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Francesca’s voice rose to a shrill. Cane in hand, she was breathing heavily, having been summoned hastily by a member of the corps Juliette had managed to snag from the party before they left and sent after Francesca under orders to come urgently to her own office.
“Your assumption is incorrect, Madame Bianchi, Mademoiselle Lucian-Sorel didn’t, actually, do anything at all.”
Juliette and Francesca both turned to gawk at the deadly calm, if a bit paler than usual, Vyatka, who was sitting regally—a queen receiving peasants—in the director’s chair, speaking in that utterly unnerving low, cultured, slightly gravelly voice.
Was it that Juliette was still coming to terms with the fact that the Soviet prima could speak? Or was it the perfect American English, down to the absolute lack of any kind of geographically placeable accent? Just textbook. Juliette blinked and saw Francesca shake her head as if to ascertain she was indeed hearing the Empress of Moscow utter words. Then Francesca propped the cane against her desk and settled unceremoniously on top of it with a whisper of anoof.
“I have to preface this with an apology, Mademoiselle Vyatka, and I am sorry, but we will deal with you in due time.” The clipped tone and the blazing eyes she turned to Juliette told her that there would be no apologies to preface what was coming her way. Francesca inhaled deeply and then unleashed her infamous temper.
“I am speaking to my current Prima Assoluta, my Étoile, who was under the strictest orders to stay away from you and your entire godforsaken company!”
Shrillno longer covered the volume of Francesca’s screaming.
“Cesca—” Juliette cursed under her breath at being interrupted, as Francesca was having none of it and simply barreled over her protestations.
“Don’t you dare, Jett! You think because we sleep together you can pull stunts like this, well, let me tell you?—”
Vyatka raised an impeccable eyebrow at the intimate confession, but before Juliette could prevent further details of her life being disclosed, it was Francesca’s turn to curse at the interruption as the door to her already crowded office opened and Lalande stepped in, equally thunderous.
“I assume the word on the street is correct? Katarina Vyatka attempted a defection?” His brow was furrowed, and he seemed to want to be anywhere but the space and the situation he was finding himself in.
“The president sent me to handle the incident. This is embarrassing on so many levels. He guaranteed that nothing of this sort would occur in Paris. He personally promised the Soviets.”
From the corner of her eye, Juliette could see Vyatka’s already impassive face turn to stone. The massive eyes filled with sheer resolve and stubbornness. Juliette expected her to speak. To scream. To argue. To defend herself. For goodness’ sake, to ask how dare all these people treat her as if she was a mere commodity, an object. God, to demand to be treated as a ballerina of her stature deserved to be, Soviet or not.
But then, just like in the rehearsal room, something appeared to have suddenly broken inside her, as if a doll had ruptured the string pulled to make her dance. Vyatka sat immobile and silent, eyes dry and empty. All signs of stubbornness from seconds ago, gone. She was the unfeeling statue once again.
The starkness of the transformation was physically painful to witness, and Juliette remembered the third thing about tonight.
She had been ready to take on the world ever since a slew of insignificant men deemed themselves worthy to either berate her or tell her what to do. And here was her brawl. She had not chosen it. In fact, she’d done everything to avoid this situation. But the vision in front of her, the brilliant, talented, oh-so-alive woman transformed into a colorless, lifeless version of herself, a mannequin for all intents and purposes, because the worthless men were deciding her fate yet again.
Well, then… Here we go.
“I wish to speak to the president.”
Both Lalande and Francesca turned to her, their faces comically different in their expressions—the latter a picture of resignation, and the former of pure disbelief.
“You think you can convince him, don’t you?” Lalande’s expression was slowly turning into the same powerless one Francesca was sporting.
“I will try. I witnessed the abuse this woman was forced to endure, and while you can sleep just fine at night knowing that you could do something but didn’t, I chose differently. I chose to try.”
She took a step closer to Vyatka, subconsciously positioning herself between the ballerina and the rest of the world. This was foolish. And dramatic. Juliette had no idea what she was doing, not a single clue of what kind of mess she was getting herself involved in. If anything, the faces of Francesca and Lalande should’ve been a strong enough deterrent. But Juliette never had much good judgment when it came to being bullied into submission. Even if submission was the correct way to proceed.
Her very American upbringing of never letting bullies win was deeply ingrained. Moreover, she just really disliked these people. Sticking it to Ivanov and his KGB cronies while helping this woman? A bonus, in her mind.
“You think I’m unfeeling.” Lalande, obviously defeated now, paced back and forth in the confines of the office.
“I think you don’t want to have more on your plate than you already do. And I think you detest that I am a woman wielding considerable influence.”
He shook his head, but before he could answer, Juliette simply spoke over him.
“I will spare you the trouble of going to the president. I will take all responsibility. But I will not stand idly by. And you won’t stop me.”
Francesca clambered down from her desk, but Juliette wanted none of her lecturing either. It was time to change her strategy. Threats were only mildly successful. Promises might be a different story.
“Think of the headlines, and think what a coup this would be for the Paris Opera Ballet. If nothing else, think of what this could mean for this company.”
As Francesca’s eyes turned just a touch avaricious, Juliette knew she had landed a blow to the opposition and gained an ally. Nothing fired up Francesca Bianchi more than the betterment of her company. And scoring a hit like Katarina Vyatka, the greatest Russian dancer since Maya Plisetskaya, was the chance of a lifetime. Especially in the times they were weathering.
