Page 1 of Dance of Ruin

1

NAOMI

Sometimes,I feel that I was born into the wrong life.

And by “sometimes”, I meanall the time.

The situation I currently find myself in is a prime example.

I'm standing in a ballroom so gilded in excess it makes my teeth ache. Crystal chandeliers glitter overhead. The walls are lined with gold filigree and centuries-old paintings meant to impress people with too much money and not enough taste. The clink of champagne glasses fills the air, mixed with the dull, polite murmur of political conversation.

It’s the sort of event I loathe.

But I’m not here for me. I’m here because this is the kind of event my fatherthrivesin.

Leonard Kim, U.S. Congressman and career politician, is In. His.Element. Parties like this are a drug to him—shaking hands, making promises, spinning current events. And tonight, I’m part of his carefully crafted performance.

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be anywhereneara fundraiser for my father’s campaign coffers, especially not when it’s being hosted by the “Daughters of the Gilded Era”: a cartoonishly WASPy, stuck-up and snobbish collection of upturned noses and dynastic trust funds.

But then there’s the unfortunate reality of my life as a ballet dancer, which is that ballet isn’t just art—it’s war on the body for those who practice it. And my body is taking abeatingthese days.

Since being cast as Odette and Odile in the production ofSwan Lakethat the Zakharova Ballet is mounting in a few months, I’ve been pushing myself even harder.I have to. Personally I think that Madame Kuzmina, our Artistic Director, isinsaneto have cast me in the role of the Swan Queen, which involves playing both the White and the Black Swan, but that's what she's done. So I’ve been putting in tons of grueling overtime with extra practice on top of the hours and hours of rehearsals to makedamn sureI live up to her expectations.

And all that extra work is destroying my body. Shin splints, tendonitis, stress fractures… You name it.

On the plus side, one of the best dance physios in the country happens to be right here in New York.

On the not-so-plus side, she’s out of network and costs a small freaking fortune every visit. And it’s alotof visits.

Normally I pay my own way, even when my father offers to refill my measly bank account. Dad and I don’t exactly see eye-to-eye, and I’ll be damned if I take his money.

Is that pride biting me in the nose to spite my face?

Yup.

That said, there are extenuating circumstances.

Like Dr. Miravalles draining my meager bank account to zero, and my rent being due soon.

So when Leonard offered me money to accompany him tonight, I said yes. I had to. A single evening of playing his perfect daughter, and I can survive for another month.

And Dad is currently makingdamn surehe gets his money’s worth.

“Of course, Naomi is an accomplished dancer,” Leonard says smoothly to the couple he’s been schmoozing for the past ten minutes, a billionaire philanthropist and his wife who look at me like I’m a particularly well-trained pet. “She’s with the Zakharova Ballet.”

He keeps his hand lightly on my back, a constant reminder that I’m on display, that I have a role to play—his daughter, his little success story and future protégée.

This isn’t him praising me. It’s him showing me off like a trophy.

“I’m sure you’re very proud of her,” the wife says, offering me a kind smile. “The Zakharova is a fine company.”

Leonard chuckles, as if the idea of my dancing being a point of pride is adorable. “Yes, it’s a wonderful little hobby. Fantastic way to keep fit. But one day, she’ll join me in Washington.” He turns to flash a nauseatingly fake smile my way. “She has far too sharp a mind to waste it dancing forever.”

A hobby. A way to keep fit.

The words feel like a slap, though they don't surprise me. I’ve been dancing since I wasfour, and not once has Leonard treated it as anything but a phase I’ll eventually grow out of. He doesn’t see the blood, the exhaustion, the years of my life I’ve sacrificed on the altar of ballet.

This isn’t something Ido—it’s whoI am. He doesn't, and won’t ever, seem to understand that.

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