It was good to see her again. It was good to watch her dance again. As conflicted and confused as Salim was, he knew those things to be true. He’d taken a seat in a not-particularly-special seat in the middle of the first balcony, eschewing the box or the front row.

He told himself that he wanted to see the show from the point of view of the general audience, and that was partially true. He did want to experience the magic from the cheap seats to see if it changed anything (though he was fairly certain it wouldn’t). But more than that, he was hoping to go unnoticed, both by Nikolai and by the dancers.

He didn’t know if he’d escaped the attention of the dancers, but he had thought that he had escaped attention from Nikolai. He could see him there, in his box, staring at the dancers with an obvious desire. But Salim hadn’t thought Nikolai had seen him.

Not until the very end of intermission, when he looked over to see if Nikolai had found his seat again, and found the Russian staring at him.

Usually, Salim did a pretty good job of concealing his emotions when he needed to. But in this case, his surprise must have shown, because Nikolai smiled. Then, deliberately, he looked at the stage, looked back at Salim, and winked.

Immediately after, as though Nikolai had some kind of in with the gods of timing, the lights went down and the orchestra started up. Salim was left wondering, in the dark, what the wink had meant.

He tried to focus on the performance. It didn’t help that the storyline now had an extra meaning from the conversation he’d had with Ophelia under the bridge in London. It didn’t help that, as she danced, he couldn’t help but think of her expressing her fears. Some small, insane part of him wanted to rush onto the stage and hold her in her arms as the princess died.

He wanted to stop her from feeling that pain, even if it was fiction. Because, with Ophelia, when she was performing, it never felt fictional.

He shook off the feelings. He tried to focus himself on the task at hand.

Nikolai would make a move. There was five million dollars on the line, and, more importantly, his pride. He’d known this coming in, when he’d discovered that Nikolai had set himself up here, waiting for the company to catch up with him. But what Salim hadn’t expected was that it would bother him so much.

Throughout the rest of the enrapturing performance, Salim found his thoughts wandering every time Ophelia wasn’t on stage. They kept straying to Nikolai, and what he would do to Ophelia if he had the chance, and how he would leave her the moment he was done.

Anger was there. Fury, and sadness. He hadn’t done enough to stop it, he knew, now. He’d let himself get all raw with her, for some reason, in London, and hadn’t seen it for what it was: admiration for her talent running away with him. He had let his own weakness get in the way of what he had intended to do, and if that meant that Nikolai got away with it and won their bet, he would never forgive himself.

Somewhere in the middle of the second act, when most of the audience had caught on to the fact that the hero wasn’t real, Salim knew what he had to do. He spent the rest of his time steeling himself for the night ahead, and thinking of what he would say to complete his mission. He couldn’t let himself get distracted this time. There was too much on the line. All this artistry, this beauty…he couldn’t let Nikolai ruin it.

After the performance was done, he quickly found his way backstage—one definite advantage of having bought the company, to be sure. One disadvantage of having bought the company, though, was the number of people who stopped to talk to him on his way toward Ophelia’s dressing room.

He congratulated them honestly and whole-heartedly, and even found himself putting in little asides about particular moves he thought—from his layman’s perspective—that they’d executed particularly well. Quite as a surprise, even to himself, he found that now he had seen the ballet three times, he knew the show—along all its ins and outs and intricacies—pretty well.

By the time he got to Ophelia’s dressing room, he’d also overhead the idle chatter from the dancers about Nikolai’s post-show invitation. A few dancers had even asked if he would be joining them. He’d had to stop himself from laughing.

So, this was Nikolai’s big move? A group outing? No doubt he would try to get Ophelia’s ear, and Salim knew how talented he could be at getting a woman’s attention. But there was nothing particularly threatening in that.

With that boost of confidence, he knocked on Ophelia’s door, and immediately heard “It’s open!” from within.

He opened the door, and was greeted by the sight of a half-dressed Ophelia, turned in her seat to see who was at the door with only a bra on her top half.

His eyebrows raised involuntarily. He could think of a hundred things to say. He could think of a hundred more things he would never say, but that he knew Nikolai certainly would. But instead of saying any of them, he turned around as quickly as possible, as a surprised, embarrassed Ophelia dressed herself.

“I thought you were a dancer! We see each other like this all the time,” Ophelia explained, as though she were the one who should apologize.

“I knew I should have gotten into dancing,” Salim couldn’t stop himself from joking.

He saw, from the movement of shadows on the wall, that Ophelia was standing and putting on her robe.

“There,” she said. “You can turn around now.”

When he did, he was struck by how beautiful she looked. She was only in a robe, with her makeup half removed and her hair in a state of disarray. Before he could stop them, his thoughts wandered to wondering what she would look like in the morning, before she’d really woken up, in that quiet place between sleep and the beginning of the day.

He cleared his throat.

“I didn’t know that was the custom. I’m sorry if I surprised you; I was just coming to invite you to dinner.”

His voice didn’t sound right. It wasn’t charming and smooth the way he wanted it to be. It felt stilted. Rehearsed. And even though it was, it still didn’t seem good enough.

He wasn’t sure she’d heard him at first, though she was staring right at him. She was standing stock-still, like a perfect, silent statue.

Ophelia’s voice was particularly husky when she did, at last, respond.

“Nikolai Ansaroff has invited the company out for drinks…”

It wasn’t an answer, one way or the other. Salim nodded.

“Yes, I heard. And I know Nikolai—”

“I know you do.” The harshness in her voice surprised him.

Salim continued, “…and I was going to say that although he can throw quite a party, once you’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all. But if you miss out on the restaurant I want to take you to, there’s no getting that back. The place is due to close its doors in February.”

He’d rehearsed the invitation, and once again, he was surprised to find that it sounded like it. When had he ever been nervous asking a woman to dinner? Was this what a nervous man sounded like? He was so far into unfamiliar territory, he wasn’t sure.

Again, she paused for a long time before answering. Salim tried to scrutinize her face and her body language for clues. She couldn’t help but give them. Expression was a part of who she was.

He could plainly see her suspicion there. She didn’t trust him, and he wasn’t completely sure why. Perhaps it had been rude of him not to talk to her again in London, but he didn’t think that was anything that deserved this level of mistrust.

After all, hadn’t she been busy the whole time she was in London? It wasn’t like he had left her alone and bored. And it wasn’t as though he’d promised an immediate follow-up. Intense as their walk along the river had been, it wasn’t as though he’d then just disappeared. He was linked to her. She knew that. He had bought the company, for crying out loud!

But there had to be something else that was making her look at him this way.

Whatever it was, it seemed to resolve itself enough for her to allow herself to accept his invitation. She grinned for a fraction of a second before she seemingly caught herself. And then, she told him that she would be happy to accompany him to dinner, only asking for a few minutes of privacy so that she could properly dress.

* * *

He had told her the truth about the restaurant. It was closing soon, and it would have been a great shame for her to miss it. It was one of his favorite parts of Madrid, though his visits to the city weren’t altogether as frequent as they were to Barcelona.

Still, the maître d’ recognized him, and he could see it impressed Ophelia, though he also noticed—with no small amount of affection—that she tried to hide it. He loved that about her—the combination of inexperience and the willful refusal to be caught in that inexperience.

He was well prepared for the dinner. How many times had he done this—charmed a woman over an exquisite meal? It was like his move under the bridge by the river. He knew what he was working with, and he knew it worked. He hit the topics of conversation, the stories that usually made woman want to open up to him in every way. He tailored it all to her, and her known preferences, just the way he normally would.

And yet, something was off. Ophelia was there, looking absolutely ravishing. She was drinking the wine he’d ordered that he knew to be a uniquely delicious vintage, and she seemed to be enjoying it. She said she was enjoying her food, as well, and sent her compliments to the chef with apparent sincerity. She responded to him when he asked her questions, and provided basic cues to keep the conversation moving.

But something was off. He could tell. While she was responding to him, a woman like that couldn’t hide how little she was invested in any of the things she had to say.

This was worlds away from the woman she’d been back in London, from how she’d talked on the bridge like she just couldn’t stop the words from spilling out of her. From the way he could remember her looking at him, as though everything he said was both the most important thing she’d ever heard and also not even remotely what she was thinking about.

He found himself missing Ophelia, even as she was sitting right across from him. And how much he missed her shocked him. It was like a sharp pang, starting somewhere in his chest, and growing as the conversation progressed and he felt like she was moving further and further away. As though, with every word, she was becoming less and less the woman he had glimpsed for that short time.

She was being buried alive by this polite drone. None of his prepared topics seemed to bring her back. None of the little quips that women usually found both alluring and endearing worked. Nothing.

And then, he saw a spark of recognition in her eye as she scanned the room. Almost unconsciously, Salim realized she must be looking for the piano they could barely hear in here, the sound spilling over from the bar section of the restaurant.

“The piano’s in the lounge. We can go there after we’re finished eating, if you like.”

The spark was fading. She looked down at the delicate watch on her wrist as though it displeased her.

“I shouldn’t stay out too much later. Tomorrow is my day off, and I need to recharge for the rest of the tour.”

The Ophelia he’d spent time with in London hadn’t cared for the time. She’d stayed out with him far later than necessary, until her body practically gave out and she could barely walk. The Ophelia he’d known in London wouldn’t let anything stop her from spending time with him, let alone a few minutes.

“He’s pretty good. At least, I think so—I’m not exactly an expert. I tried to learn when I was a child, but it didn’t work out the way I hoped it would.”

He wouldn’t normally say that. There was nothing in a childhood failure that made for good date conversation. But he had to say something—anything—to keep her from leaving.

And, to his surprise, for the first time that evening, she actually seemed interested.

“Didn’t work out how?”

Salim leaned back in his chair. He could feel the ground starting to slip from under him the way it had in London, the way it had started to when he’d told her the true story about why he’d run away that day, what he’d imagined doing.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t do this again. That he would be charming and interesting enough to keep her out of Nikolai’s reach, but that that was all. And yet, he somehow knew that if he didn’t give her an honest answer, or if he tried to just deflect the question, the flicker of interest would be gone, and he’d be all but handing her over to Nikolai.

“It didn’t work out, the way most things I tried to do as a child didn’t work out. I told my mother, who told my father. They hired a teacher who was supposed to be the best in the world. And I worked at it, for a time.”

Ophelia raised an eyebrow. He had her interest, still.

“That sounds pretty standard so far. Well…” She smiled. He loved to see her smile. “Except for the world-class teacher part. That’s not exactly standard.”

Salim found himself smiling back widely. He must have looked like an idiot—nothing in their conversation justified that wide of a smile. But the pang in his chest that had been growing throughout the evening was abating.

“I suppose it isn’t. But then, I performed. We had a recital.”

Ophelia cocked her head.

“And you didn’t do well?”

Salim shrugged. It had been a long time since he’d thought of this.

“I did all right, I thought. My teacher thought I did well, for the amount of time I had been learning.”

“What was the problem, then?”

Salim hesitated. He couldn’t remember a time he’d told this story. Not to a friend, not to anyone. Certainly not to a woman he was trying to seduce. His mouth didn’t want to form the words. But even confused, Ophelia’s face had a special beauty to it when she was interested. And the threat of losing that look forced Salim over the barrier.

“There were other children performing. Some older children. Some children my age, but they had been learning much longer. And they were better than I was. My father was furious. He fired the teacher, and hired a new one.”

Even having seen as much of Ophelia as he had, now, he was still shocked by how effectively she could communicate emotion without saying a word. All at once, he saw her experience the unfairness of it, and he was surprised to find how much better it made him feel. Even as long ago as it was, he felt as though a small pin that had been stuck in the back of his mind for years had been subtly, painlessly removed.

And all this, without her having to say a word.

When he continued talking, he found that it was much easier. The hesitation that he’d felt seconds ago was gone.

“That was the way he was with these kinds of things. With creative things; I was either better than everyone else, or it wasn’t worth doing. And if I wasn’t immediately better than everyone else, then it was the teacher’s fault. I gave up piano after the second teacher. And I learned that it was better for me not to create. Not like that.”

“That’s horrible,” Ophelia said. But Salim didn’t feel like it was. Not as much. Not anymore.

“It’s not so bad. There are other things in life. Instead of creating, I learned to appreciate. To really appreciate. And through that, I’ve managed to put together quite a collection of art. I’d like to show it to you, sometime.”

She looked at him as though she were doubting him again. But there was more there, now. He was winning her over again.

And it struck him as strange, because the “I’d like to show it to you sometime” line was actually one he used all the time. It was one of his go-to choices, but he’d said it now without meaning to. He hadn’t meant for it to be a means to an end. He’d said it because, in this moment, he could think of nothing that would bring him more joy than to take her through each piece he had acquired over the years.

He wanted to tell her about the history of each piece, and all the things each one had been through over the years before it had landed in his care. He wanted to tell her what he found special and unique about each and every one. He felt that Ophelia—even more than the various art history experts and historians that he had known—would understand what he saw in his collection.

“And what do you do with these pieces?”

There was still an undercurrent of suspicion in the way she said it. Still that unknown source of hesitation and mistrust that he hadn’t gotten to the bottom of yet, and could feel himself having to fight over the course of the conversation. But he knew that asking her directly had the potential to backfire, and he couldn’t risk that.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you just put them in your home to show women when you need to impress them? Are you the sort of man that buys up beautiful things for the sake of owning them, and showing others that you own them?”

The criticism was implicit, but it wasn’t for him. He wasn’t like that. And he felt that Ophelia knew it. And, if she didn’t, she’d soon figure it out. He trusted her to understand the difference. So, instead of defending himself, he deflected with a joke.

“Oh, you think I need to impress you, do you?”

He said it with a smile, and was rewarded with the laugh he was going for.

“No, none of them are on display at the moment,” he continued. “They are all under the care of a few carefully chosen restorers. When the time comes, I’ll display them all together.”

She leaned forward slightly, and he reveled in the attention in a way he couldn’t remember ever doing before.

“They’re a coherent selection, you see. Or, at least, they will be. It’s unfinished, as of now. But, eventually, one day, I hope and plan to open an art museum in Al-Shyla. We have a small one, and there’s a great history museum down by the corniche, but we could do much better.”

“Corniche?” she asked, and Salim was surprised at himself for using a word she wouldn’t be familiar with. It was part of his standard operating procedure never to do that. He had to be mysterious, but accessibly so, and cultural or language differences didn’t help that. He also noticed, with some confusion, that the slight accent he sometimes developed when talking to his family—but always suppressed when speaking to anyone else—was starting to slip out.

“Sorry, it’s what we call the developed area down along the waterfront of the gulf. It’s a popular area…walking paths and immaculately-kept gardens. Honestly, one day, I’d like to show you that, too.”

He winked at her, and couldn’t help but remember the wink that Nikolai had given him earlier, and the great difference between the two.

Ophelia laughed.

“Do you say this to all the girls?” she asked, though he noted, for the first time tonight, it seemed to be without a trace of suspicion.

Something had broken. Some wall between them that he didn’t know if he had put up, or if she had.

“Sometimes, to the pretty ones,” he said honestly. “But I never mean it the way I do, now, with you.”

Even as the words came out of his mouth, he knew that he meant them. He could feel his perspective, and his objectivity, slipping away. What had begun in London was happening again, and he wasn’t afraid anymore to call it what it was.

“You know, I play piano.”

He cocked his head to the side.

“Really? I’m surprised you found the time to learn.”

She smiled.

“I couldn’t, eventually. Eventually, I had to give it up for dancing, the way I’ve sacrificed everything else.”

She said it sadly—much more sadly than he would have expected. There was more there, he could tell; it was as if she didn’t know whether or not to tell him what.

“But before I had to give it up, people told me I was pretty good. Certainly good enough to show you the basics, if you still wanted to learn.”

Salim could feel a trace of a smile forming at the edges of his lips.

“You, a virtuoso ballerina, would sit down at a piano and teach me to play ‘Chopsticks’?”

She recoiled in mock horror.

“What, chopsticks? Why, no! Never ‘Chopsticks’!”

The two laughed together, and Salim was aware of how much louder they had become than the tables around them. He could feel the glances that were being shot their way. He was aware he was breaking all the unwritten rules of etiquette that applied within that establishment. He just didn’t care.

“But, yes,” her delightfully husky voice continued, “I’d be happy to teach you. It’s the least I could do. After all, you’re going to show me your collection, and I know nothing about art. So that will probably be just as frustrating an introduction.”

You’re going to show me your collection.

And just like that, she’d taken him up on the offer. It was a commitment to the future, and, since it was likely to be well after the world tour was over that they would be able to go—and, most likely, after Nikolai had lost interest in the bet—it was a genuine commitment.

It wasn’t tied to anything professional or to any competition. It was just for them. Just because she wanted to. And because he wanted to.

“It’s a date.”