Prima

“We have a meeting today.” Yuri stalked into the office, a furious frown on his face.

I looked down at my calendar. “I don’t have anything on the schedule.”

“You do now,” he said, dropping heavily into the chair before my desk. “Broadway promoters want to talk to us.”

“Broadway as in Randolph Street—”

“Fuck no. If that was the case, there would be no problem,” he said, running a hand through hair he normally wouldn’t dare muss, being a rather meticulous man. “I’m talking about Broadway smack-fucking-dab in the middle of fucking Times Square.”

My blood ran cold at his statement. If the promoters responsible for lining up those few out-of-state companies allowed on what some considered the stage of stages wanted to meet with us today, then something was definitely up. There was a certain protocol that was followed without deviation. Unless the shit hit the fan, we never saw them before it was our slot to promote a production we wished to perform in the city that never slept.

“Do you think it’s about Clara?” I asked, trying to appear nonchalant though I already knew the answer. What else could it be?

“I would assume so,” Yuri said, sending me a look.

As he held eye contact for a second, I had a sinking sensation he’d somehow found out about me and Clara hooking up. I’d feared the moment would eventually come, and while I would never apologize for what had been the most incredible night of my life, knowing how pissed off Yuri would be filled me with dread every single time. I hated drama with a passion.

“I can’t see what else it’ll be. I knew there would be trouble when you offered her an audition. I told you—”

“What time are they going to be here?” I asked, not about to listen to him whine about how he’d told me so. I knew I was going to get grilled. I was the head of the business side of our theater. I’d been the one who went after Clara. Granted, I hadn’t physically forced her to join the company, but I’d used every bit of info in my arsenal to bait her until she couldn’t refuse to audition without losing face if only with herself. If they had any concerns, or they didn’t like the way I’d done business, I was the one who was going to have to accept the consequences. Still that didn’t mean I was ready for my brother to start turning that spit and roasting me over the coals.

“In a couple of hours or so,” he said, looking fraught.

A part of me was glad it was so soon because it didn’t give Yuri long to get worked up, but another part of me was totally freaked out. An hour or two wasn’t long enough to work out what I was going to say. Sure, I knew why I’d pursued Clara, and I knew I’d done the right thing. But how was I going to get that across if they disagreed?

“Then I better get ready,” I said, fingers already tapping the keys on my laptop.

With a grunt, Yuri pushed out of his seat, paused as if he had something else to say, but then turned on his heel and left, slamming my office door behind him, taking the final word I supposed but didn’t really care.

I instantly started researching, putting together things such as the increase in ticket sales, the number of interviews already done and of those booked for the future to present to the people who made decisions that could make or break a dancer’s reputation… or a company representing that dancer for that matter. With every figure I entered into the spreadsheet, I started to feel a little more confident. Clara wasn’t only a damn good dancer, she was a fabulous investment. Not even the most miserly bean counter could argue with the ROI evident in crisp black and white on the screen in front of me.

I knew I shouldn’t be surprised. Clara had always had unlimited potential. There had never been any doubt she’d been destined to be a prima ballerina, but was on track to be the rarest of rare, reaching the pinnacle of the title prima ballerina assoluta, an honor bestowed on a very few and only on the absolute best dancers in the world. She’d been born to dance and, if not for the fuckup at the end, she would unquestionably have been one of the most sought-after dancers on the planet. Hell, if she hadn’t walked away, she could have stood center stage at the Bolshoi Theater, the pride of the motherland in one of their own pouring over her though she’d never lived in Russia.

I put in a call to Baker to find out what he might not have yet revealed to me about Clara. I knew he must have done some intense, out-of-the-box research before he went to interview her, even if the piece was never run. Baker was the consummate reporter. He would have been looking at the story from a different angle to give the article the atypical slant he was famous for doing. I was looking for anything that might give me another perspective, and maybe more than just stats to throw at the promoters.