I haven't been here in over two months.
The heavy curtains at the far side of Mister Calore's office are drawn open to reveal grand panes of glass. With another day of ballet dancing over and the sun gone, Broadway's bathed in the shadows of skyscrapers, and those shadows and the light of neon signs creep into the office.
Not knowing why I'm here, I can do nothing but sit on my hands and glance around. The bookshelves, the lounging space, and the sizable onyx desk that I sit before are the same as I remember them, the polished wooden floor, intricate rug, and chandeliers still grand. I try to take in the little details of the office, like the titles of the business books on the bookshelves and the wood patterns on the desk. It's certainly a lot cleaner than Julian's.
Given the smile Lucas wore as he explained that Tiberias Calore wished to speak with me was enough to keep me from freaking out. If the Calores had somehow discovered my connection with the Scarlet Street Fighters, I'd already be in handcuffs, and that corrupt cop, Dane Davidson, would be here. Instead, Tiberias Calore merely glances through some papers inside of a manila file folder, flipping from one to the next.
I've been here for a solid three minutes, and in that time, Mister Calore has been entirely silent after telling me I'll be just a minute. I'm not sure if it's some sort of business strategy designed to confuse, intrigue, or scare me, but for three long minutes, Tiberias Calore has done nothing but pour through the files in front of him.
I see my name on some of them, and I recognize bits and pieces of the Corps and Principal contracts I've signed.
Like Anabel, Mister Calore was on the bridge when I arrived upstairs. In the seconds before the gunshots went off and the ballroom went dark, I remember how he looked at me as though I was a mystery waiting to be solved. I remember how his chain of diamonds prickled at my collarbones.
"Miss Barrow. How are you?" Mister Calore finally starts, straightening his posture to that of an old dancer. The newest paper he's examining drops from his hand and drifts to his desk, and Tiberias Calore's molten eyes focus in on mine. Though he resembles his eldest son in every way with his thick black hair—though streaked with strands of grey—and tall, muscular frame, I struggle thinking of Mister Calore as a dancer. He looks every bit a businessman as he stares back at me in his suit jacket.
I almost forget his question. "I'm fine," I tell him, finding it silly to say that I'm good. It takes me a moment to echo the question. "How are you?"
The door to the Academy's hall is open, but I wouldn't mind having somebody else with me in this room. You know, when I'm with the Scarlet Street Fighters' mortal enemy, Tiberias Calore.
Mister Calore lets out a humorless chuckle. "I've been better, honestly, Miss Barrow."
If it's been nearly seventy-two hours since the attack, and Tiberias Calore has nothing better to do than sit in his Academy office and talk to me, then yes, I would imagine that he's been better. The FBI and the NYPD have been working more tirelessly than they were this summer after the incident at Cygnet Hydrotech, and yet . . . nothing. Nobody knows anything.
"But I doubt that either of us wants to discuss the events of this weekend. And I have a different matter to discuss with you anyway. About your contract."
I shouldn't be surprised, but I blink at him anyway. My six-figure contract is season-to-season and is otherwise made up of a bunch of legal nonsense that I don't ever think about. Once Giselle is over, I'll sign a new one for the next season—permitting I don't, say, blow out a knee or get arrested for involvement in a terrorist organization—then sign another after that, and so on until the end of my ballet career.
"It's season-to-season," I state the obvious. "What about it?"
Mister Calore shifts the file folder to reveal a clipboard hidden beneath. Clipped to it is a stack of papers that look similar to my other contracts, albeit thicker. "These last two months, Miss Barrow, you have proven yourself to be an extraordinarily talented dancer." Calculating, he keeps his eyes focused on mine so intently it seems as though he's looking for something to use against me. "I'm not around the Academy much, but I hear much from my wife and your other teachers. My son included," he continues, smiling a little. "You're incredibly young, and already you're attracting the attention of the entire ballet world."
A word keeps on playing in my head, a word that's on the tip of my lips but can never come out. The man might wildly intelligent and manipulative when it comes to business, but when I think of Cal's story about his father teaching him to swim and then saving him from nearly drowning, I can't make sense of it. All I see in front of me is a very rich man who once lost his wife to a horrible, watery death and has only a son to remember her by.
Still, the word repeats in my mind.
Murderer.
That's what he is. I try not to let him know that my skin's crawling.
"You exceed Maven for skill, and some might argue that you stand to rival Cal. Your fouettés are beyond compare, and you have the technique of a dancer who's danced professionally for ten years. You can act, you can hold up under pressure—considering the audition that we put you through—and you can fill a stage all by yourself, even when you're only, what, five-foot-three?"
Two, actually.
"You're incredibly young to be dancing a Principal role at a world-class ballet institution. So many heard about you at the gala, and now everybody wants to see the seventeen-year-old dance Giselle at the Metropolitan Opera House. Do you know how much money you made me on Saturday evening?"
Awaiting an answer, he steeples his fingers together.
I think of the Met with its almost four-thousand seats. I think of how much a ticket to the ballet costs. But having no inkling of how many people purchased tickets at those black and gold tables, I shake my head.
"Let's just say that the number is fifty-thousand dollars greater than your annual paycheck," he says, and my stomach, intestines included, flips over. I think of the jewelry, dresses, tuxes, and cuff links of the people at the gala and realize that none of them bought the cheap, nosebleed tickets of the Met auditorium. They bought the balcony seats and those that skim the orchestra pit, probably forking out a couple hundred dollars for a single performance ticket and hundreds more for season tickets. It makes my stomach turn and makes me giddy all at once.
"It's just as much as I was expecting Cal and Evangeline to rake in," Mister Calore says, now placing a hand on his clipboard with the papers. "You handle yourself well in high society, too."
"It's all acting," I say, telling Mister Calore the same thing that I told Cal.
"It often is," he agrees, shifting the clipboard into his grasp. Then he looks at me frankly.
It's a contract that he holds.
And it's longer than a single season.
"The other ballet companies of New York have started to inquire after you. Both the American Ballet Theatre and the New York City Ballet have emailed me—after sending separate letters of condolences for what happened with the terrorists, of course. They claim only to be interested in the success story of a young ballerina, but the directors are wolves in nature. When you've been here for such a short time, they know that you have no loyalties, so they wish to steal you from us."
I blink again.
"Before I offer you what I do, let me preface by saying that you are welcomed to continue signing season-by-season contracts with us for as long as you please. You are also entitled to reach out to whatever other ballet companies you're interested in, and it will not be held against you. Though I must say that it would make a number of our teachers and dancers very sad to see you go. Cal and Maven, especially."
I have to stop myself from either rolling my eyes or smiling at that.
"Miss Barrow. I have in my hand a ten-year contract that will pay you three-hundred-thousand dollars per year."
Something like adrenaline rushes into the pit of my stomach.
"You have a long career of ballet dancing ahead of you. At the Academy, I'm in the unique position of offering my best dancers contracts that no other company can afford. That is in part why I run such a successful business. All I ask for, in exchange, is their time," he explains.
"After your first performance as Giselle, nothing will ever be the same. Newspapers and magazines will want to interview you; The New York Times already does. Designers will want you to model for New York fashion week. You'll be invited to all sorts of social functions because of your talent, even if those functions have nothing to do with ballet. Hollywood's always putting together new movies about deranged ballet dancers-turned spies and whatnot, and they will soon be interested in you for the roles of the dance doubles. Sports brands will want you as a model. And the Academy will make certain that you achieve all of those things."
He wants to make sure that I don't go anywhere, that all of my success and fame is attributed to here and nowhere else.
He wants me to belong to the Manhattan Dance Academy for ten years.
He thinks that I'm profitable enough, young enough to make that sort of investment in.
"Ten years is a long time," I murmur, staring at the papers in Mister Calore's hand.
Not to mention that I don't know what will become of the Academy if the Scarlet Street Fighters get their way and take the Calores down. Not to mention that I won't be able to fulfill my end of the contract if I'm found out by the Calores.
"Yes," Mister Calore agrees. "But you love ballet dancing. You love the Academy. Your contract will pay you more than you'll be able to find at any other ballet institution. I consider it the dream of most ballet dancers to have a contract that lasts as long as the one that I offer you."
Dumbly, I stare at him.
He makes it sound as though I should be happy to sign away ten years of my life to the Academy.
At the same time, Scarlet Street Fighters aside, I can find no reason to contradict him.
"Do remember that you're perfectly welcome to continue signing season-by-season contracts," Mister Calore reasons, even as he hands me the clipboard.
I take it but can't bring myself to look at its inky black font, and instead, I rest it on my lap. I ask the question that lingers in the air. "How long do I have to sign it?"
Mister Calore smiles, his grin fox-like. Ever the businessman, he's pleased to see that I've caught on: businessmen don't like to be kept waiting.
"Why don't we say that you may have until the evening of your eighteenth birthday to sign the contract. That's a little less than two months away, correct?"
I nod, knowing that Mister Calore knows exactly when my birthday is.
"And should you sign it, I do have something else to offer you."
My stomach turns again.
"You've grown up in an apartment in East Harlem," he states.
"Yes," I return, giving him nothing.
"You have four siblings, a mom and a dad."
"Mm-hmm."
"Wouldn't it be nice to get them all out? I'm aware that none of you like it there."
My breath catches in my throat, the air seeming to still within it. Or maybe it's my lungs, and they've just decided to stop working. Maybe it's all in my head.
My hands clench, one closing in on the rim of the clipboard and the other digging into my chair.
An entire reality, one that I've thought impossible for so long, suddenly flashes before my eyes.
As I stare at Tiberias Calore, trying to dissect him as much as he is me, I come to the conclusion that he talked to Maven before inviting me here. Because there is nobody else that Mister Calore is connected to that could've told him anything about me or my family that would bring him to what he's now suggesting.
"You could just get a mortgage and purchase a house yourself. In fact, I would guess that's your current plan," he goes on, hitting an impossible number of nerves as he confirms what I thought.
Mister Calore once tried to buy a house for Coriane's parents as an apology for eloping with her.
"Don't mistake what I'm offering you as a gift. It would be a payment for your end of the deal—a bonus, if you will. I would write you a check for anything under two-and-a-half million dollars. If that does interest you, I'd recommend starting with Long Island in your house hunting. There are so many beautiful homes out there."
Like a deer caught in a set of headlights, I continue to stare at Mister Calore.
The diamond necklace was just the start. Wanting to know something that he could use against me, he probably beat it out of Maven. Now Mister Calore knows a little something about me, something, that one day, he could use against me. Because even if I snuck out the window of my apartment two months ago, my family still means more to me than anything else in the world does.
But for now, he's offering me an out. He's giving me the chance to get my entire family out of East Harlem for good, and he'll make it a clean cut, too.
While he might claim that it's part of the deal, something deep down inside of me knows that part of it, at least, is indeed a gift.
A house.
That was what my family wanted before Dad got into his crash.
The very idea of getting out of that small, suffocating apartment hurts.
"Well. Anyway, that's that." Mister Calore smiles, and the gesture leaks a strange amount of warmth to it. "Think it over, have somebody read the contract, and let me know your decision. We'll also be looking to schedule that New York Times interview soon."
The businessman knows he's left his mark, granting me the world in exchange for ten years at the Academy. My silence is enough indication of that.
I can only nod, having to remember my grace as I rise up from the chair to leave. I don't extend my hand out to shake his, and deciding that my nod is enough, I don't say thank-you to a deal that feels both impossibly binding and liberating.
I take in the brick walls and heavy curtains and intricate chandeliers again as I make my way for the opposite side of the room.
"Oh, and Miss Barrow?"
All-too-ready to leave this room behind, I have trouble turning around myself.
"Yes, Mister Calore?"
He offers me another smile, and it takes on an edge of Cal's signature grin.
"As I'm too busy myself, I've discussed with Cal all of this, and he told me that he would be happy to convince you to sign the contract. From what I've heard, you two don't get along well, but my son does enjoy a good challenge when it comes to business. I think you'll find him to be very persuasive."
Just a half an hour later, I find myself walking with Shade at a brisk pace down a street.
I'm not sure what he needs, but Shade texted me, asking me to come over to his apartment. Once I got there and knocked on the door, he wasted no time in telling me that we were going someplace else.
Someplace, apparently, that he could not disclose in his text.
My Converse, now feeling extraordinarily inappropriate for wherever we're going, beat down the sidewalk in time with my brother's boots. My hair's tied up into a ponytail higher than usual for me, little hairs flying out my headband after dancing all day. My jeans are a light blue, and my tan coat that extends to my knees stands out in the lamplight.
Meanwhile, Shade wears enough black to rival a goth with his black baseball hat, black clothes, and black boots. He might as well blend into the chilly night air.
We've gone into Chinatown, the neighborhood bordering Little Italy. New scents from restaurants leak into the air, but the sounds of Manhattan are the same. The buildings are made of bricks and look akin to those on Shade's street. Cars and people go about their business as they always have. I try to appreciate the lights, still electric and loud and yet infinitely more subtle than those of Times Square. Tonight, I think I find a strange beauty in them.
"This way," Shade says, pointing a gloved hand to the beige building on our side of the sidewalk.
The ground floor contains no restaurant or set of doors, nor a wall. Instead, it's completely open and hollowed-out, with the occasional car emerging from within it. Ah. Excellent. Whatever we're doing tonight involves one of New York City's grungy parking garages.
I make to cross to the right side of the entrance, where Shade and I can walk down to whatever car we're heading for.
But at the last minute, a slick black Mercedes with tinted windows glides out in front of me from the exit side of the parking garage. It stops so that I'm right in front of its back door.
Not needing Shade to tell me that this is our car, I don't think twice as I grab the door handle and pull it open. I look over my shoulder at Shade. "You guys really have a flare for the dramatics, don't you?"
Pitch black looms in front of me, and a melody of silence dances in my ears.
I feel the soothing motion of a fast-moving car beneath me, but I have long since lost any idea of where I might be headed. My hands stay folded together in my lap, and I rest my head against a very comfortable leather seat back, half-considering taking a little nap before we arrive at our destination.
The driver of the car—an older, small woman who wears a beanie and sunglasses, effectively covering half of her face—that I have yet to talk to handed both me and Shade blindfolds and noise-canceling headphones before pulling out the rest of the way onto the street. She didn't say anything, but was clear enough then that she wanted us to put them on, and it's clear enough what they're for.
Neither Shade nor I can know where we're headed. The Scarlet Street Fighters won't take any chances. They won't take any chances when bringing us to what I can only imagine is one of their lairs.
Because this way, if the Calores ever find out what I am and what I've done, I won't have anything to give them.