At some point in the last couple of seconds, Cal put his arm around my back. His hand rests at my hip, sprawling across it, and his forearm, corded as it was when he guided me away from the pole, tells me that I'm not going anywhere.

His body is a warm presence at my side, and with nowhere else to go, my head leans against his shoulder. Even through his leather jacket and sweater, I feel the broad outline of his shoulder, the unnecessarily big and strong muscles in his biceps. If he moved a little closer, he could perch his head right on top of mine, put his other arm around my waist and envelop me completely. Whatever cologne he has on is very, very nice, smelling of wood and exotic spices.

"Mare and I were just leaving," Cal tells Bracken, who stares back at us with glitter in his eyes.

I have to twist my head over my shoulder to glare at Cal.

We've been here for over an hour, but there's still more to see. We haven't snuck back to the dressing rooms, haven't peaked at the stage from its wings, haven't walked into any more poles.

Alexandret grins, his teeth glaringly white. "Well do tell us, Cal, why you were here with Miss Barrow in the first place."

All three of these men are overtly charming with their pretty grins, perfect skin, and eyes that glisten like black stones. Bracken, donned in a very expensive tuxedo, doesn't belong in this plain stairwell, made of grey cement and bland walls.

"Cal and his brother took me to see your ballet," I chime in, feeling Cal's shoulder tense up. "I've never been to the Met, and they wanted to bring me here a few weeks before I start performing." I direct a hand at Alexandret. "Your dancing was . . . amazing. I loved the ballet so much."

Alexandret's grin only broadens. Displeased to hear me compliment Alexandret, Cal shifts his grip a little. Somehow, his hand splays across more of my hip, his fingers finding purchase at my lower stomach.

"Maven had to leave, but I promised to take Mare backstage. I didn't think that we'd be a bother. We haven't run into any of your ballerinas and have steered clear of the stage. She wanted to see everything, and I think that we covered everything. So we'll just be leaving now and—"

"But it sounds as though Miss Barrow hasn't seen the stage," Daraeus chimes in, his accent equally thick and dripping with French.

Yes, these three men are clearly wolves.

They've been whispering about the Academy's new prima ballerina for weeks, reading about her in The New York Times and seeing her photos that the Calores flash across their social media pages. She came out of nowhere and rose to the top in a matter of two months, and now all the ballet world talks about is her Giselle debut.

Mister Calore thinks that they think that I could be persuaded to leave the Academy in exchange for a place at the American Ballet Theatre. The New York City Ballet, apparently, has similar thoughts.

They want to steal me from the Calores.

And in the meantime, these three men seem very inclined to keep me a while longer at the Met.

Bracken's eyes light up a little. He smiles at Daraeus.

"Yes, indeed. Miss Barrow, would you like us to show you the stage?"

"That won't be necessary," Cal returns for me. His presence clings to my side, his steady breaths reverberating through my own skin. "It's getting late, anyway. We'll come back another—"

"Well, if it's getting past your bedtime, Cal," Alexandret interrupts, "I'm sure that the three of us could simply finish your tour of the Met for Miss Barrow. We're in no hurry."

Cal wants to get me out of here. I can feel his warm body as it ponders whether he should just throw me over his shoulder and charge up the steps.

"In fact," Alexandret adds, seemingly full of good ideas, "perhaps Miss Barrow would like to dance on stage. We could call back the orchestra and find her a pair of pointe shoes. Have you seen the room with all of the pointe shoes, Miss Barrow?"

Alexandret must see the way that my eyes glimmer, the eagerness that I'm hardly containing beneath my skin. He knows just where to hit me and exactly what makes my blood boil.

Bracken nods along with Daraeus. "Of course. We're hospitable. And anything for the lovely Miss Barrow. We've heard so many things about your fouettés and grace."

My heart pounds, picking up its rhythm the way that the orchestra did when Manon danced her pas de deux with Des Grieux. Cal and I both know that Bracken, Alexandret, and Daraeus all have their ulterior motives, but I can't bring myself to care.

Feeling a little dizzy, I lean into Cal, grinning like a fool. He relaxes at my touch, knowing that we're not going anywhere now.

"You know you didn't have to stay."

Smiling, Cal peers back at me through mirrors framed in golden lightbulbs.

"Actually, I kind of have to. My dad would have my neck if I let you hang out with Bracken, Alexandret, and Daraeus alone."

I have to press my lips together to avoid smiling too broadly as I sit in my armchair. Like the rest of the Met, it's made of scarlet and gold, the plush cushions like blood and the legs like molten gold.

The dressing room that Bracken deposited us in is something out of my wildest dreams.

It isn't extraordinarily big, measuring no more than two Cals wide and twenty feet across. The ceiling's of normal height, which after being in the Calores' penthouse, feels a little small.

At the far end of the room stands the vanity before which I sit. The mirrors are cut into three squares by the Hollywood lights that dance along the wall. My counter is made out of fine wood, strewn with the things of presumably the ballerina who plays Manon. A leftover bouquet of flowers lays on the wood, along with a curling iron and a hefty box of makeup. The scent of a woman's floral perfume lingers in the air.

The mahogany floorboards wear a plush rug weaved with abstract patterns of red and black. Framed photographs of great ballet dancers in monotone line the cream popcorn wall behind me. On the Met's stage, they arabesque and pirouette in beautiful costumes under the scope of hot lights.

Otherwise, the room bears a plush red couch decorated with a few odd throw pillows. A little lamp with a black shade rests upon an end table. A chaise bears extra pairs of Manon's sweatpants and leotards, and a rack set off to the side holds her costumes. A small flatscreen TV is mounted to a corner of the tiled ceiling. The lighting is warm and intimate in the way that a fireplace is on a cold winter's day.

"I don't know, Cal," I say, sighing. "They seem like three pretty cool dudes. I like them." My hands work to secure a bun, my slender arms sore as they stretch above my head.

Charming Alexandret found a pair of broken-in shoes that I could use, along with a T-shirt, pink tights, and a pair of running shorts that I could exchange my sweater and jeans for.

Once I changed, I let Cal into my dressing room, who took a seat on the red couch. With an arm sprawled across the couch's back, he watches me carefully through the mirrors. I still think he'd throw me over his shoulder and leave the Met if he had the choice.

"Of course you'd think that. You love to abuse me. You enjoy it even more when you just get to sit back and watch Alexandret bully me."

Not only are Mister Calore and Bracken feuding directors of world-class ballet companies, but it seems that Alexandret is Cal's ballet arch-nemesis. They're both young, talented Principal dancers of rival ballet companies, and if I know anything about Cal, it's that he enjoys being the best.

I only say this because before Alexandret got me my shoes and clothes, he told Cal that his turns were trashier than the Academy itself and that his performance last spring in the ballet La Bayadere was pathetic.

He didn't say those things as bluntly as I am, but he certainly insinuated them. His thick French accent made his insults all the better.

My lips spread into a malign smile, confirming that yes, I do love to abuse Cal.

"Well I am an abusive thug, aren't I? Poor Cal."

Cal's throat bobs with laughter as he rests his head back on the couch.

But I force myself to swallow my smile until it's just a shadow. I peer at Cal through the shiny glass, blinking at him through my mascara-covered lashes.

"In all seriousness, though, you didn't have to do this."

Cal tilts his head so that he's looking at me again. His smile is faint like mine. Though we're separated by seven or eight feet, the intimacy of the room makes me feel like I'm pressed up to his side again, his hand on my hip. The Hollywood lights seem to waver as he smiles at me through the mirror.

I sigh, leaning my forearms on the counter once I've secured my bun.

"You probably have way better things to do on a Saturday night. But you took me to the ballet. You don't even like ballet that much. You would've rather gone and seen some weird contemporary recital at a community college in Brooklyn before you'd go see the ballet."

Cal laughs quietly, throwing his head back again.

I whisper my next words, swallowing before I start.

"You knew what you were getting yourself into when you brought me backstage. You knew that you'd . . . you'd practically have to throw me over your shoulder and toss me into a taxi to get out of here. You still might have to. It's almost eleven already, and we're still here. It is past your bedtime, and I know that because it's past mine too. I'm probably messing up your schedule for tomorrow."

I rest my cheek against one of my palms. I'm not happy to see how Cal smiles at my words. He already knows where this is going, already feels like he's breaking me. These are the moments between us that I hate, that come so naturally yet make me so annoyed with myself.

"I've wanted to go to the Met and see the ballet forever, but Mom and Dad never wanted to take me. It was always too expensive, and even when I did have the money, they thought it was a waste of money. My brothers have absolutely no interest in ballet dancing. So yeah, tonight was kind of like a fairytale. I know that I'm probably embarrassing myself with the way that I've been walking into poles and grinning at everything in sight, but it's just so . . ."

I trail off, realizing that I've gone too far now.

I tear my eyes from Cal, but the problem with mirrors is that he can still see my face. My mouth works, and blood rushes to my cheeks.

Perfect. Everything is so perfect.

"So thanks for taking me. It means a lot."

There. That was all I really needed to say.

Through the mirror, I watch Cal as carefully as he watches me. His face, as strong as his jawline is, has a softness to it that he doesn't often let me see. My contemporary teacher leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.

The warm light in the room feels like a nice bubble bath. The Hollywood lights could be candles, and Cal's smile and kind eyes could be the warm water.

"For the record, I was fully expecting that this was going to take hours. I already knew that I was running the risk of, well, running into Bracken and his goons. I knew what I was getting myself into, Mare."

Cal shrugs. His shoulders rise up and descend with easy grace.

"I wanted to take you to the ballet."

Any insult that I could hurl dies long before it reaches my tongue. I bring my foot up to the chair, bracing my heel on it so that I can play with the ribbons.

Bracken, Alexandret, and Daraeus should be back any moment. They're currently running around the Met, scrounging up members of the orchestra that are still around.

"It's so surreal," I mutter. At least with my eyes on my shoes, pink and perfect, I can ignore Cal to some degree.

I could shut the hell up. I could tell him that some mornings I can barely breathe when I wake up, so utterly stunned that I get to dance again. I live in a world that glitters with diamonds, a world where I don't have to sneak up onto my apartment roof to practice my leaps and turns.

This time when I look at Cal, I don't look at him through the mirror.

"I know, Mare," he says.

"So what ballet do you want to do?"

As my pointe shoes tap along the floor of the stage wing, I regard Cal with confusion.

"What do you mean?"

We emerge from the stage wings, past heavy navy blue curtains that could crush me with their weight. The wings and the backstage of the Met are strange places, where shadow mixes with any color of light. The rafters and the rigging, like arteries around a heart, ensconce the stage in their chaos of metal stairs, endless passageways, and endless mechanics.

Seamless grey vinyl, catching the stage lights, meets my feet with every step.

Bracken, Alexandret, and Daraeus walk behind me and Cal. I can feel the fox-like smiles as I take in the Met stage.

They've done something strange with it.

The seats, sprawling towards nothing short of infinity, are little more than pitch-black and exit signs. The fire of the Met is gone, replaced by hollow and lonely darkness that I could throw myself into. The stage lights are blue, turning my arms ghost-white. The space is plenty warm with the heat of the lights, but I have the strange urge to let out a shiver. It looks as though the golden grandeur of the Met has been transformed into a ghostly scene, illuminated by a cold moon and forgotten stars.

The stage of the Metropolitan Opera House seems to be civilization's last stand.

"What ballet do you want to do?"

He repeats his question, now pushing the jacket off his shoulders. It falls to the stage, and a moment later, Cal's pulling his sweater off and adding it to the pile.

I have to put my hand over my mouth at the sight of Cal's black T-shirt that he has on beneath his layers.

Then he kicks off his shoes, revealing plain black socks.

"You want to dance with me?" I point my finger at myself for emphasis.

"The orchestra's waiting," he tells me, gesturing at the pit in front of the stage. It glows with blue and white light, and the faint whispers of a dozen musicians echo throughout the cavern of the Met. "I know that I've been demoted from king to peasant status, but I don't see any other men around that could play the part of your prince consort for the evening."

Bracken, Alexandret, and Daraeus linger in the shadows. When Cal's eyes are on me, bronze fighting against the blue light, it's hard to remember that they're here at all.

I think that Alexandret knows better than to ask me if I'd like to dance with him.

He's thinking the same thing that I am.

Cal would have me over his shoulder and out of the Met faster than I could do a fouetté.

"Fine." I keep my voice casual, even when my body's humming with excitement. The blue light is efficacious in getting a rise out of me, feeling like some sort of wonderland out of a fairytale.

It's so quiet and oddly graceful. The stage of the Met looms all around me. It stretches and distorts into shadows, lights seeping under my skin.

My prince consort waits patiently, hands crossed behind his back.

In his black T-shirt, jeans, and socks, he waits for me.

"I'd like to do Swan Lake, please," I call out, knowing that the orchestra will hear me.

I don't tell them what pas de deux or act I'd like them to play. They don't ask.

A thin sheen of sweat graces my forehead.

Cal's strong hands, one on my ribcage and the other on my thigh, levitate me off the ground. I dangle in an arabesque as he pauses there, arms stretched above his head. Violins weave their mournful tune as he at last lets me down, his own body ragged and exhausted from the ballet.

The theme from Swan Lake strains and throbs throughout the theatre. The violin and harp and bass meld together, sinking into my bones as much as the phantom light does.

He holds onto my hips as I lean down in a split. I pull away, but it isn't long before I come back.

An arm wraps around my waist, his other hand gently touching the edge of my jawline. My own hands hold onto his arm, begging him to stay. His side presses into me again as invisible swans out of the Corp de Ballet would run around us, ballerinas pretending to flap their arms the way that swans do.

Cal knows me well enough to have easily guessed that I spent my tween years obsessively watching pirated recordings of ballets on YouTube. Even better, I spent long hours painstakingly learning the steps myself, playing the recordings on half-speed and dancing with imaginary princes at my studio.

I know Swan Lake like the back of my hand.

Still, it isn't natural how Cal and I move together. We both know the steps, but we've never danced this together, never rehearsed it. But he knows just where to hold my hips, just how to drag his hands along my body.

Or maybe it's so natural that I've just never felt anything like it.

The next counts go by in a blur.

With his hands in mine, Cal leads me to the stage's edge. He kneels, grasping my hips again as I arch my back. His eyes are dark as I catch a glimpse of them in my retreat upstage, and yeah, I guess that Cal does look like my prince in his black T-shirt and faded jeans.

His hair has long since been pasted to his forehead.

Even Cal, for all that he is, looks small on stage.

I have to hold back my breaths. I want to gasp for air, but that wouldn't be very becoming of a ballerina.

We've been dancing for well over an hour, going through the scenes and acts of Swan Lake as though it's all we'll ever do. I forgot long ago how the audience is empty, how only three men watch Cal and I as we waltz across the stage. I've done the thirty-two fouettés as the Odile, the black swan, jumped and leaped as the Odette, the white swan who claims Prince Siegfried's heart. Cal's never complained, never whispered in my ear that it might be time to let the poor orchestra go home.

He rises from his kneel, moving across the stage with grace as he returns to my side. He looks like a hunter sizing up his prey, deciding how fast he'll have to be to catch his swan.

The invisible swans run around us.

I let Cal come to me again, lean into him as his hands lock onto my hips once more.

Plié, leap, plié, leap.

With nothing left to do besides for run around the stage like a deranged swan, I just stop. I touch my hand to Cal's shoulder, telling him that he can be done. I've worked him hard this last hour, making him lift me and leap with me across the stage.

He breathes hard, slouching into me as I lean back into him. His hands forget to leave my hips, and he perches his chin atop my head.

What a silly thing to do.

It's so silly that I don't even bother to slap him away.

In time, the orchestra fades. My heaved breaths don't stop, and neither do Cal's. I gather the sense to look over towards the stage wing, where Bracken, Alexandret, and Daraeus have taken up chairs that some poor stagehand brought them.

They each wear a distinct expression, looking somewhere between confused and inspired. I shouldn't be surprised. It's almost one in the morning.

"Good job, Miss Barrow," Alexandret murmurs, drawing a contemplative fist to his chin. His eyes glance between me and Cal.

They don't know about the ten-year contract that the Calores are offering me. Yet considering the way that Cal holds onto me, they know how hard the Academy will fight to keep me.

I don't know why I would ever leave the Academy anyway.

"Indeed," Bracken returns. "You two should be partners."

The euphoria having worn off, I drag a hand over my face.

Somewhere between the Met and the Academy, I lean my cheek against the cool glass of our taxi, hoping that the city lights will keep me awake.

If I fall asleep in this taxi, I'm not waking up.

So tired, I almost shake with weariness.

Bracken, Alexandret, and Daraeus seemed like they were ready to spend all night talking with me at the Met, but in the end, Cal hauled me back to the dressing room, shoved me inside of it, and told me that it was time to leave.

With hands almost as clever as mine, Bracken managed to slip a piece of notebook paper with his phone number into my purse as we said our tired goodbyes.

Maybe it's the kale smoothies, because Cal's doing slightly better than me.

I force myself to turn over so that my cheek rests against the leather seat of the taxi. Framed by the backdrop of Manhattan's glittering lights, Cal has his hands stuffed in his pockets. He stares at the ceiling of the dark taxi, having no interest in the city that we sail past. At two in the morning, the traffic is as light as a feather, save for the occasional party animal that drives their car in crooked paths and dances on the streets.

I regard my contemporary teacher in the shadows of the cab. Our driver is a disgruntled New Yorker who hasn't said anything our entire ride, content to watch the electric air in Manhattan dance with the revelers.

"Let's go on our run on Monday," Cal says.

He yawns, tilting his head up. His throat bobbles, eyelashes fluttering in exhaustion.

"I told you that I'm busy on Monday," I tell Cal.

When Cal asked me when we were going on our run, I never came up with an answer. I dance from nine to five six days a week, and Cal is off doing things at Calore Industries on Sundays. I spend my early mornings doing barre work, and I'm not about to waste that time with Cal.

"We'll go at night," Cal tells me.

My eyes are practically watering with exhaustion, but I find it in me to widen them.

"Cal, we can't go running at—"

"Why not?"

Well that's a ridiculous question.

I can't just go outside at night whenever I want. I might've thought that I could that night in July, but I can't just go outside at night. It's dangerous for girls, especially little petite ones like me. There are men all over Manhattan that would just love to find me alone, outside, at night, in—

"Oh."

I feel like I just got clubbed in the head with a brick.

I must be delirious from exhaustion.

Cal would be with me.

My eyes trail down Cal's body. He's over six-foot with a football player's sculpted physique. Worrying about strange men coming after me would be out of the question. No one would bother us.

I find his eyes last. They're tired, but I don't miss the glimmer in them that tells me he thinks it's sick that I even have to think about his question.

"We could run on the paths in Central Park. We'd stay in well-lit areas, obviously. But I'd . . . I'd be with you, so you'd be safe."

He sounds embarrassed to say it.

"That would be fun," I murmur stupidly. "It's so pretty at night."

Yes.

I would be safe with Cal. We would run, and I could at last feel what I've seen behind windows and in pictures all of these years. Cal would be my passage into New York City nightlife.

Because truth be told, I don't think that I have any memories of being outside at night.

Save for one.

"Wanna go at eight? I'll pick you up?"

I nod sleepily. I must be getting punch-drunk because I grin at Cal.

"Fine."

"You're warming up to me," Cal says, his thick words bouncing across every surface in the cab.

My lips part, but what he says isn't fair. Not because it isn't true, but because he's attacking out of the blue when he knows that I'm tired.

I blink slowly.

"No. I'm not," I say.

Cal nods. Again and again, hammering in his words.

"It's getting difficult to be cold to me."

More shakes of my head. I blink heavily. "Sorry, Cal. It isn't."

But it is.

Something changed between us tonight.

"I always win, Mare."

I narrow my eyes. In Cal's mind, we're still playing a game, a game that ends with me telling him that he's perfect, ten-out-of-ten and that I actually am in love with contemporary dancing.

The game ends with me dropping my icy facade and acknowledging that Cal and I have a relationship that's much deeper than I like to pretend it is.

"You don't always win, Cal, and you—"

"I'm not talking about Monopoly." Cal shifts so that he too is resting his side against the taxi seat. We could be two lovers lying in bed together. "I'm talking about the long game of business, Mare. And lucky for us, I'm a very patient man."