Page 6 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

She purses her lips to one side. “You know what? Let’s get this meeting done, then you can head out. Maybe go talk to the police again, see if you can get an update?”

I let out a breath. “That would be great, thank you.”

Later, I stand at the counter of my local police precinct.

“Are you sure no one reported anyone missing last night?” I ask. “I saw the woman get shoved in the vehicle. She begged for my help.”

“So far, no,” the officer says. “We appreciate the report but we can’t even match the plates from your photo to a registered vehicle. It’s possible they had stolen or counterfeit tags. We’ll keep looking into it.”

“That’s it?” I ask. “This is a woman who might be hurt. She might be caught in a trafficking ring.”

“We can only do what we can do,” the officer says. “We’ll try to provide you an update if something new emerges.”

It is a clear dismissal as he looks down at his phone. Suspicion bubbles up in my gut, but I say no more. I simply rap my fingers against the desk and thank him for his time.

He doesn’t even acknowledge me as I walk out.

CHAPTER 3

Galina

Vera blots the makeup sponge against my arms to cover the bruises Alexei left on me during my very public kidnapping. She tsks as she works, asking why I can’t just be good and stop causing so much trouble.

“I caused no trouble,” I say. “Theyacted like criminals.”

“You know they were just doing as your father asks,” she answers. “They are tasked with keeping you safe.”

I wave my arms, pointing at the bruises. “Doesthislook like thy kept me safe?”

“It looks likeyoucould have just gotten in the car when they asked.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” I insist, not ready to let it go. “I am twenty-one-years-old, Vera. I am a legal adult. I have a job and my own salary. I should be able to go where I want, when I want, because I am not a prisoner.”

“I will talk to them about it,” Vera says with a sigh.

“Fat chance,” I scoff.

She finishes her work and I get up, stomping around the apartment to make very clear that I am not done being angry. I grab my bag and water bottle and Vera walks me down to thecar. Thankfully, she has an appointment, so it is just me in the backseat of the car on the way to the theater. I watch part of a reality series.

At work, I head straight to costuming. I strip naked in front of the costume team, director, and choreographer before stepping into the first of three costumes I will wear in the show. It is normal to be nude in front of people, here. There is little time to change between scenes and little space in which to do it, so we all get used to baring our bodies. I am used to it, but that is not what makes me anxious today.

“Your ass looks fat,” David says as he scrutinizes the way the light pink leotard fits. In the show, I will wear pink in the opening scene, representing the softness of new love. Then I will change to grey, representing the depression and loss that drives my character through most of the show. At the end, I will wear resplendent, fiery red as my character reunites with her love. The costumes are beautiful. They have made me feel beautiful each time I have tried them on.

Today, though, my face is hot with embarrassment as the choreographer levels her gaze at my backside, agreeing that I must be eating too much at home. She tells me I do not look waifish right now, and I need to look waifish.

“I will work on it,” I say quietly, as I recollect the extra helpings I have had at dinner, the small candy bars I have snuck in my closet.

The director stops addressing me directly, talking to the costume designers about how to adjust if he has to switch to understudy. I am mortified. The idea of losing my starring role to the understudy because my ass looks plump seems unfair to me. I hold back tears, unwilling to let them see me show any emotion at all. I will just have to show some restraint in the coming week or two. I will show them they did not make a mistake by choosing me.

After the biting critique in costuming, I head to run-throughs. They go okay, but not great. I am pulled aside before we break for lunch, the director again berating me for putting on weight, for not being confident in my delivery on stage. He reminds me, again, that he can easily replace me. That there is an understudy for this reason.

I head to the locker rooms, looking at my body from all angles in the mirror. I do not see the flaws that everyone pointed out. Still, I will skip lunch today to show my dedication. Instead, I pull out a book to read, sliding down the wall to sit in the corner for an hour.

Another dancer comes in. She is part of the ensemble. I think her name is Isabelle.

“Not joining everyone at Park’s?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “Their food is too salty. It makes me bloat.”

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