It’s not a compliment. Not really. It’s an observation, clinical and detached, like noting the lineage of a racehorse.
“Thank you,” I respond automatically, years of my mother’s etiquette training kicking in despite the unease crawling up my spine.
Yuri begins to circle me, hands clasped behind his back. In the mirrors, I see myself from every angle—sweat-dampened hair sticking to my forehead, chest still rising and falling rapidly from the exertion of the dance, eyes too wide, too wary.
“This has to stop,” he says abruptly.
I clutch my towel tighter, knuckles turning white.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, though part of me already suspects. Already fears.
“Don’t play stupid.” His voice hardens, eyes narrowing as he completes his circle and comes to stand directly in front of me. “You’re making my son gay.”
I step back, bumping into the barre behind me.
“That’s—that’s ridiculous,” I stammer. Heat rushes to my face—shame, anger, fear, all tangled together. “We’re just friends. Isn’t that what stepbrothers should be?”
Yuri laughs, a sharp, humorless sound that bounces off the mirrors and seems to attack me from all sides. “Friends,” he repeats, the word dripping with contempt. “Is that what you call it? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Not like friends should look at each other, and certainly not like brothers should.”
I try to keep my face neutral, but the mirrors betray me, showing the color draining from my cheeks. “I don’t know what you think you’ve seen, but—”
“I know what I see,” Yuri cuts me off, stepping closer. Too close. “I see my heir forgetting his responsibilities. Neglecting his training. Spending his nights out here, watching you… twirl.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Alex appreciating ballet,” I argue, even as I take another step back. “It’s an art form. It’s—”
“Do not insult my intelligence.” Yuri’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “This isn’t about ballet. This is about the way he follows you around like a lovesick puppy. The way he talks about you. Vincent said this. Vincent did that. Vincent, Vincent, Vincent.”
Each repetition of my name feels like a nail being driven into a coffin lid. My heart hammers against my ribs, the pace quickening not from exertion now but from pure, primal fear.
“Men like us—like Alexander will be—don’t get the luxury of… whatever this is,” Yuri continues, gesturing at me as if the mere sight of me disgusts him. “My son has responsibilities. A legacy to uphold. Do you understand what would happen to him in our world if he were gay?” The last word comes out like something rotten. “He would be destroyed. Everything I’ve built would be for nothing.”
I grip the barre behind me, needing its solid support. “With all due respect, sir,” I say, forcing steel into my voice, “I think you’re making assumptions about both me and Alex that aren’t—”
“Assumptions?” He steps closer again, close enough that I can smell expensive cologne, vodka, and beneath it all, the faint metallic scent I’ve come to associate with men who are dangerous. “Let me make this very clear, Vincent. I don’t care what you are. What you do in your private time. But my son—” His jaw tightens, muscles working beneath his skin. “My son will not be corrupted by your… influence.”
“I’m not corrupting anyone,” I protest.
“No?” Yuri raises an eyebrow. “Then why does he sneak out here every night to watch you dance? He’s seventeen,” Yuri continues, his voice clinical, as if discussing a business transaction. “Impressionable. Confused. And you—you’ve taken advantage of that.”
“That’s not fair,” I say, anger finally overtaking fear. “I’ve never done anything to encourage—”
“Haven’t you?” Yuri’s eyes flick to my sweat-dampened tank top, to the tight pants that leave little to the imagination. “Dancing out here, knowing he’s watching. Spending hours alone with him, filling his head with talk of art and ballet instead of business and responsibility.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off with a raised hand.
“It doesn’t matter, though. What matters is what happens next. You have a choice, Vincent. A simple one, really.”
The studio suddenly feels smaller, the mirrors reflecting my pale faceback at me from every angle, making escape impossible.
“Leave,” Yuri says, the word hanging in the air like a guillotine blade. “Pack your things tonight. Disappear. Never contact Alexander again.”
I stare at him, disbelief warring with terror in my gut. “You’re telling me to leave? Just like that? My mother would never—”
“Your mother will understand that this is for the best.” His voice is iron now, unyielding. “For everyone involved.”
“My mother wouldn’t allow that,” I insist, clinging to the one certainty I have left. “She wouldn’t let you throw me out.”
As if summoned by my words, the door to the studio opens again. My mother steps inside, elegant even at this late hour in a silk robe, her golden-brown hair—so like mine—pulled back in a loose bun. Hope flares in my chest, only to be extinguished by the expression on her face and the fact that she won’t meet my eyes.
