Dance, Sugarplum

13. Lyla

CHAPTER 13

LYLA

ACT 2

The monumental building sits in the heart of uptown. Each Christmas season, it transforms into a winter wonderland, decked out in what must be millions of lights and ornaments every November to January. The huge Christmas tree sits right out front.

The gothic-style building itself was carved from sandy-colored giant stone and is impressive, to say the least. Garland, lights, and bells hang from every dramatic architectural point, and a clock face sits in the center of the very top. The sweeping hands tell me I’ve long since turned into a pumpkin.

The thick snow falling is the finishing touch of this perfect Christmas painting. The car pulls up right outside the building’s entrance, a set of large golden doors with a revolving one in the middle. Dramatic red carpets start on the sidewalk and lead inside. A doorman rushes from his podium to greet us.

Mikhail doesn’t wait, opening the door and climbing out first. The older man stands beside us a moment later, dressed well in a suit and hat that give him the impression of a service position while still looking suave.

“Mr. Ivanov.” He dips his chin, but Mikhail ignores him as he offers me his hand to help me out. I want to call him out for being rude, but then I remember he doesn’t talk— most of the time . It’s incredibly evocative when he does. I smile at the man myself before looking back at Mikhail.

For a suspended second, I stare at the long fingers that have been inside me. The air freezes inside my lungs. My heart races in my eagerness to touch him again. He’s warm and masculine. I’m obsessed with the feeling of his fingers inside me.

His palm is soft and large. The length of it spanned my entire back when he held my waist. He made me feel tiny, desperately feminine, and not in the way that usually frightens me, but as if I could fit perfectly against him.

My conflicting emotions battle inside me for a moment too long, but ultimately, I take his hand. Our touch is brief, like a whisper, but butterflies explode in the pit of my stomach as I step into the street with his firm hold helping me out of the car. When I look up at him, his eyes flash, saying something I don’t quite understand.

The wind blows in my face, and his hand is gone, the absence stinging. The sensation of his touch lingers on my fingertips just like it does on all the other parts of me. I take in the gorgeous Christmas decor and try to make sense of all the ways I’ve been wrong about Mikhail Ivanov.

We walk through the glass doors leading into the foyer with white tile, gold accents, and vaulted ceilings with stone arches. I find myself underneath the most beautiful crystal chandelier hanging from the center. Just like outside, Christmas slaps me right in the face—trees and white lights, silver and gold bows, reindeers, and lights. Everything looks expensive and magical.

It’s so beautiful that it fills me with the most heart-wrenching sadness. When Mom was alive, Christmas meant something. She loved gift-giving, and she was the best at wrapping them. She loved this sort of thing and would have been thrilled to come inside. Grief grips me by the throat, but once again, it’s not the time. All I want is to grieve in peace.

We cross the foyer with his presence guiding me and his hand floating near but not touching me. An attendant presses the button for the elevator as we approach. We step inside the most spacious elevator I’ve ever seen, mirrored with gilded panes that match the rest of the building. He’s still not looking at me.

Is there a reason he doesn’t want to? Does he regret what he did or forcing me to come with him? Thoughts of Christmas with my mother make me homesick. The damnedest desire to be held aches in every part of me. I think about the notes he wrote for me when he was trying to bring me to his company and his reverence for my craft.

Those notes were as frightening as they were evocative, and no matter how good I was, I knew I couldn’t live up to his belief in me. Disappointing him was the only option, so I never really considered that offer. Somehow waiting this long has made things worse. It won’t stop there. Slowly but surely, I’ll prove to him I’m unworthy of all the chances he’s taken on me and the attention he’s forced on me.

I’m a failure, homeless, and soon, I’ll be all alone again .

I study myself in the mirror and flinch at the woman staring at me. My blond hair hangs dry and lackluster, and my sweater dwarfs my wrists, highlighting their boniness. I’m flushed, but it doesn’t look healthy.

I count how many ways I look horrible, but Mikhail interrupts my thoughts as he reaches out and takes a stray lock of my hair between his fingers. Once again, our eyes meet through the reflection, and I turn to him with a question in my eyes.

“Snow,” he says simply.

His hand drops a second later, and he steps back as if he can’t be found that close to me. I bite my lip. I don’t know if I have the right to be hurt. I don’t understand enough of our dynamic to form expectations, but I must have, judging from the stab to my heart.

Floor after floor, the tension threatens to devour me. Finally, it stops on the top floor, the button marked P lit. The wide doors open, exposing the most beautiful apartment I’ve ever seen.

“Holy cow,” I blurt as he steps into the foyer and waits for me to follow him. The elevator beeps, urging me to leave, I think… Jesus. I step out onto dark hardwood floors that span the foyer and extend to what I can see of the rooms beyond.

He heads into the apartment, and I follow him for a lack of anything else to do. If the rest of the building is a Christmas wonderland, this is the opposite—stark, white, industrial-feeling lights, brickwork, and leather couches. It’s still the most beautiful space I’ve ever seen.

But then I gasp, and my backpack falls to the floor. That view . I run to the floor-to-ceiling windows facing what must be the most exclusive view in this city. The giant tree out front looks tiny from here, like a miniature. The popular ice rink shines a few blocks over, the colorful lights flashing across the empty ice.

My breath catches as I realize how high we are, as if nothing can touch us. The enormous tree looks tiny from this distance, and it isn’t the only thing miniature. The world looks more harmless than I’ve ever seen it. How could anything so small ever hurt me? The street below is just like looking at a snow globe.

The skyscrapers and the people with their dreams are all just little ceramic figurines. Dots of lights flickering through the sky reflect off the fat snowflakes like the swirls when you shake the globe. I touch the glass, wishing I could extend my hand beyond it. The wind blows, and the snowflakes execute the most incredible choreography.

“Is this where you do the thing?” I ask, fingers still poised against the glass.

He doesn’t reply, of course , so I turn around. His glass-like eyes are fixed on me, and I wish his thoughts were as clear as those eyes. I blush, clearing my throat. He doesn’t look interested in my jokes, but maybe he just needs his hard shell cracked.

“You sit here and look at the little people while you plan world domination?” I raise my brow at him, and I’m shocked when I realize I’m flirting. Wasn’t losing my virginity less than an hour ago enough for me? I rub my legs together surreptitiously as I realize it’s not.

No laughter, not even a pity smile. I try to hold his gaze, but it’s too heavy and says too much, so I let mine drop to the floor.

“Let me show you to your room.” He turns on his heel and leaves me to follow.

“My room?” I ask, but he just keeps walking. “My room, Mikhail?”

I pick my backpack up and follow him down the hall of his dark penthouse, realizing he has no intention of explaining himself. Occasionally, a light glows, but it’s so ambient that I worry about how I would ever find my way back out. Maybe he’s counting on that. He clearly doesn’t care to turn the lights on and show me around.

As he leads me down the long, dark halls, all sorts of insecurities pick me apart. What did he think when I said Carter’s name? Does he believe the rumors?

I want him to know the truth, why that moment meant so much to me, and how safe I felt with him. It’s ironic, given I shouldn’t feel safe at all with a man who would fuck me while I’m sleeping, but I do. I’ve wanted someone to hear my version of events for so long, and now there’s even more ambiguity around the truth.

I want to clear the air, but the words don’t want to leave me. This spot in his company was supposed to be my new beginning, not a confusing tether to the past. Maybe it doesn’t have to be. Maybe Mikhail would believe me.

Hope dares to bloom inside me. I’m usually smart enough to nip it in the bud, but I’m warm, safe, and so relieved and exhausted I can’t even think straight.

Mikhail leads me up the stairs and down another long hall. How big is this place? He leads me to the very last bedroom and enters ahead of me to turn on the lights. I follow him, all types of expectations forming as I hungrily take in the huge king bed.

Mikhail moves around the room, pulling out a line of remotes and placing them on the bedside table. He doesn’t bother to explain what they do. Next, he moves to a dresser where he opens a drawer and shows me a stocked line of women’s pajamas. Jealousy courses through me for a minute before I look and find that they’re in my size.

“Wow.” I'm not sure if I should be touched or creeped out, but I find I’m the former as I finger the warm, dry, silken material. I can’t wait to put them on, but not before I shower. There are two doors, and I suspect one is a bathroom.

All the comforts denied to me in the past couple of months are back within my reach, and my stupid eyes fill with tears. Like every window I’ve seen so far, the bedroom has a great view as well. I walk over to them to avoid letting him see my tears.

I appreciate the farthest bedroom now that I see it allows me a full corner of windows for a view. It’s just as lovely as the one downstairs, but with the addition of the bays in the distance and lovely ships flashing.

I bite my lip, trying my best not to look as pathetic as I feel.

It’s a great room… amazing actually. It doesn’t have much personality, but the view makes up for it. I’m touched and a bit suspicious, but most of all, I’m hungry for Mikhail. Why did he bring me here? I turn to him and find he’s already made his way to the door. A sting of rejection hits my gut before I can tell myself I don’t care.

I shake my head, looking down as I steel myself to say something without letting that hurt show. I have a chance to sleep in a comfortable bed, and I don’t want to ruin it.

“Thank you. I really appreciate?—”

I look back up, but he’s not at the door anymore. I swallow the words but not my tears as I sit on the bed. It’s so tall that my feet dangle off the edge.

I can’t stop myself from wondering if this wasn’t a huge mistake.