Page 2 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

“Why must it be I who was getting it wrong?” I snap. “Marcus might have been the one fucking it up.”

“Language, Galina,” Vera says sharply. She pinches the inside of my arm, hard.

“Ow!” I yelp. “You’ll leave a mark. The director will be furious.”

“Well then use your manners, girl,” she says, looking back at her book.

Vera has been my nanny since I was very young. I do not actually remember when she came to work for my family, but I know she has been my shadow for as long as I can remember. The shadow I caught fucking my father more than once.

She is not the only one, of course, but she may be a favorite, as she has retained her position lording over my every move for perhaps two decades. She is extremely loyal to my father, and herewards loyalty over any other characteristic. For instance, one could be a spoiled, lazy, abusive piece of absolute human waste, but if she is good at fucking and willing to keep one’s rebellious daughter in line, then she keeps her job.

I sit back in my seat, pulling out my phone to play Candy Crush.

“That game is mindless,” Vera says. “Why don’t you take up crocheting or reading?”

“I worked all day,” I say. “I just want to be mindless for a moment.”

“One could argue that you are mindless most of the time,” she says, laughing at her own, stupid comment.

My lips turns down at the edges, but I say nothing. She is trying to bait me.

“Why are you sulking like a teenager?” Vera prods.

“I am not sulking.”

“I disagree. What could you have to sulk about when you want for nothing? When you live a dream life?”

I scoff. “A dream? You call this a dream? I dance all day and then I go home to an apartment where I am treated like a prisoner. What about that arrangement sounds dreamy to you?”

“Many young women would die to be as successful as you have been. You are in a lead role at twenty-one!”

“I would love to quit,” I say.

She slaps me across the face and it sounds like wood snapping in half. My cheek throbs and I wonder if that, too, will leave a mark. I am frail, my bones sharp enough to snap. Still, I refuse to cry. I lift my chin defiantly, meeting Vera’s eyes.

“You are a spoiled little brat,” Vera chides. “You do not understand the sacrifices your father has made to get you here, to keep you safe. Everything you have is provided by his love and generosity. You want for nothing. You have no idea the cost of things, the hard work it takes to build what your father hasbuilt. What an entitled, ungrateful child you are. You should get on your knees and pray to God to be a better daughter, a more grateful one.”

She is nearly in tears as she says all of this. Give the woman an Academy Award.

“You could be a star, Galina,” she continues. You are so lucky to have had the chance to come to America, to receive this role in a major ballet company. Your poor father, he toils in Russia, fighting against those Nazis in the Ukraine. He could die in this war and you would not shed a tear because you are so self-centered.”

I roll my eyes. “Do you even listen to the news here? No one here thinks the Ukrainians are Nazis.”

“It is propaganda,” she sniffs, folding her arms over her ample chest.

I roll my eyes for the second time. Perhaps I am sulking like a teenager.

“Vera, I have no friends and no life outside of dance. I am not ungrateful, but I want more than this. I sit around the house, I work out in the gym and I go to work. Everyone scrutinizes my body, controls what I eat. I want a life, Vera. Surely you, of all people, can understand this?”

“This is the life you chose, to be a dancer. That takes sacrifice.”

That is the end of the conversation. Vera goes back to her book and I go back to my phone.

When we get back to my apartment, a spacious space with large windows that I actually do enjoy, I go straight to my room. It has a western view that allows me to watch the sun set every night. My father spared no expense on my housing here and I am truly grateful for that, no matter what Vera intones.

As I toss my bag on the floor, I go straight to my closet, pulling a candy bar out of a hidden stash of snacks that I savefor the very worst days. The worst dance days. The worst Vera days. These empty calories are strictly forbidden, especially now that I am dancing this principal role, but I do not care. I want something sweet that melts on my tongue and makes me sigh with pleasure.

Dance does take sacrifice. I know that far better than Vera does. The sacrifice I could take, if not for the added layer of my father’s paranoia and Vera’s constant hovering and abuse. I feel suffocated here, by this life. I feel caged when all I want to do is fly. As a result, I find small ways to rebel. I sneak candy bars home. I take extra-long runs, just to stay out of the house. I tell Vera that rehearsal is longer than it is so that I can have coffee with Marcus. They are tiny acts, not worth noticing, but they give me the tiniest sense of adult autonomy.

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