“I had my private investigator do a little digging on you,” I say. “Call it due diligence on my part, before I signed a single check over to you.”
Honor comes over to the edge of the stage, looking down at me haughtily. “And your investigator found nothing, because there is nothing to find.”
I give her a tiny smirk. “You’re right. Honor Laurent is a dedicated ballerina and has nothing besmirching her record of excellence.”
She narrows her gaze on my face. “And still, you interrupt my rehearsal with this foolishness.”
I look down at my phone screen. “I had my investigator dig a little deeper. And he found a name you might recognize.” I spear her with my gaze, relishing the moment. “Jessica Pavlova. Does that ring any bells?”
Her breath leaves her in an audible gush. It’s like I knocked the helium from her balloon; she loses the smile and her entire posture seems to shrink. She grimaces and bares her teeth.
In her beautiful face, her expression looks incredibly shark-like. I’m taken aback by the very fact that only two months ago, I would’ve done anything for attention from this woman.
It’s funny how such a small amount of time changed my view. Meeting Kaia didn’t hurt, either.
“I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but they are wrong,” she says. “I’ve never even heard that name.”
A cold laugh bursts from my lips. “No? It’s funny, Devereaux seemed to think that Jessica Pavlova was mixed up with the Russian mafia.”
Honor looks at me, every nerve standing at attention. “You’re wrong.”
But her voice cracks. Her whole being seems to reverberate finely. She’s obviously scared shitless.
I make a show of composing a text. “I have a phone number for a Stanislav. Does that sound familiar? Hmm, what should I tell him?”
Honor clambers down off the stage, suddenly dead serious. “Calum… you wouldn’t. There are things you don’t know…”
I frown down at my phone. “Let’s see. How about something simple? ‘Jessica Pavlova is dancing under the name Honor Laurent’. What do you think?”
I turn the phone to face her. She reaches out and slaps it out of my hand. It flies into the blue velvet covered seats and I glare at her.
“That’s not very good behavior.”
She grabs my arm, her nails biting into my skin. “What do you want?”
My lips curve upward. “I want you gone. I never want to hear your name again. No one that I know should ever see your face. Get out of New York. And most importantly, I am not signing the birth certificate for your unborn kid.”
Honor looks angry. But she also keeps checking behind herself, as though I’ve told the Russians where to find her already. She grips my arm.
“If I go, you won’t say anything to the Russians? Not even a hint?”
I shake her off, brushing my sleeve. “I’m glad you’ve just completely abandoned any pretense. And no, what would be the use of having this juicy little morsel if I just pulled the trigger right now? I thought you understood how blackmail works.”
She wraps her arms around herself, her face puckering. “Fine.”
I cock my head. “Fine what?”
“I agree, okay?! I’ll leave New York City.”
I chuckle. “It’s your funeral if you don’t. If I even think you’re still around, I’m calling in my chit. The Russians don’t give a fuck if you’re pregnant. They’ll kill you anyway. So if you want to live to see that baby grow up—“
“All right!” Honor says.
I just stare at her for several seconds. She stares back, sullen. I check my watch.
“Did I mention that you have exactly one minute to vanish and never be seen again? I guess not. That minute starts…”
Before I can even say now, she pushes past me and starts running toward the double doors at the back of the auditorium. I grin and saunter after her, making it to the doors before I spot Emma.
I arch a brow at her. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Two bright spots of red appear in her cheeks. “Yes. But…” She turns, looking at where Honor just hurried by. “What did you say to her?”
The corners of my mouth lift. “Don’t worry about that. Go tell the understudy that she’s now the solo.”
Eyes wide, Emma nods, rushing off toward backstage. And I just stand here for a second, my heart beat picking up.
Now I just need to figure out how I’m going to make Kaia come back into my bed…
5
Kaia
The buzz of my cell phone ringing brings me swimming up from the depths of murky sleep. It’s early, too early for anyone to be calling. I reach out of my bed and feel around on clumsily made milk crate turned bedside table. Finding the phone, I yank it to my ear, keeping my eyes closed.
“Hello?” I mumble.
“I’m calling for Kaia Walker,” a woman says lightly. She pauses. “It’s Emma Rosenberg. I’m the director at the New York Ballet.”
My eyelids open. In the same electrified movement, I sit straight up, breathing a little hard.
“Yes?” I squeak. My cheeks heat and I push the hair back from my face. “I mean… I know who you are. What can I do for you?”
She clears her throat faintly, amping up the tension I feel. “Well, I was calling to offer you your place back at NYB. It seems that there was some sort of administrative error on our part?”
It’s as much a question as an answer.
My eyes go wide. My mouth opens. I shove back my hair again. “An administrative error?”
Empty-headed? Yes. But it’s all I can think of to reply.
There is a distinct pause. I get the feeling that she’s not doing this on her own. At length, she sighs.
“Yes. Well, the NYB would very much like to correct the administrative error… would you be willing to join us at rehearsals this week?”
My mouth screws to the side. “Did C— I mean, did Mr. Fordham put you up to this?”
I’ve accidentally struck a nerve, it seems. “And if he did? What does it matter how you got here or who asked for you to return? The question is whether or not you want to dance with us.”
My cheeks fill with heat. “Of course, Miss Rosenberg. It would be an honor to return.”
I can almost her thin lipped smile through the phone. “Good. We’ll see you early on Wednesday.”
Before I can say anything else, she disconnects the phone call. I stare at my phone blankly for a moment. My alarm clock begins blaring suddenly, making me panic for a moment.
It’s seven in the morning. The time I normally get up for my morning run.
I turn my alarm off and toss my phone on the bed. Exhaling quietly, I press my face into the bed.
Sucking a breath in, I allow myself one single scream of excitement. After all, I worked my ass off to dance at the NYB. Getting it back is unexpected and nearly sweeter than the first time I heard that I was accepted.
But then I sit up, giving myself a shake. It’s not final until I actually walk into dance class on Wednesday. I can’t go getting my hopes up.