They were just in time. The lights had dimmed and the orchestra had already started to play the opening strains of the prelude. An usher with a small flashlight quietly led them to a private box that seemed to hang directly over the left side of the stage. She felt as if she were on the stage—as if she were part of the show, and that the audience might watch her as easily as any of the dancers on stage.
Anton said something to the man before he left them alone and then joined her. The chairs in the box were an exquisite luxury far beyond the comfort of the seats in the rest of the theater. She was sure she’d never sat in a chair this comfortable in her life. It seemed an impossible and bizarre fact to contemplate; nevertheless, it was the only thought she could grab onto that didn’t send her mind spiraling into panic.
Annette had been to live shows before, but there were always other people’s heads in the way. The floor was never slanted up enough so that you could gain a pure unobstructed view. But from the box, it was different. When she looked at the stage, she felt as though it was only her, Anton, and the performers with the rest of the theater empty. A private performance. But as soon as she looked away from the stage, the immediacy of the audience and that sense of being watched as much as the dancers rushed through her again.
The Russian nudged her arm. She looked down to find a program and a tiny flashlight on her lap. Annette skimmed through the description of Giselle.
When she was finished, she looked over to find Anton engrossed in the ballet. He genuinely enjoyed it. She’d never before met a straight man who loved the ballet. It seemed like such a waste for him to be with her, a woman who knew little about it and couldn’t fully appreciate the prize sitting in the chair next to her.
For several minutes, she found herself watching her companion more than the ballet. The concentration with which he watched the dancers was only rivaled by his concentration with her in the dungeon earlier. There was something deeply intense about this man that unnerved her. Now that she wasn’t in a drunken vodka haze, she could feel things in him that should have scared her. A roiling sort of black energy that pulsed off him and felt like a burn against her skin when she got too close.
It was obvious he knew this ballet by heart and this particular choreography. She could see it in the way he studied the dancers’ feet. It was almost as if he were counting the beats and movements in his head—like he knew the precise moment a lift should end, and the exact spot a girl should land after her turn, and he would only be happy if each movement meticulously obeyed the set script.
A sliver of light moved into the box, breaking Annette’s concentration, though Anton’s never wavered.
She turned to see a dark-haired woman had parted the curtain and come in. The strange ethereal creature slipped up to the side of Anton’s seat and bent to embrace and kiss him. It was only then that he finally took his eyes from the stage, and the force of that concentration and attention turned to her, leaving Annette in what felt like a circle of dark, chilled air.
He touched her arm in a familiar way. Where else had he touched her? She spoke low in Russian. He answered in kind. She giggled. He took her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it then rose from the chair and left the box without a word of explanation.
The woman took his vacated chair.
Annette felt a strange buzz of jealousy skate along her skin, wondering who this woman was to him. But why should she feel jealous? It wasn’t as though Anton was her boyfriend or husband. He’d made no promises to her—not really. The promise had been to free and provide for Janette in exchange for her obedience. Nowhere in that contract was there love or kittens or unicorns or promises of fidelity or happiness. It had been a cold and flat ‘You do A, I’ll do B, or else C’.
She turned in time to see the curtain fall back into place, wondering if he’d return or leave her alone with this stranger. The woman was petite and very thin, like a bird. Annette imagined she was probably strong enough to fling this delicate interloper out of the box. But she was sure if she did so, the woman would sprout wings and gracefully glide to the stage unharmed.
The woman had long, dark hair swept up off her neck in an updo and a long, shimmering pale pink evening gown. Annette wasn’t sure if she spoke English and didn’t know if she was supposed to ask, so she just sat there awkwardly, the ballet long forgotten even though she pretended to watch.
The woman leaned in closer to Annette. She spoke with a heavy Russian accent. “I was supposed to be dancing tonight, but I sprained my ankle, and the director thought I should rest. Anton is disappointed, of course. My understudy is going on instead. I understand you are Anton’s new pet. I’m Katya.”
“I’m Annette.” It took everything inside her not to ask for more details about the clearly cozy state of the ballerina’s relationship with Anton.
“It’s wonderful to meet you. Anton hasn’t had a sub in a long time, but he says your relationship is serious?”
“It’s very serious,” Annette said. But she knew they meant very different things. Katya meant it in the way normal people meant it. Annette meant it in the being someone’s prisoner is pretty serious way. She wondered if this was some sort of test, Anton leaving her alone to see if she would try something stupid—to get help or escape. She still wasn’t sure what it was she was supposed to escape from. The rich, hot man who’d set her body on fire with his hands the night before? The guy who’d bought her a beautiful dress and taken her on a private jet to the ballet? The man who was paying for her sister’s schooling?
No, you twit, the man who now thinks he owns you and is willing to hurt you if you displease him.
Katya leaned in again. “Will you play with me at the party after?” she asked.
“Play with you?” Annette didn’t bother asking for details about the party. She didn’t want to seem completely clueless. As far as Katya was concerned, Annette and Anton were in some sort of kinky relationship, and everything was above board. For some reason, she didn’t want this woman to know she and Anton had just met, and she didn’t know anything but the most vague mainstream thing about kink.
“I-I mean if you switch,” Katya said.
If she switched. Switched what? She couldn’t ask without giving some truth away she was sure Anton would later punish her for—or let Brian punish her for. The thought sent an involuntary shudder through her.
“Sure,” Annette said instead. Whatever the hell switching was. She was so far over her head here. Did Katya mean something sexual? It seemed equally crazy that she did and that she didn’t.
Anton returned then. He and Katya exchanged more quiet words in Russian. He kissed her on the cheek, and if it was possible, it seemed Katya blushed in the dark when his lips brushed her skin. His hand drifted down her side, lingering proprietorially on her waist for a moment. And that irrationally bitter stab of jealousy hit Annette in the gut again.
He’s not yours. You’re his.
The voice inside her head wasn’t her own. It was Russian and female. But of course Katya was engaged still speaking with Anton, leaning into his touch which remained maddeningly on her hip. After a few more moments, he kissed her again, they said something that sounded like a goodbye, then Katya squeezed Annette’s hand and left the box.