・C H A P T E R 2・

Roman tossed his car keys to the valet, straightened his collar and headed up the limestone stairs that led to the Royal Opera House. The magnificent building loomed in front of him, lit up to illuminate it against the night sky.

It was a megastructure of Victorian architecture and glass windows, home to one of the most elite ballet companies in the world. Legends had graced the stage with their art, icons like Nureyev and Fonteyn featuring in its illustrious three-hundred-year history.

The dancer tucked his hands into his pockets as he moved through the crowd in the foyer, nodding politely as he caught the attention of a few patrons. Dressed in a simple white button-down shirt he looked fairly unassuming to most people. 

But to the critics and seasoned art patrons, he was a familiar face. 

The theatre was busy that evening: the restaurants were packed out, champagne bars littered with people and foyer filled with theatregoers. It was opening night with one of the classics being performed and everybody who is anybody in London was there. Business moguls, celebrities, tycoons, movie stars, old money, royalty. The ballet had been a tasteful stop to flaunt your money pretty much as long as it has existed, and wouldn't shake its elitist audience anytime soon. 

Murmuring a silent prayer that the press would leave him alone for the night, he lowered his eyes as he wove through the crowd. He knew that stepping out in London, in a theatre of all places, would attract attention and probably result in a swarm of journalists. The mere thought of having a camera shoved in his face had a faint headache thrumming behind his eyes. As far as the media was concerned he was recovering from a back injury, which had been nothing but a crafty lie to try and buy him some peace for six months. Not that it had worked. 

He'd asked Bastian that afternoon if he could attend the performance, despite his better judgement suggesting he needed sleep more than a night at the ballet. Nevertheless, he'd decided to make an appearance, if only to amuse the crowds and appease his new director. 

He felt gazes raking over him and whispers trailing in his wake as he bound up the marble stairs to the auditorium. The ushers nodded knowingly to him as he entered the grand theatre, heading to the private seating boxes near the side of the stage. 

Bastian waved him down, beckoning to the red velvet seat beside him. 

'Glad you made it.' the director greeted him, shaking his hand as he sat down. 

'This is our artist-in-residence, Christopher Walsh.' Basian introduced, gesturing to an elderly choreographer sitting beside him. 

Roman nodded courteously to the choreographer and a few of the board members, but didn't offer up any conversation. They knew who he was, and he'd never been one for making small-talk. 

His gaze drifted over the lush auditorium where the audience had begun filling up the seats. Behind the heavy red and gold curtain the pre-performance buzz would be lighting up the wings, dancers and staff bustling around backstage to do their final checks.

He missed performing.

Dancing was part of who he was, of who he'd been since he was three. He longed to be on stage again, pined for the rush of intoxicating energy, craved the rumble of applause in his chest and wanted the nerves and adrenaline that came with it.

It was part of him like breathing was to anyone else. He'd known more stages than homes, more roles than real people, more stage lights than sunshine. But he loved it, wouldn't trade it for the world, it was his art. Despite all the pain it had brought him. 

He didn't miss doing lines of cocaine off his dressing-table and being so riled up he wanted to vomit, didn't miss feeling like the cage they'd put him in was shrinking with every passing second. He didn't miss collapsing in fits of exhaustion and anxiety after his evening shows as the withdrawals kicked in and he prepared himself to do it all again the next morning. 

In the hurricane his life had descended into over the last six months he'd thrown around the idea of returning to the stage a few times. As a child prodigy, he'd lived the better part of his existence in the eye of the media, and as disgusted as he was to admit it, he craved the attention he knew so well. 

But he also knew he needed a break, between the drugs and endless performing he wasn't going to make it to his twenty-third birthday. It was on his little sabbatical that he'd decided to leave behind a flourishing career in Russia and seek out a fresh start in London.

The English ballet was different from the Russian ballet, but he knew his prodigious name would follow him anywhere.

That, and his reputation. 

The chatter in the auditorium began to die down as the lights dimmed and heavy curtains opened. Tchaikovsky's familiar symphony drifted out of the orchestra pit and filled the Opera House with classical notes and powerful tempos. Act I started with a footman welcoming guests to Princess Aurora's christening, finally bringing on the character he'd been unable to get out of his thoughts since that afternoon.

The Lilac Fairy emerged from the wings in a flutter of dainty pointework, coming to a graceful halt centre-stage. The gold detailing on her tutu glimmered underneath the stage lights, mimicking her movements like only a classical costume could. She was made of starlight, swept up with crystals and rhinestones that hugged every inch of her neck and torso. Her previously youthful features were beautifully accentuated, her eyes darkened and cheekbones glowing with an enticing lure.

He'd seen a near-infinite amount of ballet performances and danced in just as many. He thought himself pretty disillusioned with costuming and fairytales in general. Immune, at the very least.

But she looked ethereal. 

She started her variation, the steps tumbling out of her body with breathtaking grace and precision. Ballet was made up of strict rules and a rigid adherence to perfection, it was after all what made it so fascinating to watch. But her interpretation of the Lilac Fairy had layers to it: she maintained the poise and elegance of a classical character, but her coltish, spontaneous movements fed into an aura of mystery that made her utterly magnetic. Seductive, even.

She gave the Lilac Fairy something resembling sex-appeal, not that he thought that was possible for a fairytale character. He wasn't the only one who's attention she'd caught, the applause that welcomed her on stage suggested the audience was definitely in her corner too. 

Like any dancer, he watched ballet with a critical eye. He saw the inexperience Bastian had referred to, likely a side-effect of her youth. Some limbs she had yet to fully grow into, a little artistic maturity that would come with time.

The Royal Ballet was once an arch-nemesis of his home theatre, the Bolshoi, and he'd never thought the English style particularly appealing. Not to mention he hadn't really enjoyed watching ballet in a long time, having perhaps been overstimulated in his youth. 

But he couldn't deny that there was no outperforming her that night, not even the two seasoned principals dancing the leads could hold a candle to her. 

He watched the Lilac Fairy during the curtain call. She was swept up in applause, gifting the audience with a heart-stopping smile as she bowed. She was something else that evening. 

The noise in the auditorium died down after a few curtain calls and Roman made polite conversation with the board as they exited the theatre. Bastian walked him out to the street, the late-night air stinging his skin through the fabric of his shirt.

'I will see you in class this week?' Bastian asked him, eyeing the famous dancer with raised brows. 

Roman knew they were anxious for him to start training with the company. But he could play them however he liked, and he knew that too. 

'Of-course.' he replied, taking his keys from the valet. 

He didn't live far from the theatre, probably only a five-minute walk if he were to guess. He'd decided to drive that evening though, fearing another run-in with the press. To avoid some of the traffic in the busy street at the theatre's entrance, he decided to head around the back instead. 

He'd truly intended to go home after the performance to get some sleep before company class the next morning. But when he passed the glass stage door around the back of the theatre, he was hit with one of his impulsive ideas. His stupid, impatiently impulsive ideas. 

In his defence though, having made two striking impressions in one day, she was hard to forget. She'd probably still be backstage if he was lucky. 

He pulled over and stepped out onto the sidewalk, shoving his car keys into his pocket as he began weaving through the orchestra members that were heading home. He slipped inside the stage door, glancing from left to right to try and get his bearings. He'd obviously never been inside the Royal Opera House but hoped he knew theatres well enough to find the dressing rooms. 

He headed past the reception desk and up the stairs, finally stumbling across the enormous main stage where some of the technicians were cleaning up after the show. 

'Hey,' a voice called from behind him, making him turn around. 'You're Zharnov, aren't you?'

It was a stagehand who had recognized him, a young boy probably in his early twenties. Roman nodded curtly. 'I'm looking for someone. Do you know where I can find a Nastasia Radzevich?'

'Oh, you mean Asya?' the stagehand clarified, rolling up a cord over his elbow. 

The Russian dancer shrugged. 'You know her?'

'Yeah, she's probably with the principals.' the stagehand said evenly, lowering his gaze. 'That way.'

Roman thanked the stagehand and set off into the wings. He headed up another stairwell and rounded a corner into a long corridor bustling with dancers and staff. The stagehand had said she'd be with the principals, but that was if she hadn't left the theatre yet. He kept looking, finally catching sight of a lilac tutu between the people. 

It was her. 

She'd pulled on some white legwarmers to ward off the evening chill, and had taken off her tiara. Her eyes were still bright with excitement though, her skin glowing slightly and a faint smile playing on her lips. She was talking to another dancer, a tall blond he recognized from the performance that evening. 

Ridley, if he remembered correctly. One of the Royal Ballet's male principals, he'd danced the Prince that night. Ridley raked his gaze over the young ballerina's half-bare body, running his hands down her forearms as he kissed her neck. He whispered something to her and she nodded, following him into one of the dressingrooms at the end of the passage. 

Ignoring the gazes he caught from other dancers in the corridor, Roman came to an abrupt halt. He heard his name somewhere, probably someone else recognizing him. 

But it wasn't their attention he wanted.