Dance, Sugarplum

25. Mikhail

CHAPTER 25

MIKHAIL

FINALE

The show starts in an hour, so I head backstage to ensure my ballerinas are in place and prepared or about to be. I’m desperate to see one in particular, but when I step inside, I find a ruckus.

Dancers are panicking, talking to one another, calling, and typing on their phones. When they see me, they all freeze at once, with looks of true fear. I’m accustomed to them looking at me a certain way, but something about this makes all my alarms ring.

“What’s happening?”

They all flinch when I ask. This is the most I’ve ever said in front of them. None of the ballerinas are ready for the sound of my voice. I scan their faces, wondering which one is brave enough to tell me.

“Judith is gone,” one in the back says, her face pink.

For a second, I almost ask who the fuck Judith is, but then I remember she’s my prima ballerina. I nod, but right then, another pipes up.

“How on earth is the show supposed to go on without her? She doesn’t have an understudy.”

While not having my primary performer might be concerning for someone worried about their ballet, I couldn’t give less of a fuck, and it’s all down to the fact Lyla is not in this room.

“Where is Lyla?”

My girl is never late. She loves her job, and she knows I expect her to deliver the best. One hour until curtain? She should be in this room warming up.

“She’s not here,” the one ballerina who has been kind to Lyla finally says.

She looks concerned, holding her phone tight. I walk across the room, letting the girls return to their panic. There’s only one I want anything from.

“Maeve, right?” She nods, shaking with nerves. “Do you know where Lyla is?”

“I’ve been calling her. It rang a couple of times, but now I’m getting nothing like she turned off her phone.”

I swallow the fear that statement leaves me with. “When did you last see her?”

“A little over an hour ago. She said she was leaving to get some lunch and find you…” Her brows push together as she realizes what she’s saying. “I guess she didn’t find you, then.”

No, she did not. I don’t say it out loud. I’m too consumed by the worry settling in my chest to force myself to speak through the pain.

Where the hell is Lyla?

“Judith was talking to Lyla,” one of the girls says.

I turn to their group, and another girl shakes her head.

“They never talk, so that makes no sense.”

“I’m telling you. It’s not like I don’t know what Judith and Lyla look like.”

They are easily the most known in the bunch. Judith is tall and easy to spot; Lyla is short, but her pale blond hair sticks out in a crowd. Suddenly, Judith’s disappearance is my concern. After everything I put into my work, having no show today is the least of my concerns. It’s all about Lyla.

Eduard arrives, and all the dancers flock around him to tell him what’s happening. I leave him to deal with them and head up to the office, where I know there’s a security system. It’s rudimentary and doesn’t have sound, but it’s my lifeline now.

I flick through the cameras, finding Lyla finally in the dressing room a couple of hours earlier. I follow her until I can’t see her anymore, then I switch to the next camera for a better angle, pausing the moment Judith approaches Lyla. They talk, and it looks like a normal conversation other than Lyla’s body language saying she's uncomfortable.

My hand closes in a fist as their conversation clearly turns into an argument. Judith gives Lyla a mean smile, and Lyla tries to get away from her. Ultimately, Lyla leaves alone through the side door.

Moving through the cameras until I find the one showing the back door, I wait for the moment Lyla returns, but it never comes. Snow still falls outside, and she’s missing her jacket. An hour later, she’s still not back, and then we’re back at the present.

My phone pings, and I check to find a message from Eduard. Judith is back, but Lyla is not. Where the fuck is Lyla?

I fly down the stairs, back to the dressing room, and find the ballerinas fawning over the snake who chased Lyla outside.

“Come. Now.”

If my control snaps any further, I may just kill her. Each of the girls steps back except Judith. They all know exactly who I’m speaking to. I wonder if any of them were involved.

She follows me out into the hall, and I lead her just far enough away that no one should hear our conversation. Turning on her, I cage her against the wall and aim to intimidate her. I’d never hit a woman—other than a naughty smack that Lyla enjoys—but I will literally fucking murder her in cold blood if she hurt Lyla.

“You are fired from this production.” I speak very slowly and quietly, which helps. “If you want a chance to work anywhere in this city again, you will tell me exactly where my prima ballerina is. If you don’t, I’ll make sure you sink far lower than she ever did.”

A fine tremor shakes her whole body, and she swallows a few times. Crocodile tears fall down her cheeks, and I despise her even more for trying to look innocent.

“It was Carter Livingston. I don’t know where he took her. Hell, I didn’t even know he was going to take her. He offered me money to get her outside, and I did, but I didn’t know he was going to throw her in the car like that. I thought she wanted to go with him.”

It takes everything inside me not to hurt her. Not only did she work with Carter but she assumed Lyla wanted him?

“Call him, find out where they are.”

“I can’t,” she cries. “He’s never given me his number or anything. I don’t work for him. He just wanted me to get her outside.”

“You’re done.”

I turn and leave her there. Where the hell would Carter take her?

I pick apart all the things Lyla told me about her creepy stepfather, trying to figure out where the hell they went. I could involve the police, but I don’t want their involvement. The waters are already muddied by the rumors he’s spread, and we don’t need an audience to see how this all ends.

No, this is personal. He took what belongs to me too many fucking times now. I’d like to choke him with my own hand, and the police’s presence might interrupt things.

He’s a pervert. He told her he married her mother just for a chance to be with her, and he met her when she was twelve. How did that happen, exactly? She never really said. I pull up my phone and search the local theater records. Her first show in the area would have been when she was about ten. Did he see her there first and pursue her mother as a result?

So many disturbing things must have happened for what he said to be true.

His endgame has always been Lyla—owning Lyla, grooming Lyla. In the grand scheme of things, I want all of those things too, but I’m not a fucking pedophile. I want her because she’s magnificent, and I enjoy seeing her thrive. She’s the most talented ballerina in the world, and I need to make her shine.

I might not be anyone’s Prince Charming, but I’m not like that sick fuck. He probably built a lot of fantasies about her over the years after living in the same house. I’m repulsed to think what things he could have done to get his jollies that she wouldn’t have known about.

Each minute that passes without Lyla, the insidious feeling in my chest settles further. There’s no way this ends without me killing him. The more I think about Carter and the life he led with Lyla’s mom, the more I’m certain I should start looking at their shared home. Maybe he wants to live out some old fantasies. Perhaps he’ll die for his fucking audacity.