The lead-up to opening night might have been a mix of joyful anticipation and misery, but the cool-down was always pure, unadulterated, exhausted euphoria. It might have been different if she’d ever had an opening night that didn’t go well, but she never had. What her parents had instilled in her so strongly hadn’t let her down yet. With enough preparation, you can ensure a result. Every time, in every circumstance.

Even the jealous girls who had rattled her so much before the performance didn’t bother her now, as she gently stretched and warmed down. Her fellow performers, family and friends—people came and went, congratulating her on a flawless opening performance while they did so.

But Ophelia took her time with cooling down her body. This quiet in her mind, the sense of accomplishment, was her reward for the months of intense effort that she’d put into this. For a little while, at least, she would be at peace.

She would do her best to hold onto this peace before the little voice in her head began forcing her to start working through figuring out what she could have done better. The longer she could make it last, the better.

She was all alone in the warm-up room, doing her best to bask in her success, when she heard a voice behind her.

“Ophelia? They told me I would find you here.”

At first, she panicked at a stranger’s presence, here in their inner sanctum. But then, she remembered. Yes, of course. Eliza’s little “gift.” A few hours ago, she’d been mortified by the prospect of having to deal with him, but high on her success, it didn’t even phase her enough to turn around.

“They shouldn’t have. Look, I’m sure you’re great and all, but I’m really not interested.”

“Not interested?”

The voice sounded more surprised than offended, in the way of someone who is secure in always getting their way. It sounded like exactly the kind of person Eliza would be friends with, and exactly the kind of person she would foolishly try to set Ophelia up with.

Maybe it made her a bad person, she thought, but she was going to enjoy giving this man the rejection that he likely so thoroughly deserved.

“Not interested in dating you. I know, that’s not what you were told. Or assumed. Or something. I’m sure Eliza said all sorts of things. And I’m sorry she got your hopes up, but as you know, we’re going on tour after this week’s performances, and—”

Turning as she spoke, the moment Ophelia’s gaze landed on the person she was speaking to, she realized she’d made a mistake. A terrible, possibly career-ending mistake.

The man before her was not some Manhattan stockbroker that Eliza had picked to bother her. He was tall, with striking, angular, handsome features. It was a memorably attractive face, and one that she’d seen before, more than once. In trade magazines and websites.

Her mouth hung open, she knew, but she lacked the presence of mind to close it.

“That’s all right,” the devilishly handsome man said with a grin. “I’m not interested in dating you, either.”

“You’re Nikolai Ansaroff.”

The man nodded, like he was humoring a confused child.

“Yes, I am.”

“You’re the owner of the St. Petersburg Ballet.”

“Right again. You’re great at this.”

Ophelia’s face fell into her hands.

“I’m so sorry, I thought you were—”

“Someone trying to get into your pants? Or, sorry, your tutu?”

Again, Ophelia’s mouth fell open.

“I wouldn’t put it exactly that way.”

He grinned. He seemed to like making her uncomfortable.

“Does that happen to you a lot? Men coming back here, trying to get into your good graces? You go out there and perform and they fall in love with you, and you’ve got to let them down gently?”

She wanted to tell him that no, it didn’t. But in all honesty, he was right on the money. As much as Ophelia had her focus narrowly set on work, there had been a number of men over the last couple years who had decided they wanted her, and had equally decided that whether or not she wanted them was a changeable, unimportant variable.

Usually, she would just put him off, and say something dismissive even though he’d guessed right. But two things stopped her.

First, there was the fact that as the owner of the St. Petersburg Ballet, Nikolai held a great deal more influence over the course of her career than she’d like to admit.

He was influential enough that if word got out that he thought she was “difficult”—that poisonous word for any female performer in any industry—her options could disappear overnight. Tomas wouldn’t turn his back on her, of course. But there was only so much he’d be able to push her into the limelight, if the limelight had been poisoned by a man she’d accidentally rejected.

Second, for all the power he held, there was a lighthearted way about him. As uncomfortable as he made her feel, she also felt as though nothing was really all that serious. She felt she could tell him things, though she didn’t know why.

So, instead of putting him off, she led him forward.

“And you think that’s possible, do you? To fall in love with someone just because you’ve seen them dance on a stage in front of you and hundreds of other people?”

He considered for a moment, but only for a moment.

“Love is a feeling, isn’t it? And isn’t the point of art, of—” he gestured around them, “—all of this, to inspire feelings in the audience? I’d say if men in the audience didn’t fall at least a little bit in love with you, you wouldn’t be very good at your job.”

He let that sit with her for a moment before continuing with an even more carefree tone.

“Now, coming back here and telling you? That’s a low move. But feeling it? That’s not just possible; that’s inevitable.”

Ophelia hesitated, not sure how to respond. She needed something neutral. Something that would diffuse the vortex of sensations this man clearly meant to inspire.

“And you think I’m good at my job?” she said at last, hoping she’d found the right words to direct the conversation back to the common professional ground they shared.

“Would I be here, inviting you out to drinks to discuss your prospects, if I didn’t?”

The peace she’d fought so hard to feel after the performance was swiftly evaporating. She tried to work it out—the business offer and his flirty tone and talk of men falling in love with her. He’d said he wasn’t interested in dating her, but here he was, asking to take her out for some decidedly not-business-like drinks.

“We’re going on tour,” she offered, instead of a response.

He rolled his eyes.

“Oh, right, your ‘world tour’. How many cities is it again? How many three-star hotels and sub-par theaters? If that doesn’t convince you that you deserve better than this—and better than here—I don’t know what will.”

She wanted to tell him more forcefully that she was happy where she was, but at the same time, she knew it wasn’t a good move. Professionally, he was an opportunity.

“So, that’s ‘no’ to drinks tonight, then?”

Ophelia regarded him carefully. She knew his reputation. In an industry as small as theirs, it was impossible not to be aware of a reputation like his. She’d been surprised at the number of ballerinas and others who had fallen for him, some of them ruining their careers in the process. She’d thought it was a bit strange, and that those women just couldn’t handle themselves around someone that handsome.

But looking at him now, she understood more clearly. It wasn’t just that he was handsome. There was something playful about him, like a dolphin. But there was a shark hiding in there, and she couldn’t overlook it.

She’d taken too long to answer, apparently, and he spoke instead.

“All right, then. I’ve had quite a day already. I’ll be seeing you again, Ophelia, when you’ve had a chance to change your mind.”

And with that, he turned, and was gone, leaving Ophelia in exactly the mire of confusion that she had so treasured shedding for the night.