Page 119 of The Unraveling

“Come in.”

Even through the door, I can hear how serious his voice is.

When I go in, he gestures at the chair on the other side of his desk.

I sit.

“I assume you know why you’re here.”

I nod. “Yes.”

He sighs. “Jocelyn, I’m in a tough position. Today’s run-through was exceptional. There’s no doubt about it. Truly transcendent. And yet I have to ask you this. Have you been sleeping with your donor?”

I expected him to chastise me, not simply to ask me if it happened. Time to lie.

“God no,” I say, looking as flabbergasted as I would be if he’d asked me if I liked licorice.

“You’re not lying to me, are you?”

Go big or go home. Literally. Except I have no home.

“Of course not.” I shrug, trying to look natural. “Mr.Cavendish asked me to accompany him to an art show. We went there, and then he took me to the Seven. He didn’t tell me where we were going, and we had only just gotten there when the paparazzi showed up.”

He looks at me like he finds all this very hard to believe, but I look impassive.

“You do understand how completely inappropriate and unacceptable it is to have an affair with your donor, do you not?”

“Of course I do. I would never do that. I worked my whole life for this career. I wouldn’t give it up to sleep with some old married guy.”

My stomach twists a little at my own words.

He stares at me, and then gives a slightly humorless laugh before saying, “Right. Well, Mr.Cavendish reached out and told me that the photos were unfortunate, but not representative of any foul play.”

My heart lifts. Oh my god, am I really going to get away with this?

Why hadn’t he answered me? We could have gotten on the same page with our alibi. Instead I spent a month in a state of horrible suspense.

I shrug, as if none of this is a big deal, and say, “Well, there you go.”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re awfully flippant. Your career is on the line, Ms.Banks.”

He’s right. I’m shrugging too much. If this really was a complete misunderstanding, I’d be panicked. Nervous. Everything I’m trying to pretend I’m not.

“I know it seems that way,” I say. “It’s just that I’ve seen this before. My friend at my old company got skewered by the press once for some terrible false story that went around. I can’t control it. I’m here to dance, not to fight the free press.”

Damn. That was pretty good.

He flicks his eyebrows. “We have been deciding what to do with you this week. I wanted to meet with you first thing Monday morning, but no one could agree what to do with you. We were ready to fire you…but that performance today. You blew me and everyone away. This meeting was supposed to go a lot differently.”

“I understand,” I say, trying not to overplay my hand.

“Jocelyn, you’ll be performing opening night on Monday night instead of Arabella.”

My heart lifts, but my stomach turns sour. What the fuck. I’m shocked. My mouth nearly falls open. I was not expecting him to say that.

“That’s a dream come true,” I manage to say, the first honest thing I’ve said since I arrived in his office.

“Right. Well.” He shakes his head. “The thing is, and judging from today, especially, you’re the best dancer for the role. And if you’re telling me the truth”—his eyes land on mine and I try to look comfortable—“then it would be wrong to take this role away from you.”

---