Page 11 of Reverence

“So, what do you want from me, Monsieur Lalande?”

“I want your word that when the time comes, you will not contradict my decisions regarding the running of Paris Opera Ballet. That neither publicly nor privately will you undermine me and my decisions.”

A particular note in his speech raised the hairs on the back of Juliette’s neck. He was gearing up for something. This wasn’t just an offhand request. He knew what he was asking her to agree to. This wasn’t a conversation in hypotheticals. Not to him. Dread stirred in the confines of Juliette’s mind. Something was coming.

The door creaked, and Katarina stepped into the small office, looking for all intents and purposes as if she were climbing the stairs of the scaffold to the guillotine. The worry lines Juliette had not noticed before on the pale, sculpted marble face were much deeper than a thirty-something-year-old’s should be.

“Katarina?” Juliette reached out a hand but was met only with a questioning look. She remembered the earlier flinch and wanted to chastise herself for being a fool.

“I’d rather be told if I am being denied asylum. I would need to prepare myself for my return to Moscow. And for the consequences.” Katarina’s voice did not tremble, and her eyes were hard. The kind of hard that came from years and years of disappointments, of torment and struggle.

Juliette’s premonitions would have to take a step back.

“You won’t be denied asylum, Katarina. You’re staying here. In Paris. And at the Palais Garnier. You will be joining the company.” She smiled and this time did not attempt to touch the other woman, who clutched the flimsy shawl around her shoulders and was now quivering quite visibly.

Next to her, Lalande cleared his throat.Ah, of course…

“You have my ‘yes,’ Monsieur Lalande. Now go do what the French taxpayers are paying you quite a generous salary for.”

He shook his head, and then it was just the two of them in the much smaller, cluttered space, filled with papers and files and smelling like cigarettes and yesterday’s coffee.

Katarina was watching her with wide-open eyes, huge on the colorless face, framed by the longest inky lashes that periodically fluttered like butterfly wings, painting long shadows on diaphanous cheeks.

“You made a deal. For me. With him.”

Juliette smiled briefly at the perceptiveness.

“I’ve made worse deals in my life, Katarina. And for much less, at that.”

Katarina took a step closer but then faltered, stopping halfway. They were inches apart. The orange blossom scent spellbound Juliette’s senses. When Katarina spoke, it was the quietest of whispers delivered with the finality of a person sentenced to death.

“I hope you don’t regret it.”

Juliette felt the words on her skin, the exhalation of breath required to utter them.

And then Katarina was gone, back to the safety of Francesca’s office, away from Juliette, who was dizzy on the scent and the warmth of the presence no longer inches away from her.

The room, tiny and cramped as it was, suddenly felt empty, the disarray reflecting the tangled mess of emotions Juliette was confronting. She touched her cheek, where Katarina’s words seemed to have branded her, and remembered the blood on Michel’s skin, in exactly the same spot, drawn by this very woman. Juliette also recalled her prescient thought that this woman would leave bruises. She honestly hoped she was wrong.

“Well, then, for both our sakes, we’ll have to keep the promises we’ve made today.” As her words disappeared in thinair, Juliette realized hers was the only promise made, and Katarina’s sounded more like a warning.

5

OF UNWANTED ROYALTY & ASSUMING POWER

Years later, when asked about the deal she had made that saved Katarina Vyatka’s career and possibly her life, Juliette Lucian-Sorel would confess that she thought very little of the logistics of it. Not about where Katarina would live, what exactly she would be doing at the Paris Opera Ballet, how she would be taken care of, and a myriad of other questions.

Hell, Juliette hadn’t even considered how they would get out of the damn building, since they had caused quite the ruckus leaving the reception and she was fairly certain the Bolshoi reaction to their prima defecting had not been kept under wraps. Francesca didn’t tend to exaggerate such things, and she had mentioned the rage, the anger, and the screaming.

The commotion had indeed caused quite a stir with the photographers already following the high-level dignitaries and other celebrities to the reception. They had been aligned outside of the Palais Garnier, waiting for the opportunity to capture a few run-of-the-mill candid shots of departing guests. Instead, they had gotten a bombshell to cover.

The news of the defection had quickly reached beyond the confines of the building on Place de l’Opéra, and in the blink ofan eye, the number of photographers had doubled, in addition to all the news outlets sending reporters with cameras and recorders to the grand stairs. Peeking from behind the half-open exit doors, Juliette cursed the nosy Parisian press and their omniscient presence.

In her seven years here, she had gotten used to them, and more importantly, they had gotten used to her. Her pictures were rarely taken without her permission anymore, as her wrath was generally well-known, and after so many years and so much success, she was no longer a novelty.

She’d almost forgotten what being in the eye of the storm looked like.

“You’ve unleashed the Kraken, darlin’. Well, both of you.” The mangled reference to a four-year-old movie did nothing to impress her, but then Gabriel wasn’t trying to. He stood next to her, a comforting presence due to his size but also because when finally told of what was happening, his only reaction was to shrug his shoulders and squeeze her elbow—as if rescuing Soviet defecting ballerinas was something Juliette did regularly. She wanted to laugh, though she knew the tiredness and the weirdness of the circumstances were more than likely to turn her laughter hysterical, and if she started, Juliette wasn’t certain she’d be able to stop.

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