When sleeping fails, I do some ballet.
My Academy sweatshirt and a pair of grey sweatpants keep me insulated. My hair is wound up into its bun for the day, and I'll go back to my bathroom counter for hairspray later. A pair of Nike crew socks warm my feet. It isn't good when a ballerina gets cold feet.
It would be a shame if I got cold feet.
Maven and I left Shade's apartment after eleven last night, taking separate taxis back to Billionaires' Row and the Academy, respectively. My night was full of tossing and turning that ended with me getting up just past seven.
My mind buzzes. My skin is cold with exhaustion, and my head is heavy with anxiety.
Tyton was right. What the Scarlet Street Fighters are pulling tonight at the Plaza Hotel is absolute, total, and utter shit. It's Mission Impossible-level shit. But if there ever was a good night to pull off a Street Fighter scheme, it would be when the alcohol was flowing freely for high society.
Shade's apartment was crawling with Street Fighters. The usual characters were there, along with a man named Harrick, the older woman named Nanny, and Farley's dad. Willis Farley didn't take well to Maven, barking questions at my boyfriend and otherwise silently glaring at him. As though his eyes alone could tell if Maven is double-crossing me. They couldn't. Mine can't.
Three hours.
The Scarlet Street Fighters spent three hours meticulously detailing everything that Maven and I are expected to do this evening at the Plaza. Our parts, with choreography no less precise than Giselle's, are only two roles in a performance with many acts.
If only for a night, the Scarlet Street Fighters are happy that Maven's my boyfriend. I'd have no excuse to go to another high society party otherwise.
You know, to pull some Mission Impossible-level shit.
Shade and Farley will lash out later. Shade will tell me that I've lost my mind, that I'm putting my heart on the line when I could just as easily keep it safely in my chest. Farley will tell me that I've gotten too close, that I've wasted my potential as a spy. Dating a Calore is no good. I can't be impartial anymore.
I couldn't break into Mister Calore's office without smiling at Maven and Cal's Disney World photograph. I won't be able to toss Maven aside and look out for myself if I ever have to.
I watch myself in the mirror of Julian's studio. Behind me, Midtown's skyscrapers shimmer with rising sunlight.
Instead, I track myself, watch my shoulders, my ribs, and my hips as I shift my feet at the barre. My baggy clothes blur the shape of my body, but I still feel the tension in my muscles. My butt, hips, thighs, and calves ache, burn with every plié and rond de jambe.
It's easier to focus on the ache in my calves than think about the things that I have to do tonight.
Soreness is nothing new. I tried to ignore the ache in my calves yesterday. I rolled them out, let hot water pound on them in the shower. I stretched them and massaged them before bed.
They still ache. A day of grueling floor work in Blonos's studio didn't help, nor did rehearsal.
They say that the second day is when you're the sorest.
I ran with Cal on Monday. It's Wednesday.
That run was too much. I went too far, too fast. I let myself forget that I hadn't run since this summer, too consumed with ballet. I let my rivalry with Cal get the better of me.
I doubt that Cal felt any pain when he woke up on Tuesday morning.
It felt great in the moment, but now it hurts like hell.
My calves are tight, stiff, and sore. Every jump and every turn aches. Walking along the Academy halls to come downstairs hurt.
Yup. Cal probably jumped out of bed on Tuesday morning, dropped down onto his bedroom floor to do a few hundred push-ups, and hit the gym for leg day. His calves don't hurt.
I have to run thirteen miles with him on Saturday.
The thought of Cal beating me in a race makes my blood simmer. Oh, how he'd like to win against me. He's probably already gotten the tickets. He's probably already poured over the course map the way that I have, already looked at the weather to see what he'll wear, already thought about how to aggravate me and drive me—
"Miss Barrow. Mare. Maven said you'd be here. You wake up far too early for a girl your age, you know."
I flinch out of my angry, distracted reverie at the familiar woman's voice. It's kinder than usual, though I still sense coldness and monotony beneath the attempted warmth.
"Agreed. You work too hard.."
A warmer, older voice chimes in.
I shift my feet so that I'm looking at Elara and Anabel, who unlike me, are all ready for the day. Maven's mom wears stylish navy blue pants and a pristine white trench coat over a bone-white sweater. Her black heels look painful to walk in, and expensive jewels line her wrists and ears. Her pale blonde hair is tied back in a low, flawless ponytail.
Anabel, on the other hand, has discarded her power suit for a pale pink sweatshirt that has some inspirational grandma quote on it. She wears a pair of Adidas training pants that remind me of somebody else and a pair of floral printed sneakers. She looks like a modern grandma.
"Hi." The single syllable flops from my mouth rather stupidly.
My bun is decent, but the rest of me is hardly up to par with the two Calore women. They smile back at me, one smile more artificial than the other. I probably looked angry and tired before Elara knocked me from my daydreaming.
I let myself lean against the barre, bracing my forearm across it.
"What can I do for you ladies?"
Elara parts his lips, revealing unnaturally white teeth. "Well, actually—"
"It's actually what we would like to do for you," Anabel says, cutting off Elara. She starts forward until she's within reaching distance of the barre. "You work too hard. You deserve a day off."
I trail her eyes, eyes that glimmer with curiosity. It takes me all of a half-second to remember that Grandma knows.
Intent on speaking, Elara clears her throat. "I was elated to hear that Maven asked you to be his date for the party tonight. He usually hates going to these sorts of things, but he was so excited when he told us last night. All he does is talk about you these days."
I nod along. I can't help the smile that blossoms upon my face.
Anabel speaks again.
"We wanted to take you out for a little shopping today. We'll find you a beautiful dress for the party this evening and a perfect pair of heels. Short women like us need them to survive. And some jewelry, too. We could have some lunch, get our hair and makeup done. It's important that I get to know the girl that my grandson likes."
Elara gets a little closer, her heels clicking against vinyl. "Since this is so last-minute, I thought that we could go out together. It's important that you look the part if you're dating a Calore." Not entirely hiding her irritation, Elara nods at Anabel. "Anabel heard about my idea early this morning, and she insisted on dragging herself along."
Elara looks like she all-but threw Anabel down a flight of stairs to shake the older woman off her tail. Anabel looks at Elara as though her glare alone can make Maven's mom evaporate from thin air.
"Well, I went over to the penthouse this morning to see my son and his boys, and I happened to find Elara talking to Tibe about how she wanted to take you out to Fifth Avenue." Anabel rests a wrinkled hand on the barre.
I blink at the woman, knowing that Maven doesn't wake up until eight. Anabel went to the penthouse to see her son and Cal.
The longer I glance between Elara and her mother-in-law, the more I notice the tension between them. Their words are disjointed. They're not listening to each other as they take turns speaking. They must have a case of that classic daughter-in-law, mother-in-law disdain for one another.
"It sounded like too fun of an opportunity to pass up. We'll ditch. A day off from ballet sounds nice, no?"
I raise a brow at that. "I don't think Blonos would take well to—"
Elara offers up a nonchalant wave of her hand. "We'll ditch. If it makes you feel better, I'll text Bess that you're taking the day off."
Not so far from Billionaires' Row, Elara, Anabel, and I stroll down Fifth Avenue like three queens.
I'd never take Gisa to this part of Fifth Avenue. She'd lose her mind here, where it would take all of five minutes to decimate my bank account. Here, glassy, glistening stores mix with those of elegant, creamy stone. Gold facades dance along storefronts, their names written in formidable Serif fonts. The towering doors to the luxury shops look like grand gates with their wrought-iron trims. The sidewalks shimmer as no sidewalk has the right to. Advertisements don't bombard every surface the way that they do in Times Square.
Flags flap in the cool breeze, and leaves from the small trees embedded in sidewalks sigh. Manhattan's autumn has been blessed by crystalline blue sky and crisp, clean air. But today, the city's overcast. The sun's gone, replaced by grey, motionless clouds. They leech the color from Fifth Avenue, taking away a little of the storefronts' glimmer. It'll rain later this evening.
At my right, Anabel walks in her cute sneakers. She looks at me through wire-rimmed sunglasses, but I can hardly see her eyes beneath the dark glass.
It's not sunny outside, but I suppose that Anabel can wear sunglasses if she wants.
"The jewelry is especially important. We'll have to find you a nice necklace, a bracelet or two, and a pair of earnings. It was a terrible oversight on Tibe's end at the gala. I know that he bought you that diamond necklace, but it just isn't appropriate for a girl not to have any earrings or bracelets. We assumed that you would figure that out yourself."
Elara's heels click at my left. After dancing for years, her feet must have gone numb.
I hold back my wide eyes. She doesn't mean anything snarky by her comment. I remind myself that Elara Merandus is an unfiltered woman of high society who spends her days telling ballerinas what they're doing wrong. Still. I blink a couple of times at her words.
Elara and Anabel have decided to ask for forgiveness rather than permission from Bess Blonos. They also decided that I wasn't getting a choice in whether I went on this trip with them or not.
We took a town car from the Academy after I got dressed. I told them that the stores didn't open until ten or eleven, but they more or less told me that Calores are above store hours.
"Come now," Anabel tells me. She motions a hand towards a building of ten stories. Its facade is made of glass, black stone, and gold, sitting elegantly upon the street. "Let's go find you a dress."
They put me on a pedestal made of marble.
Lush lilac curtains cut through the air of the ample-sized room, offering me some semblance of privacy as I change. Racks of lavish dresses await me atop pale carpet, and veneered alcoves filled to the brim with more dresses corner me. I get overwhelmed with the colors, so rich and vivid that I'm afraid to sneak any looks at the tags hidden within the fabric. Otherwise, the arching walls and carved ceiling are perfect with white paint, so white that it could blind me.
Clawed-foot mirrors and mahogany chairs decorate the windowless room. Past the curtains extend rooms of elegantly dressed mannequins and racks of clothing. Purses and jewelry and everything else that one could ever desire wait throughout the halls. The scent of a crisp, temperate autumn day dances around in the air. The muffled sound of slow-moving, irritated traffic sneaks through the walls.
Two silent women come and go, always bearing new racks of dresses as they slip past the curtains. They've been taught to only speak when spoken to, considering how they duck their heads whenever I catch their gazes. They look young, but they dress older, wearing chic dresses accompanied by modest heels. More often than not, they only nod at Elara's requests. They move so fast that I can hardly get a look at either of them.
With their Calore privileges, Anabel and Elara have made it so that I'm waited on like a queen. The store won't open for another two hours, so we have these hallowed, expensive halls to ourselves.
I eye at myself in the closest mirror as I push my shoulders out of a loose dove grey dress that leaves me with even less of a figure than I had in the first place.
Anabel and Elara lounge in the two identical chairs behind me. Elara sits with her hands folded in her lap, arching an eyebrow at I don't know what. Sunglasses now balanced on her forehead, the older woman allows her posture to sink into the chair.
I shouldn't feel self-conscious in my bra and underwear around a grandma and my ballet mistress, but I still reach for the robe that dangles from the edge of a nearby rack. It isn't as nice as Cal's robe, but it's white, silken, and made for the rich.
"Elara, I think it's about time for me to have a nice coffee drink. There's a Starbucks around the corner, I believe. There's another one around the other corner, too."
I watch Anabel through the mirror as she pastes on a sweet smile. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was real.
"Be a dear and go fetch me one? I would ask one of these ladies, but I don't think that the store would take kindly to that. You know how I get if I don't have my mid-morning coffee. And you know that I do like—"
"Pumpkin spice," Elara finishes.
She wears an eerily similar smile to Anabel. I wonder if they always act like this or if they're just putting on airs for my sake.
Elara's eyes catch mine in the mirror as I tie my robe. "And what would you like?"
I match their smiles. "Use your judgment." I doubt Elara will take no for an answer if I tell her I don't want anything. "I like caffeine."
As though she can't get away from her mother-in-law fast enough, Elara hops up from her seat in a sleek motion and disappears behind the curtain.
Anabel's up just as fast, slipping between two racks heavy with cocktail dresses. With her aging hand, she plucks a satiny dress off the end of one rack. It's the color of an unforgiving red wine that could be mixed with fruits to make a sangria. It would extend just past my knees if I were to put it on, and a slit would travel up to my mid-thigh. The straps would loop over my shoulders, and the neckline would curve between my breasts.
"You like it?"
She only speaks three words, but they seem different. There's no air to her eyes when I glance at her. Elara's departure has lifted a weight from her. Her smile is just warm and ordinary, but it carries secrets too. Grandma still knows.
She wanders around the rack so that we're standing side-by-side in the mirror. With the pedestal, I have six inches over her, and it makes me feel like I should step down.
"You're a very pretty girl, Mare," Anabel tells me. Her eyes continue to glimmer, and it starts to feel as if she knows more secrets than I do. "It's no wonder that my grandson likes you. Of course, he likes you for other reasons too. You're so incredibly talented for your age. You should be proud of that, you know. You're resilient, clever, and a little on the manipulative side. But some men like being manipulated by women. It makes everything more exciting and challenging."
My face heats as she speaks.
"I've never manipulated Maven that bad," I mutter.
Anabel shrugs, offering me the dress. Dumbly, I take my robe right back off.
She knows. Grandma knows.
Elara, for everything that she is, cannot possibly hear us from halfway out of the store.
"I know you know," I whisper, stepping into the silk.
Anabel laughs, and the sound of her chuckling makes me melt a little. "I know that you know that I know. Cal told me that he told you that he told me about your encounter with him."
Don't blush.
Don't blush.
Don't blush.
More blood rushes to my face with her every word.
I try to spit out more words, tell her about something, anything. "I was outside. I didn't want to be at home. There were reasons for that. I saw him, and I didn't really think about it. He looked like an easy target, like he wasn't really paying attention to anything. I was wrong about that."
The dress slides up my body, and I let the straps settle over my shoulders.
"So you were wandering the streets aimlessly. At night. Looking for a man or two to steal from. He must've made you nervous when he grabbed your wrist."
I think of his hand and how it encircled my wrist. If he had held on longer, it would've begun to bruise. Even with his loose jeans and zip-up on, I could tell then that he was a man of pure muscle. He had a hundred pounds on me.
She's a woman too. It's not like she doesn't know the answer.
But I can barely remember the rush of adrenaline that came over me when I first saw his eyes, first bothered to really look at him and realize how big he was compared to me.
"For all of five seconds, yeah. Then I realized he was harmless."
"Oh, yes. Cal's quite harmless. So harmless that it would've killed him if you hadn't let him walk you home. He's a gentleman like that."
She pauses for the first time. Her eyes flicker a little. Anabel looks me up and down, surveying my dress. She's never had a daughter, and she only has two grandsons. Still, her touch is motherly as she brushes my hair away from the dress strap.
"He's quite the gentleman, in fact. One of the last of his kind. It was always important to me that he had a woman in his life to make sure that he didn't turn out too . . . brutish. I tried my best to tell him how to treat the ladies in his life, and I think he turned out quite nice, actually."
I don't let my face change as I realize what Anabel means.
Cal's mom has been passed away since he was an infant.
All boys need their mothers, but somebody took Cal's mom away from him.
For a moment, Anabel's eyes darken, lost in some far-off memory. "But yes. He's quite the gentleman. And it seems that letting him walk you home worked out in your favor."
Her words peel back another layer of the story. It might not be fair, but it begins to explain why Anabel hugged and kissed and doted over Cal at the gala while she barely bat an eyelash at Maven. To Anabel, Cal needs her. He needs her guidance, her love, all because of a tragedy that never should've happened. Elara and Maven never should've come into the picture. And Maven already has a mom.
I find myself nodding.
Cal is a gentleman in every sense. He might be an aggravating gentleman, but he's a gentleman nonetheless.
With nothing left to say, I look back to the mirror.
The sangria dress fits nicely. It slopes over the subtle curves of my hips. The slit reveals my tanned leg, and the straps dance along my collarbones. The neckline sweeps down, arching along the pathway of my breasts and sloping further down between them. When I turn myself around, I admire how the fabric cuts down in a steep curve along my back. I don't think that Mom would like this dress much.
It's red too.
It's not vivid, audacious Street Fighter red, but it fits the occasion.
Anabel's smiling again. "Well?" She steps up onto the pedestal with me, placing a hand on either of my shoulders. "You look like a Calore to me."
The day passes in a way that should defy the laws of time.
Every moment spent with Anabel and Elara feels drawn out. Still, I wish that time would pass slower. Or stop altogether.
By mid-afternoon, Anabel decided that she had tired out. A pumpkin spice latte was hardly a match for endless dresses and heels. Our lunch at some upscale, upper-class restaurant off Fifth Avenue was exhausting. Anabel and Elara took turns asking me all sorts of questions about ballet and whatnot. Anabel also made time to ridicule Elara in the most passive-aggressive senses possible. Even Anabel got tired of that after a while.
Elara and I had our hair, make-up, and nails done in silence at a luxury salon that overlooks Central Park. It was like a breath of fresh air to sit back and put in my AirPods while my nails dried.
Now I walk in a pair of two-strap, glossy black stilettos with scarlet undersides. The dress still looks nice on me. Extending just past my knees with the dress, I have on a new black coat that matches the sleekness and shimmer of my heels.
Elara forced me to buy a useless clutch too.
The purple, near-black polish on my toes and fingers seems to sparkle.
Not knowing what to think of myself, my reflection stares back at me through glass. Mascara makes my eyelashes bold and full, foundation makes my skin smooth and perfect. Light lines of black liner arch around my eyes, and pink-gold eyeshadow graces my eyelids. My hair is woven into loose braids that become an elegant bun at the nape of my neck.
"As a, um . . . very perceptive girl, Mare, I'm sure you noticed that there's a bit of tension between me and Maven's grandmother."
My fingers grace the glass. Beneath the panes rest displays of diamonds and gold.
I force myself to laugh a little. "Mmm-hmm. Is Anabel one of those mother-in-laws?"
On our last stop of the day, Elara takes me to one of Fifth Avenue's jewelry stores. Like so much of the long avenue, the store seems to be bathed in gold. It has the feel of an old mansion with its winding staircases, jeweled chandeliers, and walls made of walnut wood panels. Wrought-iron balconies overlook the showrooms from another floor of the jewelry store, and arrangements of muted chairs and striped chaises rest in between the showrooms. Men in designer suits and women in sharp dresses waltz across the rooms, wearing decadent watches and jewelry of their own.
Displays arch in circles and line the margins of the room in their opulent glory. Tall glass cases house necklaces that dangle from black bust displays. The shallow cases set into golden tables hold bracelets, earrings, and rings that wait upon beds of velvet. Gaudy diamonds, severe emeralds, and outrageous sapphires glitter in the midst of gold and silver. Watches embedded with pearls, rings that feature animal faces made of precious gems, and bracelets the length of forearms are among my favorites.
Every jewel and every design that a vain woman could ever want waits in this store.
Past my reflection, I stare down at a set of jewelry. A necklace constructed of woven gold chains accompanies a watch encrusted with diamonds. Gold lines the black strap, thin spirals enclosing the leather on either side. A set of gold stud earrings are carved so that they look like the heads of roses.
Gold, gold, gold.
"Anabel's always been a horrible mother-in-law to me. She's passive-aggressive and criticizes me every chance that she gets. She certainly preferred Coriane to me. Cal's mother."
Elara's words come after a long pause, so it takes me a moment to draw myself from my looking. I don't want to be here. This place sends my skin crawling.
This place makes me feel like I'm in over my head.
At first, I open my mouth to speak. Then, I promptly close it.
Elara blinks at me. Her eyes look a little dead, even with her fresh coat of mascara. She too is all dressed up in a pair of silver heels and a navy blue dress that reveals her bony chest and muscled calves. She's the ghost of a ballerina.
"You're wondering why Anabel doesn't like me," Elara states. She rests a polished, bejeweled hand atop the case. "Yes?"
It's my turn to blink. I'm pretty sure that Elara notices my swallow.
"Oh, Elara, that's not my business. I know that a lot of mother-in-laws—"
Elara holds up an appeasing hand.
"You're getting to be a part of our family now, Mare. You might as well understand it."
Her icy, steely gaze destroys any resolve I have. I find myself nodding along. Just as quickly, it destroys the suited man's resolve. He approaches us quickly in his fine ensemble and slick hair, eying Elara with both fear and excitement. He isn't the first jeweler to approach us, to ask if we'd like to sit down for a consultation or have jewelry brought to us in a private sitting room. It isn't often that any jeweler sees a Calore in the flesh.
Elara sends a hand flicking outward, telling the man that we have no interest in his consultations. Her eyes add another layer of intensity. Like a fly swatted down, the man turns away before he has the chance to open his mouth.
"Tibe and I married not even a year after Coriane passed away. What a terrible thing that happened to her." Elara's voice is a murmur, lest any socialite wandering around picks up on our conversation.
"But as soon as Coriane was out of the picture, all of the rich daughters of Manhattan were after Tibe again. He was still plenty young. They would send him cards and voicemails offering him their condolences along with invitations to dinner and parties. A marriage to a Calore is an incredible thing, you know. A Calore man can give you everything that your heart will ever desire. He can do anything, save for resurrecting the dead. If he could, Tibe would've."
Elara pauses. She releases a heavy breath of minty air. I stand perfectly silent as goosebumps raise on my arms.
"Tibe was sick of the women and the mutters across the city. A man as powerful and as rich as he had no business staying single for so long. He could have any woman he wanted.
"We were ballet partners back then. We had been promoted to Principals just before Coriane passed. We spent a lot of time together dancing, but we were hardly friends. We were hardly interested in one another. To be honest, I had never really thought about marrying, though I had wanted a baby of my own. Ballet was hard on my body. I didn't have it in me to last until I was forty the way that Anabel did.
"So one day, during one of our last rehearsals for our own Giselle, I asked Tibe in my very own studio if he wanted to get married. I was a high society girl too, after all, and I was facing pressure from my parents to get married. I told him that it would be a . . . political marriage. A mutually beneficial relationship. My parents would finally leave me alone, and Tibe wouldn't have to worry about those other girls or the things that Manhattan was saying about him."
I find myself pinching my lips together. This story complements Julian's in an odd way.
I shouldn't, I should never, but I feel pity for Mister Calore.
"My only condition for Tibe was that I wanted one baby. That was all. We didn't have to have a relationship otherwise, not if we weren't in the public eye. He could mourn for Coriane. Tibe had planned to be done with ballet as soon as his contract ended—his father had forced him to finish out his contract. But his father was also looking to retire from Calore Industries, and I guess that Tibe didn't want Cal to spend his days with strange nannies. He wanted to be with Cal until he went off to kindergarten. But I wanted a baby. He agreed to give me one. Maven. Anabel has always hated me for what I did. She thinks that I went after Tibe when he was at his weakest, took advantage of him, and had a baby with him when his heart wasn't in it."
Ah.
Another piece falls into place.
Cal was Tibe and Coriane's baby. Tibe and Coriane loved each other. Tibe only ever wanted Coriane.
Maven was a business transaction.
"And as the perceptive girl that you are, you also know that Maven and Cal are not the same in their father's eyes. Cal is the heir to Calore Industries, Cal is the star dancer of the Academy, and Cal is the son that my husband prefers. But I'm sure that my son has told you a few things about that."
Something melts in Elara's eyes, and I swear that I see something motherly.
"He adores you, you know. Nobody has ever made Maven feel the way that you do. You make him feel special. Wanted. Liked. You listen to him, and you see him, and he adores you for it. He's only ever been Cal's brother. He's never had something that his brother hasn't. Now he has a pretty, wildly intelligent girlfriend. According to him, anyway."
I already feel my cheeks turning red as they did with Anabel.
Maven thinks that I'm pretty and wildly intelligent.
"I like him too," I say quietly. "He makes me feel all of those things too."
Elara smiles before her face returns to its stony disposition.
"Do you like the earrings? The necklace? The watch? All strong women wear watches."
The day gone, Manhattan turns indigo as the sun departs from the earth.
I feel somewhat disgusted with myself. I let Elara tell the jeweler that I would like to try on the rose-shaped gold earrings, the fine gold necklace, and the black and gold watch. She had me try on two matching bracelet chains made of diamond and ruby. And then I let Elara swipe her credit card for me.
It's not like I have much of a choice in the matter. I am dating a Calore, and the Scarlet Street Fighters are forcing me to go to the evening party at the Plaza Hotel.
So for once, I didn't look at the tags and I swallowed my pride.
I suppose that a couple of bracelets and some gold costs no more to the Calores than a loaf of bread does to my family.
I push open the jewelry store's glass door as I make my departure. Elara's still inside looking for a new pair of earrings for herself. My heels click against marble and then against cement. Finding the breeze, my glossy coat lifts away from my dress even as I find a chill in the air. The gold and the diamonds feel cold against my skin.
The reflections of red taxi lights dance across the sidewalks along with the store lights. Midtown looms as it always has, but there's electricity in the air tonight. Maybe it comes from the gooseflesh on my skin or the congested lines of cars that inch down the avenue. Clouds swell overhead, turning indigo into black. They're more urgent than they were this morning, itching for a downfall. The lights of the city glimmer, defiant of the night.
A stretching limousine that matches the shine of my shoes waits in front of the store. It sports a black body, silver wheels, and tinted windows.
I see Evangeline first, who's taken to sitting atop the hood of the Rolls-Royce limousine. Her nails are filed into black claws. She wears dark purple lipstick and smokey eyes. Evangeline's metallic silver dress wraps around her tightly, but like me, her hips and breasts have been destroyed by ballet. Still, she shows off a little cleavage with her sweeping neckline, and her long legs are tan and lean. She wears these garish chains of gold and sapphire around her neck, and her arms are lined with chunky silver bracelets. Outrageous hoops dangle from her ears, and a couple of rings line her fingers. A luxurious coat hangs from her elbow.
Unfortunately, she's wearing the same heels as me.
"Hey."
Maven leans against the other end of the limo. His tux makes him look taller and perfectly captures his lean dancers' body. His polished shoes catch the red lights of taxis, and his silver cufflinks, pinning together the sleeves of his white turn-down shirt, sport little rubies. How fitting for the evening.
His curly hair is tamed with gel. Maven looks adorable in his bow tie.
I advance towards him. His words are casual, but his face isn't. He stares and stares and stares, his blue eyes flickering from my slitted dress, to my elaborate hair, and to my dark red lips.
When I meet him at the limo, his hands slip beneath my coat to find purchase at my hips. He must like how my dress clings to them. With my heels, I don't have to worry about getting up on my tip-toes or pushing down on his shoulders. My hands find them anyway, feeling the cool fabric beneath my painted fingers.
"You look my queen," Maven murmurs in my ear.
I let out a giggle. "You look good too, Maven."
Lipstick be damned, Maven's practically licking his lips. He looks so handsome in his outfit, and his eyes are so sweet and reassuring that everything's going to be okay tonight.
The tinted windows catch the reflection of the store. Tasteful red awnings fall above the doors, and European flags waltz in the breeze. I catch another man's reflection. I passed him and his grandmother on my way out through the doors. He stands with his hands tucked into the pockets of his black overcoat. His tux is identical to his brother's with its sleek black design, but his muscled body fills it out differently.
His mom's yellow handkerchief must be hidden beneath his overcoat. His hair is slicked back with gel, and his jaw looks freshly shaven.
His bronze eyes look darker. It's probably just the tint of the car. His lips are pressed into a grim frown, and for the half of a second that I watch him, I see how his throat bobs. He looks irritated.
Ever the disapproving brother.
But Maven leans in for a kiss, and I forget about the reflections. Instead, I remember the things that Elara told me over the jewelry store counter. Maven deserves better. It's hardly his fault that his father never wanted him or that Maven was a baby of a loveless marriage.
I want him. I know how it feels to be kicked to the side, to have my parents roll their eyes and turn their heads away from my dreams. I still flinch at the memory of Dad shouting at me, telling me that I should throw away my shoes and be done with my silly dreams of dance. And I see the pain in Maven's eyes when he talks about Cal. No matter how hard he tries, he'll always be in Cal's shadow.
I can be the person who understands.
He's always been so welcoming. He made everything less terrifying when I first became a dancer at the Academy. He's always cared about me.
He can be the person who understands me too.
I let him kiss me, lipstick be damned. His lips are cool and teasing and promising. He smiles against my mouth, and I loop my arms around his neck. I can't even be bothered to care that we're on display for Evangeline, Cal, and Anabel. I press my body a little closer to Maven.
He'll always be in Cal's shadow.
But not to me.