Page 27 of Pas de Trois
Two pink lines.
Two pink lines that tell me my life has irrevocably changed.
“This is real,” I whisper to myself. “This is really real.”
I finish up and wash my hands before opening the door again, my cheeks flushing in embarrassment over my tirade. I bring the test out with me. Ezra is sitting on the edge of my bed—beautiful, naked, though sadness shines in his posture with his elbows on his knees and head in his hands.
I stand there in the doorway. “I’m sorry.”
He looks up at me, pushing to stand and striding toward me as I speak.
“Just hours ago, I thought I was dead. I was under the water, trapped in that bathtub, and I was dying. I’d said goodbye to life, Ezra. I thought it was all over and then suddenly…it wasn’t. And all of this? Nikolai dying, finding out that I’m his wife, that I’m pregnant with someone’s baby…I feel like my mind is snapping and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for fighting with you. I don’t want to fight. I love you and I just need to hear that you love me, too.”
His shoulders slump and he closes the space between us, slipping his arms around my waist and holding me tight. His body is warm against mine and it melts the iciness inside that makes me cold and hard.
“I love you, Anya. I love you forever. And I’m not complete without you. I never was. Every minute we were apart was agony for me. I need you. And I’ll remind you of that every minute of every day if that’s what you need.”
“That’s insane.” I chuckle through glassy eyes. “Every five minutes will be fine.”
We both laugh, pulling apart just enough to look at each other, to watch each other, to love each other with silence and simple togetherness.
“Come on. We need to get some rest. I’ll set the alarm on the phone. Come lay down with me and let me keep you safe while you sleep.”
He takes my hand in his and leads me to the bed. I’m so grateful for him and the way he loves me.
Lying down side by side, comforted and protected in each other’s arms, we somehow manage to fall into a quick, deep, dreamless slumber.
Nikolai once told me that I looked like a queen.
It was the night of my second annual performance in Nobility Hall. I wore a beautiful black evening gown that night. It had a boat neckline formed by sheer black fabric that stretched down to the smallest part of my waist—the sheerness was embroidered with decorative flowers and flourishes that hid my breasts and made the dress more modest.
I remember the way the gown cinched around my waist, flowing down to the floor in sweeping layers of black and gray tulle that dusted gracefully over the marble floor as I walked. I might’ve felt like a queen in that dress if I hadn’t been in mourning.
After my performance, Nikolai had taken my second partner from me. His name was Erik, and though we were only just okay together as dancers, he was a friend.
And the loss of him hurt all the same.
With the four families’ impending arrival, I do my best to steel myself, to harden myself, to freeze my soul in a protective layer of ice. I know I have to transform before they arrive. I can no longer remain the emotional, broken slave girl they’d seen me as before—that won’t be tolerated as a Mikhailov and I won’t be taken seriously.
I have to become like them.
I have to become regal, god-like.
I have to become a queen.
I need to make them see me as the bereaved wife, the strong and persevering goddess, the determined woman who would meet their force with force of her own as the sole surviving matriarch in the Mikhailov line.
It’s what I have to become, without any time or preparation for such a role. But with Ezra by my side, I know I can do it. His presence emboldens me, empowers me, and inspires me to find the strength within myself to be who I need to be.
It’s like any other performance—it’s just playing a part. And to play a part successfully, I have to be convincing. I have to convince them, but more so, I must convince myself that I am who I pretend to be.
If I need to convince us all that I am a queen, then I must dress the part. I put on the same black gown that convinced Nikolai all those years ago that I could look like a ruler in his world.
Before I put on my costume, I use Renata as inspiration for my role, spending some time perfecting my appearance. I style my hair into perfect, long waves that softly curl over my shoulders and down to the middle of my back.
I paint my face with color, shading my eyes with a light shade of pink that makes the blue of my irises pop. I outline my lids with brushes of dark gray shadow and black eyeliner. I curl and plump my eyelashes, brushing them with black mascara to make them thick and sultry. I add a hint of bronze to my cheeks and draw dark pink gloss over my lips.
I put on my dress and stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The small, ominous black box—the box that holds the diamond rings Nikolai purchased for me—sits on the counter, resting forebodingly beside the two positive pregnancy tests that I just can’t seem to bring myself to throw away.
