CHAPTER TWENTY
Twenty-one days.
It seemed like a blink and a lifetime all at once.
It had been nearly twenty-one days since the first night Caspian spent the night in my bed. Twenty-one days since I’d started preparing for the ballet at the theater. It wasn’t a professional production, not like the New York Ballet, but I took pride in making it unforgettable. The costumes, the set, the choreography, and the music all had to be the best they could. The weeks leading up to a performance were always my favorite. Instead of only spending three days a week at my studio, I was there every day.
During the last twenty-one days, I’d grown to look forward to the rehearsals. I lived for the moments when everything started falling into place. I waited for the nights when Caspian would show up and take whatever he wanted, then put the monster to bed as he slept next to me.
The last three weeks had blown by in a flash.
The end of the next three weeks seemed forever away.
Twenty-one days from now, Caspian would sign the paperwork on his penthouse. From what he’d shown me, it was perfect for him, all hard lines and fierce masculinity. I was excited for him. I knew he didn’t mind staying with me, but I could tell he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the knowledge it was still my parents’ house. I also knew he was growing restless underneath his father’s thumb.
It was also twenty-one days until my oldest class would perform the ballet,Romeo and Juliet.
Twenty-one days felt like an eternity, but I was already coming up with all kinds of ways for Caspian and me to celebrate, not including his comment about fucking me against the window.
I stood on the stage in the theater now, listening to the score for the balcony pas de deux. Every year, I was more amazed than the last. Nicholai Volkov, the set designer my father hired, had done a phenomenal job recreating sixteenth-century Verona, and Sergio’s music gave me chills.
Lincoln walked in and placed a bouquet of red roses on the apron of the stage. He had transformed the floor above the theater into an apartment, so it didn’t surprise me that he was always here.
I glanced at the flowers. “You’re supposed to save those for the end of the performance.”
“They aren’t for you.”
“Oh? Who’s the lucky girl?”
He shrugged. “If my math is correct…” he mentally counted the flowers, “…there will be twelve lucky girls.”
“You’re disgusting.” I walked over and pressedStopon the playlist.
“If being a gentleman is disgusting, then okay.” If Lincoln was a gentleman, I was the queen. “I give one to a random chick after every fight I win.”
“And that gets you laid?”
“I don’t need flowers to get laid, but yeah. They sure as fuck don’t hurt.”
“You need to find someone decent and settle down.” I walked along the length of the stage, mentally mapping out where to put the landing lights.
He snorted. “You mean like you did? DidMr. Decentever get his panties out of a bunch?”
I cut him a glare. “Stop talking about him that way. He’s not what you think.”
“No, Tatum. He’s not whatyouthink.”
“Why? Because he fucked up your face?”
He hopped up on the stage and stood in front of me. His stare was harsh and his jaw tight.
I tilted my chin up and met his glare. “Yeah. He told me what happened. And I also know that’s why he left.”
He stared at me for a moment. “He told youthat’s why he left?”
“No. But he might as well have.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “During your little confession session, did he also tell you Lyric was at his house the night before she died?”