I have to get my head together and crush this like I usually do. I can’t let some ingénue rob me of the place I’ve worked so hard for.
When the time comes for Bronson and me to go through our duet, I muster every ounce of resilience inside me and throw myself into the piece, real-life emotions mixing with the role I’m playing. I lose myself completely in the music and the steps, surrendering to the careful and quiet cues Bronson gives. In my mind, I replace my friend’s energy with that of some illusive, ideal lover who’s breaking my heart. The effect is moving and I’m swept away by the story I tell with my body.
We finish to a round of spontaneous applause from the company members and the director and choreographer. But when I lift my head after the curtsy, I only have eyes for Dashiell and the look of pride he wears as he claps. I never once saw pride in Mother’s eyes, even when I danced my very best.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Dashiell
I guess Natayla feels obligated to attend her mother’s soirée because she’s putting it on for her benefit. I’d rather spend my evening getting a root canal, but I’d do anything for Sam, and watching Katerina squirm is a happy little byproduct.
I take Taye shopping for a dress and she tries on everything without looking at the prices.
When she grabs the little tag hanging from the strap, she just about has a stroke. “What? That can’t be right!”
“Guess you never bought stuff for yourself before?” I can see her processing my question. Disbelief, realization, dread, and then shame.
“Mother always bought everything. She’s dictated what I wear my entire life. I had no idea garments could cost this much. Dimitri always removed all the tags and…oh my God.” She hangs her head.
I was a little surprised when she walked into the Madison Avenue couture boutique without flinching. Even the world’s greatest dancers weren’t swimming in cash, but what did I know? Maybe Sam had a giant trust fund stashed away somewhere.
“I’ll cover this, Taye. Don’t worry about it. Dance Props prize money ought to be good for something.”
I’d pay twice as much to see her walk around in the barely-there white dress she’s wearing.
She glances at the floor, embarrassed, a blush burning her cheeks. “I just realized that I probably can’t afford to pay you as my manager.”
“I’ll find other ways for you to pay me,” I say with a grin.
She seems nervous as we pull up at her parents’ building. They’ve set up a valet service out front, minus the red carpet this time. Katerina’s need to impress the people making decisions about her daughter knows no end. It gives me the creeps, like I’m bringing Sam to her own virgin sacrifice. I have no doubt in my mind that Katerina would sell her daughter to the highest bidder—that if one of these schools or famous choreographers had nefarious intentions, so long as Katerina believed it elevated her position in some way, she’d force her daughter to accept it.
They don’t know I’m coming, so I’m sure my presence alone will ruin Katerina’s night.
When we enter the grand room, we’re met by glaring colors; turquoise, red, and gold, all competing for dominance in the new color scheme. I see Donavan Tate right away and he raises his Champagne flute at me in greeting.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” I say to a horrified Katerina, who looks like she’s about to drop her drink in shock when she sees me.
“You didn’t tell me you were bringing your little breakdancer friend,” Katerina spits at her daughter as the help takes her coat.
“Marshall!” Natayla yells and throws her arms around the man standing next to the guy taking coats. “What are you doing here?”
“Got an invite in the mail and Mom thought it would be good to see you before I head back to Atlanta. She’s here tonight as a guest,” he says cheerfully as he searches the crowd.
Katerina and I have one thing in common, which is the death glare we’re both giving the young man who’s delighted Sam to no end with his presence.
All eyes are on Natayla as she ditches her coat. The dress we choose is virgin-white and sweeps the floor. Completely backless, the fabric sits so low it’s barely above Sam’s ass crack where the hem is lined with a thin string of pearls. When she turns, I hear a few women take in air, and I know we’ve chosen well. The front V dips nearly to her navel, showcasing her dramatic clavicle and her tiny waist and stomach. The thin satin straps become voluminous bows which sit at the top of her delicate shoulders. Natayla is stunning in my boxers, but in this, she’s absolutely delectable.