He takes my hand and leads me onto the dance floor. His arm goes around my waist, pulling me close—closer than is strictly necessary for a professional appearance. My hand rests on his shoulder, and we start to move.
He's a good dancer. Of course he is. Probably took ballroom lessons at some fancy prep school.
He guides me into a slow sway, and I can’t resist the urge to ask.
"Where did you learn to dance?"
“Where do you think? He grins. “Babushka. Our beloved matriarch of the Kade family insisted all her grandsons learn properly."
The image of a young Victor being taught to waltz by his tiny Russian grandmother makes me smile. "That's actually adorable."
"It was mortifying. She made us practice with each other."
"You danced with your brothers?"
"And cousins. And every neighbor boy in a three-block radius. She said, 'Real man knows how to lead. Also how to follow. This is wisdom.'"
I laugh, and he pulls me slightly closer. "What about you? Where did you learn?"
"My dad. He used to dance with my mom in the kitchen every Sunday morning. He taught all three of us—said we should never depend on a partner to have a good time."
"Smart man."
"He is." My throat tightens slightly, thinking about Dad, about the treatments, about all the things I'm not saying. "Very smart."
Victor's hand moves in a gentle circle on my back, soothing, and suddenly, the tension is killing me, the dam that’s been welling inside me nearing breaking.
“Victor?
"Hm?"
"Earlier. In the boutique. When we?—“
"Don't." He looks down at me, jaw clenching. "Not here. Not now."
"When?"
"When we're alone. When we're not performing for cameras and board members and all of Manhattan's elite."
"We're alone now."
He knows I’m right. In the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by dozens of people, we're somehow in our own bubble. The music, the lights, the way he's holding me—it all feels separate from the performance. It feels real.
"Victor," I say quietly. "What are we doing?"
"I don't know."
"That's not reassuring."
"I'm not good at reassuring."
"You're good at other things."
His eyes darken. "Like what?"
"Like kissing."
The words slip out before I can stop them, and I watch his expression shift—the gray storm clouds inside his irises melting into surprise and something that looks like hunger.
