Dance, Sugarplum

22. Lyla

CHAPTER 22

LYLA

ACT 2

The lights burn my back, and the curtain hangs closed in front of us. Discordant strands of music start to play, notes of sorrow plucked from Mikhail’s own compositions. Chills break out across my body, the music so intimate now that I know what it means. The responsibility to convey all that emotion to the audience overwhelms me, and I’m hardly the star tonight.

The entire cast stands in place for the start of the show, each of us dressed in gauzy white that will spin around us as we move, the first of three costumes that will shift darker as the show moves on—the red tule is my final costume.

I stand at the back, warming my legs by performing a series of dégagés. My body no longer screams its complaints when I try basic moves. The rest and practice I received at Mikhail’s were enough to make me an athlete again. That routine I danced last night has me feeling close to a comeback.

The music changes, and I school my face in the position of soft sadness he demanded of this dance. Curtains rise, and the hot lights are momentarily twice as bright and blinding before my eyes adjust, and they slightly soften. Moving through the choreography, I find my steps on time, my movements soft.

It’s hard to believe the Lyla dancing today is the same person who struggled to keep up with the other dancers just a few weeks ago. I should be proud of myself at this moment when my pirouette finishes in perfect timing with everyone else, yet I’m aching with a deep sense of hollowness.

Part of it is an echo of Mikhail’s grief, written into each note of this song, but there’s more, a sense that I’ll never be good enough again. It doesn’t matter how good I am now. I’ll never deserve to dance for a man like him.

I exit stage left when the performance is done. It’s time for the prima ballerina’s solo and for me to change costumes. I watch her dance a moment too long, sinking in the powerlessness of my situation. Too much was taken from me when Carter spread his lies. I remember the moment I realized what was happening and watched as my dreams slipped through my fingers.

That weight hangs on me as I change costumes. It only takes me a moment. I’m well practiced, but the memories make my cheeks hot.

I’m back in time to watch the end of her solo. The other ballerinas are too, their eyes hungrily latched on Judith. I won’t pretend to know their thoughts, but their expressions don’t seem kind.

I remember that burn on the back of your neck when too many people are watching with negative intentions. I decide then and there not to be one of the ones wishing on her downfall, no matter how much I wish I were in her place.

Her moves are beautiful and strong, yet perhaps a little stiff if I’m being perfectly honest. But I immediately regret the thought. It’s not fair to judge her like that. There’s a reason I’m backstage right now, and she’s in the spotlight.

Mikhail choreographed an otherworldly dance, and while it’s dark and haunting, something is so distinctly Christmas and winter about the whites, reds, and silvers of this production. I’m touched by the beauty he’s managed to weave, but my heart aches because if things were the way they should have been, I would be center stage right now.

She finishes, holding an arabesque with sheer swathes of fabric hanging around her, giving her the impression of a snowflake when the lights shine through the shimmering panels. The lights lower to black, and the scene changes.

The ballet continues in a similar fashion. I dance as best I can, doing surprisingly well, changing costumes, watching in envy and sadness as someone else performs the art Mikhail crafted.

Do I love him?

I shouldn’t be thinking about this now, but now that the question has snaked its way into my mind and heart, I can’t shake it off. How I feel isn’t fair as I watch Judith perform like she stole something from me.

She didn’t.

If anyone stole from me, that was Carter. It’s not fair of me to feel like she’s dancing my solo and performing art from the soul of the man I love, but I do. Would I prefer if he had fucked her? If this was just his ex. Yes, I decide. Sex feels trivial compared to this, but this is his soul, and another woman’s body is expressing it.

I want to be sick.

The time passes in strange lurches as I give my all to the choreography he’s asked me to perform, and then the same effort to watching his prima ballerina like it’s her fault I wasn’t strong enough for the part.

“Lyla, are you okay?” Maeve asks as I’m changing into my final costume, the red number I tried for Mikhail.

“Of course, why? Do I look bad?” I turn around and look over my shoulder, checking the tulle for any trace of his cum.

“Oh no, stop. You’re great. You just seem… off, I guess.”

“I’m fine,” I promise her with a fake smile as I move into position for the final dance of the show.

Our cue arrives, and we rush on the stage, creating a flurry of black-and-red-like feathers. I forget my jealousy and concerns and put everything into doing Mikhail’s production justice. It doesn’t matter what’s happened between the two of us or how close it feels we’ve gotten. I need to do this right to keep from disappointing him.

Sometimes I wonder if I can die from the weight of his displeasure alone.

When the song ends, the audience erupts in applause. An electric wave pulses as the crowd stands. All my thoughts evaporate, and suddenly, I’m in this moment. My heart hammers inside my chest, and the lights burn my face. A small drop of sweat drips between my breasts, and I close my eyes, taking it all in.

A tear rolls down my cheek for all the emotions colliding inside me. I’m sad for what I’ve lost and now understand that coming back doesn’t magically fix things. Being on this stage isn’t the same as leading the production.

But I’m happy too. I’m glad that I’m here and standing. I’m proud of my body even though it’s not doing what it used to do. It’s doing something.

The show ends, and the lights dim, leaving space for us to head backstage. I look for my bag in the sea of excited ballerinas and find someone moved it off the bench in front of my cubby and onto the ground. I’m about to grab it when I hear that low grit that makes my panties melt every time.

“Lyla,” he says, and I turn to find him staring at me. Everyone falls silent, except for one titter of expectation that I’m about to get in trouble.

I stare at him, fifteen sets of eyes flicking between us both, waiting to see what happens. I’m so on edge I may collapse, but I can’t stop staring. His gaze is all-consuming, icy-blue eyes that cut and soothe at once. Instead of saying any more, ordering them out so he can finger fuck me, or whatever megalomaniacs do, he strides toward me.

I count the ten steps he takes before he reaches me. Not saying a word, he pulls my chin up with the tips of his fingers and forces me to look him in the eyes.

“I am so proud of you.”

And then his lips are on mine, in front of everyone.

His mouth is hard and warm, his beard recently shaved but rough against my skin. He doesn’t have the ability to move his jaw easily, so there’s never more than a simple pass of his tongue, but the depth and intensity of how his lips press against mine is unmatched by any other kiss in existence. I’m sure of it.

Shocked gasps echo around us, but they don’t say a word. You’d have to be really stupid to actually talk shit about Mikhail in hearing range. I’m lost in him; my hands smooth the fabric of his shirt, and I feel his hot skin underneath.

He pulls back, offering me the slightest bend of his lips. Is it a smile? My insides warm to the point of bursting when he takes my hand and leads me out without any attention paid to anyone else. We’re on the dark set of stairs that leads between the stage, the dressing room, and the street exit, when I turn and kiss him again. I move away from his lips to his cheek, then his jaw, and one on his neck.

“Aw, isn’t this sweet,” an achingly familiar, aristocratic voice speaks from the partial darkness at the bottom of the stairs.

What the hell is he doing here?

Carter watches us, his face showing the depths of his anger for the first time. His presence is an intense violation. I’m sick to my stomach, knowing what he wanted from me.

My fingers wind around Mikhail’s arm, desperate for him to keep me safe. This time, Carter won’t touch me.

“Do not speak to her,” Mikhail spits in a low, dangerous tone that raises the hair on the back of my neck, but he doesn’t seem surprised to see Carter like I am.

“What is he doing here, Mikhail?”

He hides his pain a little too well. I don’t like that he’s so practiced at ignoring his own suffering, and right now I’m sure he’s using that practice to hide something from me as well.

“I’ll speak to my errant stepdaughter however I please, Mikhail, especially when she’s worsening her own terrible reputation.” He turns his gaze back to me. “When did you get so lazy that you don’t even check which productions are running? I’ve been here for weeks.”

I turn and stare at Mikhail, uncharacteristic anger aimed at him. Everything suddenly clicks into place, and his need to take me home, and keep me from the theater seems far less noble.

The mention of my reputation triggers me, as well as finding out I’ve been lied to and manipulated, but only one of them is really a villain. Carter did this. He ruined me and my career. This fucking pervert wanted me when I was a child. Mikhail might be toxic, but at he has my best interest at heart.

“I’m sorry,” he presses his lips to my ear and I already know I won’t be holding a grudge.

“I’m not your stepdaughter.” Righteous indignation burns through my system as I stare at Carter’s graying hair, brown eyes, and the shoulders I cried on as a girl. “You lost the right to call me that when you tried to fuck me.”

Carter’s mouth drops open like he’s truly shocked and offended. His head shakes in that dismissive way that has always fucked with my sense of reality. Like it’s obvious I’m the one lying.

“If that’s the case, then you don’t mind if I start playing dirty?” He tips his head to the side, revealing far more of his insidious nature than I’m used to seeing in public. This is exactly why I won’t be holding that grudge, I know what true evil looks like.

“Start?” Mikhail asks. “Carter, you’ve been dirty, and don’t think I won’t play back.”

Carter shoots Mikhail a ferocious look. I instinctively tremble, knowing what kind of trouble I would be in as a kid if he looked at me that way.

“I have far more connections in this city than you do, this theater even. I would think twice about challenging me. Pity over your accident will only extend so far,” Carter says.

Carter turns on his heel, and I see red, briefly considering actually attacking him. If he thinks he’s had the last word, he’s wrong.

Carter’s success comes from his connections, and I understand that now. His productions are uninspired and repetitive. He’s small, petty, boring, and there isn’t a single opinion he holds that matters.

“Carter,” I say. He turns halfway back. “Do remember, you can make up lies about me, but I know some very frightening truths about you. You have so very much more to lose than I do.”

“You’re a whore, Lyla. I’m not afraid of you.”

Mikhail balls his hand into a fist, but I grab his arm and beg him with my eyes to do nothing as Carter leaves, feeling like he’s won.

He hasn’t fucking won.