Chapter 7

Solange

When the curtain came down, I felt no relief.

What I felt was the stubbornness that had carried me through those two hours suddenly vanishing—the string that had held every muscle, every nerve in my body taut had snapped at its highest point, and after it broke there was nothing, not even an aftershock, leaving only a hollow dread inside me.

I walked from the stage back into the wings, and the moment I stepped backstage the noise of chatter came crashing over me, though my ears couldn't sort it into anything with meaning. Everyone was talking at once, laughing, crying, some of them arguing over what exactly had happened tonight, voice layered over voice, until I couldn't breathe.

Someone grabbed my arm. The pull nearly slammed me into the wall. I turned slowly and saw who it was—Owen. He clearly had a great deal he wanted to ask me, his eyes still bright with the adrenaline of the performance's end. I had no idea what I could possibly say to him, so I lifted my own arm, pushed his hand away, and kept walking.

Just as I reached the door of the dressing room, Margot appeared in front of me. Her stage makeup was smeared, which made her look even more shaken. She opened her mouth to say something, but perhaps because I looked so terrible she swallowed her words and replaced them with a question that meant nothing at all now. She asked, "Are you all right?"

I shook my head.

She said nothing more, just pulled me into her arms, both hands wrapped around me, her chin resting on the top of my head.

"Poor Solange," she said softly, her palm tracing slow circles across my back. "When I walked out on that stage and saw how few people were in the audience, my heart nearly stopped. You must have been terrified too."

I shook my head again, but this time Margot didn't see; she only held me tighter. I wanted to hold her back with the same strength, but my hands were trembling too badly, so I let her hold me, listening to whatever it was she murmured to me. My mind was blank, unable to make sense of her words at all. I could only listen to the sound of them and treat it as the one thing I had left to lean on.

A crew member came looking for Margot, telling her to turn in her costume. Margot patted my shoulder. "Go inside and rest. I'll be right back."

"Okay."

I stood alone at the dressing room door and pushed it open.

The room was full of gifts.

Boxes of every size were stacked from the vanity down onto the floor, and in the very center of the counter sat a bouquet of white tulips. I stood in the doorway, looking at all these things that nearly filled the room, and for a moment I didn't know where to step.

I didn't go in. I just stood there and looked at them.

I didn't know what was inside, but the careful way they'd been wrapped made it impossible to pretend they were ordinary. I stood there for a dozen seconds or so, doing nothing, only staring, and felt something cold and indescribable crawling up my spine.

In the end I walked in, carefully moved the box off the chair onto the floor, and sat down at the vanity with my back to all of them.

I saw my phone screen light up on the corner of the counter.

An unknown number.

Just one line:

You are more captivating than Giselle.

I stared at the message for a while, not knowing how to reply, not knowing whose number it was. I turned the phone face-down on the vanity—then picked it up again. On the screen was also a long string of unread messages from Tyler.

I'm at the theater

I've got the ticket but I can't get in

Security asked for my ID, said the whole show tonight was bought out for charity, everyone who'd already bought tickets got refunded

Everyone else gets in with their tickets, I'm the only one stuck outside. Solange, come out here, come get me!

They said the philanthropist who bought out the house tonight is Valentin Radu

Oh, so that's the great Valentin Radu

So the man you kissed in the middle of the street yesterday was Valentin Radu

That little kiss of yours really paid off. Congratulations on your successful show, congratulations on finding someone to clean up your mess even when nobody wanted to watch you go up on pointe in the pouring rain, congratulations on landing the great Valentin Radu

Solange, you know what—next time you want to humiliate me, you won't have to make all those phone calls begging me to come all the way from Georgia to New York

I set the phone face-down on the vanity, not finding the strength to send him a single word back.

I just sat there, the boxes lined up so neatly on the counter caught at the edge of my vision.

And suddenly all the misery of the whole night seemed to find its cause.

I'd started ballet at four, given up every hour of rest to practice from the day I started school, trained sleeplessly from fifteen to win competitions, come to New York alone at seventeen to join the NYM Ballet company. At nineteen my mother died, and I began living in New York on my own. I'd been anxious, I'd been afraid, but I never turned back. Until, a little over half a year ago, I'd earned the lead role in Giselle on my own merit—

I'd given everything for it, given up more than most people could ever imagine. And yet, the first time I stood on that stage as the principal—

There was almost no audience.

I didn't know whether my performance had been a success or a failure, just as I didn't know why any of this was happening to me.

It was then that I heard voices in the hallway.

It was Nadine's voice, talking to someone. Her tone was restrained, but I could tell it was good news. The only part I could make out was one line—

The advance on the sponsorship funds has been confirmed. Thank you again, Mr. Radu.

I wasn't sure I'd heard it right. I thought of Nadine's sudden concern for me last night, thought of the boxes that had appeared here on my vanity without my ever asking for them, thought of that name that kept surfacing in Tyler's messages. That name, the one that had come up again and again over the past hour.

Valentin Radu.

Tonight my life had been turned upside down, and no one had ever asked what I thought, what I wanted.

I pushed a small box that had slid to the edge of the counter back into place—and then, suddenly, I saw him in the mirror.

He was standing just outside the open dressing room door, in a dark charcoal-gray suit cut to fit him closely, his shirt a shade lighter, a silver pin at the collar catching the light with a faint gleam. Dark tie, black leather shoes, both hands empty. He simply stood there, so calm you'd never guess he was capable of any of the things he'd done tonight, watching me with a look very much like the one you'd give a prey you'd already marked as your own.

I didn't turn around.

He came toward me.