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"Stanford," I say when he answers, my voice hoarse from hours of strategizing and arguing. "I need a favor, and I'm willing to pay whatever it costs."
Chapter 10
Tatiana
My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, startling me out of checking my final flight details for Russia. I glance at the screen and see Martin's name flash across the display.
"Hey, Martin. What's up?"
"Good news, Tatiana," he says excitedly. "I just got off the phone with Stanford, the chairman of the Met Philadelphia. He has a private performance request for you tonight itself. And guess what? They're offering $100,000!"
I blink, momentarily speechless. "A hundred thousand dollars?" I echo, my pulse quickening. "For one performance?"
"Exactly!" Martin says triumphantly. "It's for a private, anonymous group. They specifically requested you."
I once read that when people are excited, they confuse it with anxiety. Right now, I don't know what I'm feeling. This is an incredible opportunity, but I can't shake the feeling that something isn't quite right. Why would any group pay so much for a single performance when I've only just started?
"Martin, I don't know... I'm not sure I'm ready for something like this. It sounds too good to be true."
"Come on, Tatiana," he says firmly. "This is the chance of a lifetime! Besides, you've been working so hard lately. You deserve this. As your manager, I advise that you must listen to me!"
My eyes wander to the framed photo on the fridge – my parents, smiling proudly on the day I graduated from Juilliard. I think about how much they sacrificed for me to pursue my dreams and how their faith in my talent never wavered. If I accept this offer, I'd finally be able to repay them for everything they've done for me.
"Think about your parents," Martin says gently as if reading my mind. "This could change their lives, too."
"Is it safe?" I ask hesitantly, my voice barely above a whisper. What if it's a strange group of people?
"Of course it's safe, Tatiana," Martin reassures me. "The Met Philadelphia is a prestigious venue, and Stanford is a well-respected man in the industry. I wouldn't put you in harm’s way."
I take a deep breath, weighing my options. The prospect of performing for such a mysterious group intrigues me, but the uncertainty is also terrifying. And yet, the thought of making my parents proud and finally proving myself as an artist is too alluring to resist.
"Alright," I say, my voice steady and resolved. "I'll do it. But before you go, do you have any idea how many people will be there?" I ask, curiosity piqued.
"Stanford didn't give me an exact number," he replies. "But it's a private group, so I guess that it won't be too large."
"Still, it's strange, isn't it?" I muse, tapping my fingers on the countertop.
"Perhaps," Martin concedes. "But sometimes, life throws us a curveball, and we just have to roll with it."
With that, our conversation comes to an end, and I'm left to ponder the upcoming event with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation.
A few hours later, a package arrives at my doorstep. Inside lies a beautiful vintage gown – a breathtaking emerald green piece adorned with intricate lace and a fitted corset. The fabric feels luxurious like it was crafted with utmost care. Its elegance is undeniable, and I marvel at how perfectly it fits my body.
With it is a printed note dictating I wear this for the performance. A car will arrive shortly to pick me up, and tonight,I will be provided a suite at a hotel close to the Met before being driven back tomorrow morning.
"Wow," I whisper, casting the note aside and running my fingers along the delicate lacework. "Someone went all out for this."
A few hours later, my heart pounds in my chest as I stand before the mirror, gazing at my reflection. Slipping into the stunning vintage gown feels like stepping back in time, the corset hugging my body and accentuating every curve. As I tighten the laces, my breath catches, and a wave of nerves washes over me.
"Get a grip, Tatiana," I mutter to myself, smoothing the fabric with trembling hands. "You've performed countless times before. This is no different."
But deep down, I know it is different. The enigmatic nature of this event sends shivers down my spine, and I can't help but wonder who will be watching from the shadows. Shaking off those thoughts, I focus on the task at hand: getting my makeup on.
I highlight my cheekbones with bronzer, dust powder over my forehead and nose, and put on some nude pink lipstick. I let down my long, cascading mahogany hair and decided to wear it down.
The gown gives me a mature look, but my make-up and hair keep my youth intact.
By the time I'm done, I'm staring at a woman from a different era altogether, a mystical creature of the past.
