punch was meant for you? Her vague accusations?”

Someone runs over and hands a document to Uncle Ian and he takes out his jeweled pen and signs on it before responding.

“That makes her interesting. Let me ask you this, Charles. If you had to choose, would you eat stale crackers or spiced curry for the rest of your life?”

“Huh?”

He stares at the stage, his lips hiked up in a smile. “Stale crackers taste like cardboard—no kick, no personality. Spiced curry, on the other hand, tests your taste buds—gives you a dash of pain and then rewards you with a creamy aftertaste. I’d pick curry any day.”

As if on cue, Taylor runs back over, her eyes scanning backstage before they land on me. Her lips are flattened, like she’s unimpressed or displeased with the world—Firefly used to tell me this is called “a resting bitch face.” She’s directly under the spotlight now, and I see a white graffiti design splattered across her black sweatshirt that reads:

“Go away. I’ll bite. I’m not your babe, your honey, or your sweetheart.”

I arch my brow at her, motioning to her outfit.

“Nice clothes. Very mature,” I mouth.

I don’t know why I’m taunting the brat. She brings out the worst in me. I swear, in her presence, I don’t feel like I’m approaching forty. I either feel like a goddamn hormone-ridden teenager, wanting to rile up the girl I find to be interesting just to see how she’d respond, or I’d wish I were in The Sanctuary and could punish this little brat the way she deserved.

What would it be like to get her all worked up, all traces of impudence spanked out of her, to see her eyes glazed over in pleasure as she kneels before me?

My cock twitches in my pants. It’s completely maddening.

Is it because she sees past the mask I wear? Because she approaches life with a gumption I don’t have? Because she wears all her emotions on her face while I tether mine closely to my chest?

She flicks me the middle finger before rushing over to Bethany and handing her the shoes. Bethany says something to Taylor, and the minx beams—fucking beams at her.

This woman is an infuriating, perplexing conundrum—bratty and spiteful one moment, which is no surprise given our age gap, and a somber, calming presence the next. A tornado in everyday life that’d become an ethereal calm whenever she’d step into her role as a ballerina. Fire and brimstone mixed with aching vulnerability.

An onion with multiple layers, and all of them would make you cry.

I pride myself on being able to read people in a few seconds—it makes me good at what I do and why I’m one of the most well liked CEOs in society.

But I can’t read her. And damn, does that annoy me.

Ian laughs next to me. “I see you like curry too.”