Page 55 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

Vasily comes in when I am done, whistling and grinning, trying to make the situation somehow better. He takes the seat and the woman does her work to his long hair, cutting it short on the sides and in the back, but leaving blondish curls on top. I like it messy, but she styles it into a sleek pompadour.

He looks shockingly different, a man from the cover of a romance novel. I like it, but I am overwhelmed by the change. We don’t look like us – even the second version of us.

I wander off, peeking in the closet of the bedroom. There is a new wardrobe awaiting, more to the style of the area, I assume.

The woman leaves with a handful of cash and Vasily shuts the door behind her, looking around what I would now describe as a cottage. It has a small living room, a small eat-in kitchen, and the single bedroom and bathroom. It is lovely, really, but lacks the breezy beauty of the beach house. It feels less ostentatious, and I suppose that is the point. I don’t dislike it, other than the fact that it is jarring, and I am feeling off-kilter from the overnight move.

In the kitchen, I see that the cupboard is already stocked with food. The refrigerator too, as if Vasily had called ahead to assure everything was in place. Comfortable. Like we already lived here.

I wander back into the living room, where Vasily sits, nodding off on the couch.

“How much work is this?” I ask. He opens one eye in question. “To create new identities and set up all of the logistics?”

“A lot,” he says, closing his open eye. “But what else do I have to do?”

“Do you miss your job?”

“I do,” he says, head leaned back against the couch. “I went to school to be a barrister, to do human rights work. I wanted to get more resources for people and regions in need when I went to work for the Senator.”

“And now you’re on the run.”

“And now I’m on the run.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“For what?” he asks, lifting his head and opening his eyes, giving me his full attention.

“You tried to let me go, to just have the life you built for yourself. You didn’t ask for this.”

“I changed my mind,” he says. “I chose you.”

“You didn’t choose to be a babysitter. To spend your fortune babysitting some Russian brat.”

“Gigi,” he says, exasperation clear in his tone. “You’re not some Russian brat and I amnotbabysitting. I am keeping you safe. I am keepingmesafe. I love you. I chose you.”

“My father always said he wanted to keep me safe,” I answer distantly. “That was his excuse for everything after my mother died. It wasn’t safe to have friends or boyfriends. It wasn’t safe to go outside on my own. It wasn’t safe to go to a regular school. My world was so small. It was a prison.”

I can hear my own bitterness, so it does not surprise me to see Vasily sit forward, concern on his face.

“Gigi, I am not your father. I’m not trying to control you. I just want you safe.”

“My father thinks he loves me, too,” I say. “My mother – fuck, Vasily, I do not even remember her. I only remember what people told me about how she died. Brutally, in her bed, blood everywhere. No one let me grieve. No one talks about her any other way. And I got locked up, in her name, tokeep me safe.”

“No one is trying to lock you up, Gigi,” he says, talking to me like I am four years old.

“Don’t patronize me!” I yell. “I got locked up and hidden away and theystillfound me. They took me, and my father is more resourceful than even that bastard Baranov! Hewillcome for me, Vasily. He will come, and he will kill you and take me, and I will be back in a prison again.”

“We are always a step ahead,” he says. “I have plans laid out…”

“I don’t care,” I say. “I don’t care.”

“Don’t say that. You’re just tired, love. Get some sleep and then we’ll go explore. We’ll start new here.”

“And then run again to the next place you pick, with clothes chosen for me and houses chosen for me, and nothing to do but read and fuck and eat. And it’s just a different type of prison. It’s not a life.”

The air sort of rushes out of Vasily at this.

“Oh.” He runs a hand through his carefully styled hair, messing it up. “I thought this was what we chose together. We decided to run, Gigi, that night you got taken. Is that not what we decided? To run? To get you free of that life?”

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