The congratulations from her fellow dancers were a buzz in Ophelia’s ears. She knew that their words were genuine, but no matter how she tried to appreciate the moment, she just couldn’t. She could feel in her bones that the performance she’d just given was better than any she had ever given before. Salim’s betrayal was an emotional fire that she couldn’t put out, but that she could channel into the work.

It was a professional breakthrough, but try as she might, Ophelia couldn’t appreciate it. As much of the emotion that she had managed to channel into the work, it still felt like it was alive in there, under her skin, making her feel hot and cold and sick.

She went to her dressing room and put the “do not disturb” sign on the door. Even that action reminded her of Salim, as it had never occurred to her to even have a sign like that until Salim had walked in on her.

The memory was painful. She’d put it off during her time on stage, but here she was, now, alone.

All that time, he’d known something she didn’t. He’d been planning something. He’d been plotting. And she’d just taken it all in and fallen right into his plans and schemes. She’d just let him get away with it.

And then he’d kissed her. And she’d kissed him! And the way she’d let him in, to her deepest thoughts and fears and insecurities…

Her face was burning hot. She sat down hard in her chair and put her hands on her cheeks, as though she would somehow be able to calm the temperature. She looked in the mirror—all this trouble and deception for this beet-red face.

There was a knock at the door. Ophelia was ashamed of herself at the immediate hope that it might be Salim knocking. She’d told him not to, and if he respected her wishes, he would stay away. And if he didn’t respect her wishes, well, that was just more of the same, wasn’t it?

She hadn’t yet bothered to get out of her costume. She threw a robe on over it just for an added layer of covering, and headed to the door.

“Can’t you read?” she snapped as she opened it.

And there, instead of Salim, was Nikolai.

“I can, actually,” he smirked. “Pretty well, as it happens. Not great with boundaries, though.”

Ophelia was tempted to slam the door in his face. Of all the people in the world that deserved to be told off, she didn’t think she’d ever met one that deserved it quite so much as Nikolai. And from what she’d read and what she’d heard, she didn’t think anyone had ever dared to. That needed to change.

She held back for the moment.

“Did you like my ballet?” he asked, looking every bit like the cat that ate the canary.

“Are you kidding? After what you’ve done, you still feel the need to come here and gloat?”

Nikolai shrugged and leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms casually. It struck Ophelia that he must genuinely not know what he was doing—what she and Salim had almost meant to each other. Not even the worst friend would so casually inflict that kind of pain and be so glib about it.

“I thought you deserved to know. And he certainly wasn’t going to tell you. So, I did. You should be thanking me, really.”

Ophelia laughed mirthlessly.

“That’s not why you did it.”

“Oh?” he perked up. “Two conversations together and already you know me so well? I wondered what he’d seen in you. You’re more perceptive than you let on, little ballerina.”

She shook her head.

“I know your kind. I’ve seen you before. You’re just never quite as good as others, and you can’t stand it. And you think it’s just unfair, and that it’s because you just weren’t blessed with the same natural advantages. But, really, you never work quite as hard or push yourself quite as much, so have no one to blame but yourself. You don’t think you can win fairly, so you cheat—every chance you get.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch.”

Ophelia crossed her own arms across her chest.

“Not really. Because you know what’s the dead giveaway that you’re that kind of man? I mean, other than setting up meaningless competitions because you never compare well in real life?”

She made him wait. He would have to ask her. But then, he wouldn’t be able to resist. She felt sure of that.

“Go on; I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

She leaned in as close as he’d have wanted her to be a week ago.

“The giveaway is that you can’t stand losing. Not in your dumb little competitions. Not in anything. Because if you set up a competition specifically because you think you’ll win, and even cheat to try to make it happen, and you still can’t win, then what are you? How can you possibly compare at all?

“You bought back your great-great-grandfather’s ballet company to try to pretend that you come from something that isn’t corruption and cheating, but everyone knows it’s gone downhill since you came onboard. No one will tell you that to your face, because they’re afraid of who your family is, and they respect who your family used to be, but everyone knows that it’s true.”

She’d won. His smirk was still there, but it was hollow now, insecure.

Ophelia pushed past him, heading down the hall.

“I’d already bought the necklace,” she heard from behind her as she walked.

She didn’t want to stop. She didn’t want to hear any more words out of that man’s mouth. But even though she was angry out of her mind, she was still herself, and she knew she’d regret it later if she didn’t find out.

Ophelia turned.

It was as though a completely different man stood in front of her. He looked the same—the same sharp features. But something in the way he held himself had changed.

“The ballerina’s necklace?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Before Salim was back in town, I was already planning on going. And, if you were as good as I heard you were, I planned to make you that offer. Turns out, you were better than I had heard. The bet, all of that…that all came after. That’s habit. That’s just the way we are.”

Ophelia hesitated, remembering the beauty of the necklace and what it stood for.

“I’d ask why I should believe you, considering what you’ve done. But it doesn’t really matter, anyway. I don’t need to believe you. I don’t need to have anything to do with you.”

Nikolai stood up straighter, his voice softening.

“You don’t have to, but you could. I know all of this—” he waved his hand about in the air, “all of this personal involvement was a mess. But that doesn’t change anything. You’re already in a company owned by a man that you don’t trust. If that’s the case, why not at least be in a company that has a legacy?”

For the slightest moment, Ophelia almost considered joining him. He was right about the reputation the St. Petersburg Ballet had once had. But he was wrong about what the Williamsburg Ballet could be.

“I’m already part of a ballet with a legacy,” she replied, turning to face the stage door. “We’re building it.”

* * *

Out in the cold air, she felt a little better. The cold and the chance she’d gotten to tell off Nikolai both did her some good. Her face didn’t feel as red anymore, and her head was starting to clear.

When had it begun snowing? The snow brought up a memory of Spain that entered in like a Trojan horse, seeming joyful until she remembered all that had come after, and all the things that he had known even while they were laughing and joking and pelting each other with snowballs.

She was still in her costume, covered up by only a thin robe, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t stay in that theater any longer. She needed her hotel room, and a bath, and the bed there. She needed some time to cry her eyes out, and to rest, and to put herself back together after she’d been shattered.

But as Ophelia stopped at the front desk to ask for a spare key to her room—her own was still with the rest of her things in her dressing room—she got more than she bargained for.

“What’s this?” she asked the man at the front desk, as he slid a paper-wrapped package across the desk towards her.

“It was left for you just a few minutes ago, miss. I told the gentleman I’d see that you got it.”

Is he talking about Salim?

She hated that she hoped that. “The gentleman” certainly wasn’t Nikolai. He couldn’t have beaten her here.

She thanked the receptionist and put the package under her arm, letting her tired body wander in search of her room, her mind fully occupied with thoughts of what she carried.

Still, when she got to her room, she didn’t open it straight away. She’d made up her mind that it must be from Salim. And, if it was, she was too angry to see what he’d given her. If it wasn’t, then she wasn’t ready for yet another disappointment in an evening that had disappointed her so much already.

Instead, she showered. She stood in the hot water for as long as she could justify, letting it soothe her sore muscles and warm her up from the freezing walk back.

At the back of her mind, there was a part of her that was warming up to Salim as well. That was making excuses for him. Probably, she thought, that part of her would always be there—the part that wanted him not to have done what he did, and wanted to live in the possibility that she had felt between them for the few short days they’d really been together.

By the time she got out of the shower, she felt ready to tackle the package, and she unwrapped the paper to find within it a sketchbook. It was high-quality, but well-worn. It was at least a few years old, she immediately thought—decades, perhaps.

There was a note with the book, but she laid it to the side for the moment, entranced by the mystery of the object.

She opened it, and was immediately greeted by a poorly-done sketch of a boy in Middle Eastern garb. It was labeled in what looked like Arabic, indecipherable to her, but from the imprecise scrawl, it looked to have been done by someone very young, a long time ago.

She skipped forward. The next drawing was much the same: poorly but enthusiastically done. A cat sitting on a window sill. She pressed forward, giving time and attention to every drawing. They were clearly improving, and she couldn’t help but feel proud of the boy—Salim, she assumed by now. She hated the way he made her do that. But she felt proud of him, all the same.

Before too long, the subject matter changed—what must have been his teenage years. Instead of the halls and people and things of the palace at Al-Shyla, she saw the austere hallways and students of a boarding school, interspersed with some sketches from around the world. Ophelia recognized the bridge where she and Salim had sat. The image jumped out at her like a snake, reminding her of that night and how she had felt being carried home in Salim’s arms.

Ophelia pressed on. There were sketches of a few people, among them Nikolai. Ophelia lingered for a while over that one. Salim had gotten quite good by this point, and Nikolai was clearly identifiable. But the look he had on his face was so different.

She searched his expression for hints of the cruel man that he would turn into, but they were hard to find. How could this boy have grown into the man who had caused her such pain, who had toyed with her life and her heart as though it meant nothing?

She didn’t know. She didn’t have any easy answers. But she found that the part of her that resented Salim for even knowing a man like Nikolai—let alone being so friendly with him—had begun to melt. Salim hadn’t befriended the Nikolai who had harmed her. Salim had befriended the boy here in this book. Afraid, and a little lonely. Scrawny, but scrappy. How could she blame him for that?

There were a few more drawings of pristine lakes and one or two that were clearly drawn on a skiing vacation, and then she turned the page, and her heart stopped. There, drawn with great care and skill, she saw herself. She was standing in the alley by her theater in Williamsburg, lit by the streetlight and looking up at her breath hanging in the air.

He’d seen her standing there before the performance? She hadn’t known that. He’d never told her that. She looked at the date. It was the day after the opening performance. She skipped back to the sketch before.

Seventeen years. There was a seventeen-year gap between the drawing before it and this one.

Suspicion entered her mind. It occurred to her that he maybe this was a plot to get her back—that knowing he needed some grand gesture, he had pretended to have drawn this the night after the performance.

But those suspicions were unfounded. It was impossible. The drawing had been done with such care. Ophelia didn’t need to know much about art to know that there simply wouldn’t have been time to do this between Nikolai’s ballet and when the sketchbook had been dropped off at the front desk. Not unless he had skipped watching her perform, and she had seen him paying her rapt attention from the audience.

If there were any more drawings, she would know for certain that the sketchbook was genuine. Her hand hesitated, afraid to turn the page. She had a feeling she knew what she was going to see.

And she was right. There she was, up on stage in the theater in Williamsburg. She was dancing, and, for the first time, she understood what all the fuss between Nikolai and Salim had been about. If this was how Salim saw her, then no wonder he had bought the company and done everything he could to get close to her.

She turned the page again, her anticipation outweighing her fear. The next drawing was dated the day after their night in London. It was of her again, perched on their place underneath the bridge. It was just as she remembered it, with the night and the lights and the easy smile on her lips.

Somehow, his drawing brought those feelings back, but even more so. It was, in a way, clearer and crisper and deeper than she had remembered it on her own.

She flipped through the rest of the drawings quickly, seeing them just as she had imagined. Her laying against him in the piano bar. The snowball fight. A still from one of their stolen little lunches. Her asleep on the plane, when Salim had ditched his private jet in favor of flying first-class with the company—just so that he could get the pleasure of sitting next to her a mile above the earth, or so he had said.

And then there were no more pictures, and Ophelia found herself disappointed. They were out of their time together, and that had very much been Ophelia’s decision. But sitting with the book in her hands, it didn’t feel like nearly enough.

At last, her hand shaking, she turned her attention to the note. It was in the same neat handwriting that the dates had been written in throughout the sketchbook.

Ophelia,

You were right. It was always more than a bet. I lied to you and I lied to myself. There is no excuse for the way I’ve acted, but I wanted to show you proof that no woman has ever shaken my world the way you have in these few short weeks.

I was trying to hold on to who I was before you, but you make me want to be the man I always should have been. I will always be grateful for that, even if you are never willing to see me again.

If I am truly the luckiest man there is, and you are willing to reconsider your final words to me, I’ll be waiting for you in the Summer Garden.

Yours always,

Salim

Her feet moving automatically, Ophelia was out the door before she could talk herself out of it.