Page 2 of Claiming Genevieve

“Wemetat one of those parties.” I glare at him. “And you used to like them perfectly fine. They’re a good place to network, to make connections.Yousaid that tome. You know good and damn well that plenty of influential people—yourpeers—will be there. You just don’t want to go because you’re bored with me. Admit it. Or are you just going to let the perfume do the talking for you?”

“Enough with the goddamn perfume!” Chris looks at me for a long moment, then shakes his head and storms into the bathroom.

“I need to finish—” The door slams shut before I can get the rest of my sentence out, and I let out a frustrated breath, dragging my hands through my hair. Pieces of it tumble out of the messy bun piled atop my head, and I glare at the closed door, as if Chris can feel it through the thick wood.

I hear the water turn on a second later, and I huff out another breath, tugging my floral silk and lace-edged robe closer around me as I flop down on the edge of the bed.

I’m really going to be late now.

—

A little over an hour later,I’m alone in the apartment again, staring at my reflection in the slightly foggy bathroom mirror as I take my hair down out of the rollers I put in while doing my makeup. Chris took at least thirty minutes in the shower, emerging with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. He’d given me one long look, as if to make me think that he was considering whether he wanted to try to fuck me or not before he left, but the withering look that I gave him was enough to convince him not to try. He took his suit out of the closet instead, retreated into the bathroom, and emerged once more fully dressed before leaving without a word. Not even so much as a peck on the cheek goodbye—let alone the sort of passionate kiss I’d have expected months ago.

Truth be told, I’m both relieved and pissed he’s not coming tonight. I’ll have more fun at the party without him. These things are neverfunin the way that going out with my friends would be—it’s a work event after all—but having Chris criticize everything I say and do, the way he’s tended to lately, makes it even less so. Without him there, I’ll be able to relax and enjoy the event a little more.

On the other hand, part of our relationship is him patronizing the ballet company. That means showing up with me to work events—another high-roller seen publicly endorsing a vital part of New York’s arts. It also means contributingmoneyto the company, which is another thing he’s no longer doing the way he once did. I have no doubt I’ll hear about it tonight.

I shake off the residual anger and brush out my curls, letting my hair fall in thick, dark waves around my shoulders. With one last glance at my shiny hair and understated makeup, I reach for my dress—one that my close friend Evelyn made especially for me. A little of that anger comes back, remembering how quickly Chris dismissed it, just because there’s not a designer label on the tag.

The dress itself is gorgeous—a deep, rich teal silk gathered at my breasts, made to give them just a bit of cleavage that I wouldn’t otherwise have. There’s a small inset of matching teal lace in the V of the neckline, and wide straps that sit in a way that accentuates my sharp collarbone. The dress drapes over my figure from there, clinging to my willowy frame in a way that hints at curves that I don’t really have. One side slit up to the thigh and revealing my long, slim dancer’s legs.

I’ve always preferred things stylish and understated, letting high-quality materials and excellent craftsmanship shine instead of embellishments and gaudiness, and this dress is exactly that. I add a pair of diamond studs and a diamond tennis bracelet that Chris gifted me early on in our relationship, and slip my feet into a pair of Louboutin pumps. Like Chris, no one at the party wants to see a ballerina’s feet on display, so I don’t wear open-toed shoes. I don’t wear them anywhere, really. But it’s a small price to pay for living out the dream I’ve had since I was a little girl.

Everything I do is in service to that dream: my diet, my workouts, my intense rehearsal schedule, my hobbies, and my relationship. There’s nothing in my life that I haven’t done that hasn’t been to get me to where I am right now.

And I’m not going to let a man ruin it.I remind myself of that, as I swipe a deep rose lipstick over my mouth and give myself one final, appraising glance before grabbing my clutch. I’m on top of the world right now, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve achieved what I wanted, and now I’m living out the enjoyment of having it. I’m not going to let perfume on my boyfriend’s shirt—or an argument—ruin my night.

With that in mind, I head downstairs, and catch an Uber to the party.

Forty-five minutes later, I’m a bit more than fashionably late as I walk in. Traffic was insane, and I plan to use that as my excuse, but I know I’m going to be repeating it over and over. I barely hand my coat over to the girl at the coat check before I see Marie, one of the other dancers, scurrying up to me with a reproving look on her face.

“Mme. Allard has been asking where you are!” she hisses, glancing over her shoulder as if our dragon of a ballet mistress will appear at any second. “Vincent is looking for you as well.” She glances behind me. “Where’s Chris? Vincent wanted to talk to him.”

I wince. Vincent is the company’s manager, and I can easily guess what he wants to talk to Chris about. “He couldn’t make it tonight,” I tell Marie smoothly, dropping the coat check ticket into my clutch and squaring my shoulders. “And I want a drink before I have to speak toanyone. Champagne, preferably.”

“Don’t let Mme. Allard catch you drinking champagne. She’ll have you doing extra drills for a week!”

I can’t help but snort at that, as Marie and I walk down the carpeted hallway towards the large event room where the party is being held. Our ballet mistress keeps an iron grip on the dancers’ diets, demanding that we submit meal plans and nutrition logs, and that we avoid alcohol entirely. That doesn’t mean that we don’t sneak a drink or a treat here or there, although I keep my own diet fairly rigid. But a glass of champagne won’t destroy all of my hard work, and right now, I feel like I need it.

“I’ll be fine.” I zero in on the bar the moment I see it, and begin to make my way through the crowd. The room is full of guests and my fellow dancers, a string quartet playing instrumental versions of popular songs, and there’s a hum of chatter above it all. The party is already lively, and looks like it’ll be a success. I’m sure Vincent will be pleased. A good turnout for this event means we’ll likely have a good turnout for the summer performance—Giselle, which is always popular.

“Ooh. I see Denis over there. I’ll be back!” Marie cuts away from me, making a beeline to the other side of the room, where she’s spied one of the other dancers—notably, the one that Chris demanded be removed as my partner. I don’t bother looking. I see Denis often enough as it is, and there’s no point in thinking about what could have been.

Although, after my fight with Chris tonight, it’s more tempting than it has been in a long time.

“Champagne, please,” I request as I reach the bar. The uniformed man behind it nods.

“Any particular kind?”

“Cristal, if you have it. Dom, if not.” I lean my elbow against the bar as I wait, already anticipating the taste of the expensive champagne. I’ve always had luxurious tastes, but being with Chris has allowed me to indulge them more often, and I’m afraid I’ve gotten a little spoiled. I don’t love the idea of going back to supermarket champagne if the relationship were to end.

“Genevieve! I’ve been looking for you!” Vincent’s voice rings out behind me, and I school my face into a pleasant expression before turning to face him. It’s not that I don’t like Vincent—we get along well enough, most of the time. But I know exactly what he wants tonight, and I’m really not in the mood to defend Chris.

“Enjoying the party?” I smile at him, and he returns it, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He glances behind me, much like Marie did, as if looking for someone who isn’t there.

“It’s going well.” His eyebrows rise. “Chris didn’t come with you?”

“He was busy tonight. A work thing of his own. He wanted me to attend with him, but I told him this was more important—for me, anyway.” It’s a lie, but one that should help smooth things over with Vincent. Hopefully.

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