"Ilona," he says warmly, and you smile as he hands you the flowers, kisses your cheek. It's lilies tonight, their cloying scent drifting through your dressing room as you set them gently on a little table.
"You were gone for so long, Sascha," you say, slipping your arms around his neck so he can kiss you. "I was starting to think you'd gotten lost in Siberia or something." His arms around your waist are familiar by now, warm and safe, and his kiss is soft and gentle. He is always gentle with you.
"You were exquisite tonight," he says, and you flush, as you always do. "You are perfection as Odette."
"Please, you're making me blush," you say, and shove him lightly. He smiles, and it sends a shiver down your spine. That smile, so perfect, so attentive and possessive and... something else that you can never quite name. It frightens you, and it bewitches you. "Are we going to dinner tonight?"
"I thought perhaps... we could have dinner at my home. My cook is very talented..." he doesn't need to say more. You will say yes. You will always say yes. To say no would take more courage than you have. Papa would be ashamed - is ashamed - but what can you do against him? He has power over you, could have you thrown in prison for your father's crimes, and yet he cares for you, and holds you tenderly.
"I'll change out of my costume. I'll only be a moment." A smile, and he returns it and exits softly, to wait in the hall. The gossip that he had left you will certainly die tonight, and be replaced by theories of where he was and what he was doing. You think, as you change into your leggings and sweater, that perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if one day he didn't come back. You hate him, or you did once, and no matter how hard you try, you can't see when that changed.
You look at the girl in the mirror as you brush your hair out, and wonder what your papa sees when he looks at you. Does he even see the little girl who worshiped him so devoutly? Or has she been lost in the woman who lets her father's enemy caress her and call her his? When did you stop hating him? Or did you even stop?
Introspection only does more harm than good these days. You pull your hair back again, into a high ponytail, and sling your bag over your shoulder. Let Papa disapprove, let the corps gossip. You step out of your dressing room and take the arm he offers you with a smile. The one you hate the most in all this could put a stop to it at any time. You just don't have the courage.
And so another day passes.