“Does he dance?” I ask Sam as I spin her. She’s noticed his exodus, too, but doesn’t seem particularly concerned.
“Lance?” she asks. “The answer is no.”
“So what kind of dynasty is Katerina building, if not a dance one?”
“I don’t know. Ask her,” Sam says defiantly.
I have a feeling it’s the booze that’s making her feel bold. The girl I know might never have taken a stance against her mother, but at least she was playing the game—engaged in her own success. Maybe the time has come for Natayla to rebel against her mother, and I’ve arrived on cue. She can’t give up on dance, but I can come up with a few other ways to make Katerina lose it. In fact, I’m the perfect person for the job.
We end the song on a dramatic dip and hold the pose until everyone has their fill of photos.
When I pull her up, Tayla refuses to make eye contact with me. Her cheeks are flushed and she glistens with a hint of perspiration. She takes off in the direction Lance fled, and I wonder if Sam has feelings for the douchebot.
I’ve barely recovered from our dance when the party guests descend on me, including Katerina Koslova, who puts herself between me and everyone else as if I’m her new personal protégée.
“Darling, that was incredible. Let’s take a selfie. Or we could go live if you want?”
This woman is pathetic. I don’t care how much she’s ingratiated herself to the board, the company, the press, or any of these people. Katerina is an abuser who uses her fucking daughter as a weapon to further her imagined reputation. It’s an absurd desperation to cling to her youth. I’d just as soon lob this woman through the floor-to-ceiling glass window to her death as I would pose for pictures with her. This woman personally sanctioned my downfall. Too bad for her, it didn’t work.
“Where’d Natayla go?” I ask her.
“Probably off with Lance” A brief look of concern shadows her face. It’s not concern for her daughter. It’s disappointment that she might not get a cameo from me in her feed.
I brush off her grip and follow in the direction Tayla fled. I can’t believe she’s still in the same situation, still dealing with this shit after all these years. At least she got her own place where she can escape her mother’s need to control every goddamned breath she takes.
I find the two of them fighting in the kitchen.
Chapter Fourteen
Natayla
I don’t want Dash to see me like this, a weak pawn with too many handlers who doesn’t control her own life, who stands up to no one. But it’s the absolute truth, and Dashiell’s presence here seems to amplify it.
“Everything copacetic in here?” Dash asks, plucking a fat green grape from a serving tray and tossing it in his mouth. He dusts his hands and pushes aside a few empty Champagne bottles to lift himself onto the kitchen counter like he owns Mother’s house. Dash is agile like a cat and has the same unnerving presence.
“Get the fuck out of here, you trash,” Lance says.
Good one, Lance. So original.
The fact that Dash has surpassed all of us—in skill, in accolades, in popularity—must be painful for Lance. There’s no legitimate mud to sling.
I’ve failed to mention to Lance that Dash and his mother bought the apartment across from me. We’re practically roommates and will spend all of our foreseeable days together, dancing or otherwise.
“Oh, my bad. I mistakenly believed this fete was to celebrate the new Ballet Arts company members. I’ll see myself out. Let me pay my respects to the host,” Dash says as he leaps off the counter.
Lance is flustered and knows Mother will ream him for scaring away the star guest. His face turns bright red and he clenches and unclenches his fist with powerlessness. I’m glad because it gives him a tiny taste of how I feel every day.
“Fuck it. Don’t go. The party’s for you. I’ll grab my stuff and see you later, Taye,” he says, his voice laden with resignation. “Keep the elevator access unlocked,” he adds. To me, it sounds menacing.
“I’m perfectly happy to cut out early,” Dash says. He saunters over to us and Lance stiffens with apprehension. Lance doesn’t have much swagger, but he seems to lose what little he holds in Dash’s presence.
“It’s your party,” Lance retorts.
Dash stands inches away, invading our space. He takes my Champagne coupe without asking and swirls the dregs of the drink before he tosses it back. Lance’s jaw hangs open at Dash’s audacity, at our obvious familiarity. Something happens to the air between us when Dash and I share food, and Lance can sense it. Even a sip from the same cup electrifies the air around us. I’ve got to do something before these two blow a gasket.