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I hate the ending. I know to expect the same every time. The sorcerer’s curse prevails long enough to fate Odette to an eternity as half-swan, half-woman. Devastated, she drowns herself in the lake. Heartbroken over her death, her lover does the same. Their mutual sacrifice breaks the sorcerer’s spell once and for all, and Odette and her lover are finally reunited in the afterlife. I should feel like that’s enough, but I want a real happy ending.
I always tear up as the corps ballerinas dance together in the final scene, mourning the loss of their queen, Odette. It’s beautiful, from start to finish. I stand and clap loudly as the dancers take their bows, forgetting for just a moment that Emmett is so close.
His gaze is on me as he claps too, and if he thinks it’s foolish of me to get so into a ballet, he doesn’t show it. When I dare to look at him, there’s sympathy in his warm gaze, as if he completely understands what I’m feeling.
Surely we aren’t as doomed as they are…
“Come along, dear,” my grandmother says, reaching for my arm so she can link it with hers. “I’d like to take a moment to freshen up before we make our way to the gala. You know how that ending always gets me. My makeup is probably smeared every which way.”
I let her lean some of her weight on my arm as we curve around the balcony chairs. There’s already an attendant waiting with a friendly smile near the door, ready to escort us to a private bathroom and lounge.
Emmett stands on the edge of his balcony, watching me walk away. My legs feel like lead weights. Every step away from him is excruciating. There’s a reason I haven’t allowed myself to go down to see him when he visits my grandmother’s house day after day. I’ve refrained for my own survival. Keeping him at a distance was the only way to preserve my strength and resist temptation, and tonight, I’ve just had that theory thoroughly proven. The last few hours were an exercise in futility. I don’t think I took in a proper breath the entire performance. The ballet loomed large, but Emmett loomed larger in my periphery. Even now, I want to pause and look back. My body is poised to whip around so I can speak to him just once more. My voice would be filled with unbridled hope: Tell me you’re going to the gala. Oh, please come.
But I don’t look back.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Lainey
The entire first floor of the opera house has been transformed for the gala, everything done in a dramatic black and white motif. They’ve draped white silk from the ceiling to create the illusion of an indoor tent. There are round cocktail tables covered in black linens, and on each one, there’s an extravagant centerpiece made from white orchids and black roses. In the heart of the space, right in the center of the dance floor, there’s an ice sculpture of two swans resting against one another that soars almost seven feet tall. Couples pose in front of it for photos, and my grandmother leads us around it, to where Diana and Victoria have already started to amass a group of friends.
One of the principal dancers from the ballet is among them, still dressed in his prince costume. He’s tall and lithe, good-natured and polite enough to indulge all of our questions. It’s a good fundraising effort for the ballet company to send out their dancers and have them schmooze the crowd. Even I’m a little starstruck by him.
“Think I have a chance with him?”
The question is asked by one of Victoria’s friends, a tall handsome man with pale blond hair and thick black glasses. He stands just to my left, and though he’s bent down to talk to me, his enamored gaze is still on the dancer.
“Romantically?” I ask, just to be sure.
He winks, and I nod.
“Are they allowed to flirt with gala attendees? I’m sure it’s frowned upon.”
“Well technically I’m a guest of Victoria’s, a no one, really, so maybe I should exploit that loophole.”
I laugh. “Well you do have good taste, I’ll give you that.”
He smiles, and then it fades as he catches sight of something over my shoulder.
“Speaking of good taste…don’t look now, but there’s an insanely handsome man looking over here. Wait, he’s not just looking—he’s shooting daggers at me.”
Awareness trickles down my spine.
I don’t bother to turn back to see for myself. “Does he have dark hair?”
“Yes, and an amazing suit, and he has to be, what, six foot two? Please be gay, please be gay, please be gay,” he starts to chant.
I can’t help but laugh.
“How angry does he look?”
“Um, yeah, now that you mention it, I think he might want to rip my head off. Strange considering I don’t recognize him.”
