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I swear I can feel my heart shatter, the hard truth hitting me like a runaway train. “You didn’t want me?” I ask, throat squeezing closed.
“I had a whole life before I had you,” she seethes unapologetically. “My entire career was ahead of me. And then I made the stupid mistake of getting knocked up by this loser. I was a star, do you understand? Astar. The whole world of ballet knew my name and now look at me, barely making ends meet with a deadbeat husband and a disgrace of a daughter. Sometimes I wish you’d never been born!”
I stop listening at that point, deafened by my own anguish and disbelief. This wasn’t what I was expecting to hear first thing in the morning, but now I have no choice but to face it. I always knew my mother was a piece of work. Ever since I was a little girl, she’s been nothing but harsh to me. Cold and bitter and demanding. All I’ve ever wanted was to make her proud, which is why I try so hard during practice, why I strive for perfection—hoping she’ll finally approve of me.
Now I see even perfection isn’t good enough for her—because she didn’t want me in the first place.
All of her resentment, her regrets, I can see now that they have been festering for years, resulting in this unmitigated disaster of an explosion. What’s been said cannot be unsaid. I have never felt more unwelcome in my own home.
I can’t tell which is stronger, my anger or my sorrow. Either way, they result in ugly tears. My cheeks are red, my nose is stuffed up, and to make matters even worse, my nausea has returned in full force. I cannot fathom being able to tell a person you wish they never existed, let alone telling your own daughter.
I think about yelling at her, calling her out on her bullshit and cruelty, but I decide not to waste my breath. She doesn’t want me? Fine. Why bother sticking around, then? It’s high time I found a place of my own, anyway. I won’t be able to avoid her at work, but at least I won’t have to deal with her at home. I have no real game plan, but I sure as hell am not going to stay here.
“One hundred thousand rubles of that money is mine. Leave it on the table before you go.”
Without another word, I turn on my heel and head to my room, slamming the door while my parents proceed to yell at each other. Dad expects me to keep his secrets, Mom expects me to fall in line. I’ll have none of it. Neither of them is worth my energy. All I have ever tried to do was be kind, supportive, and understanding. Now I see there’s no point.
There’s no room for kindness in this world. People like me—we’re taken advantage of. A sucker’s born every minute, as the old saying goes, and I regret to admit I was one of them.
Not anymore.
I work in a hurry, flitting around my room to grab the essentials. Clothes, important documents, extra workout gear. I stuff it all into my duffel bag, cramming it so full the zipper almost doesn’t shut. I have to get out of here. I can’t stand another moment of this toxicity. I’ll just have to figure out how I’m going to deal with Inessa at work later. Right now, removing myself from this environment is my top priority. I’ll have to think on my feet.
“Where do you think you're going?” Inessa snaps at me. I ignore her as I grab my money off the table.
“Sweetheart, come back,” Dad calls out to me. I ignore him, too.
Mom tries to grab me as I open the door, but I shove her back. “Don’t touch me! Don’t you ever fucking touch me again!”
I leave in a hurry, practically sprinting down the stairs to the main lobby. I shiver against the cold winter air, my jacket too light for this kind of weather.
Aimlessly, I begin walking. I make it two blocks before I pull out my phone. Who should I call? One of my colleagues? No, they all hate me. They think that I sabotaged Vanya. I sincerely doubt any of them would let me crash on their couch if I asked. Maybe I could go to a cheap motel somewhere and stay there until I figure out something more permanent, but I don’t want to spend any of the money I’ve saved to find my own, permanent place.
The most natural thought that occurs to me is to reach out to Leo. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that he’d be willing to give me a spare room for a little while. I know for a fact he has at least six in that penthouse of his, but…
Things between us right now are uncertain. Now that I know he’s a criminal, it colors my decisions differently. Would I feel comfortable temporarily living under the same roof with him? The world isn’t black and white, but I don’t think I’m adept enough to navigate the gray area.
I glance at the time. I need to get to the Bolshoi for dress rehearsal. Knowing I’m going to have to deal with my mother is already draining enough. Maybe if I dance it out a bit, work up a sweat, I’m sure a solution will present itself.
Otherwise, I don’t know what I’ll do.
Chapter 23
Nikita
By the time I arrive, there’s some sort of commotion. A large group of dancers has gathered around someone. The director, I realize. Standing beside him is Kseniya, all dressed up in her gear, her pointe shoes tied together by their ribbons slung over her shoulder.
“It’s such an honor,” she says, her cheeks rosy as she beams with pride. “I promise to do my best. I know we’re really close to opening day, but I’ve been studying very closely and practicing in private.”
The director pats her on the back. “I’m sure you'll make a wonderful Sugar Plum Fairy.”
A small, sharp gasp escapes. Surely, I didn’t hear that right. “What’s going on?” I ask.
All eyes are on me. I can feel the weight of their hateful gazes burning the surface of my skin. My heart thuds loudly against my rib cage. I think I’m going to be sick. Again. Not now, baby, not now…
The director glances at me with a hard frown. “Nikita. With me, please.” The cold, almost robotic delivery sends me into a tailspin.
“Am I in trouble or something?”
