by Holly Rayner
It wouldn’t be Ophelia’s fault if she didn’t see through him—somehow, very few women ever did. Not until it was too late, at least. Salim had always just accepted this part of Nikolai’s life, but he found he couldn’t accept him inflicting it on her. Not the work of art he’d seen in the alley. Not the master artist he had just seen work a kind of magic on that stage.
The worst part of it was that Nikolai knew better than to play at a disadvantage. He already had an in with Ophelia in the dance company he had bought several months before. Whether this had been more to distance himself from the seedier parts of his father’s enterprises, or to bed enterprising ballerinas, Salim had never quite been sure. But the acquisition had worked a charm for both purposes, and now, it was going to net him another cool five million if Salim didn’t think of anything better.
“And was tonight a success?” the reporter was asking, now. “Have you fallen in love with the ballet, the way your friend Nikolai Ansaroff once did?”
Salim went to answer the fluff question in a cool, practiced negative, but something stopped him.
Why not?
He was an art collector. It had been much of his focus since he had been old enough to realize that a focus was necessary for someone in his position, to avoid falling victim to the kind of wasteful, meaningless existence that a couple of his siblings had found themselves in. And wasn’t what he had seen today art?
“Fallen in love? Who could see that show and not fall in love?”
He followed up the insinuation with a winsome grin, and let the reporter prattle on excitedly until he found a clean exit. He had a mission now, here, tonight. Nikolai may have taken the straightforward path, but the straight path wasn’t necessarily going to win him the prize, here. A more circuitous route might be what was called for.
Salim didn’t know much about the performing arts, but he knew a lot about people. And he knew that if he was going to make the owner of this company an offer he couldn’t refuse, he should at least do it when the lucky individual was already in a good mood.
Chapter 7
Ophelia
It had always amazed Ophelia how quickly the thrill and the newness of opening night makes way to the routine of performing. Once they’d proved to themselves that they could pull it off, the rest of the performances become easier. The five New York shows had all been met with packed houses and praise more unanimous than Ophelia had seen in all her years ravenously devouring all the trade publications and ballet reviews she could get her hands on.
And now, sitting on the stage with a few of the dancers that she felt closest to, about to depart on the adventure of her life, Ophelia felt as light as the bubbles in the flute of champagne in her hand.
“I’m going to miss New York,” said Katie, one of the youngest dancers in the company. “I’d never been much of anywhere but Michigan before I came here.”
Ophelia put her hand on the younger girl’s arm.
“Then I bet you’re just going to love London. And London is going to love you. And all the rest of the cities, too. But first, London.”
Ophelia raised her flute, and the rest of the little group joined her in an impromptu toast.
“Especially the men,” another of the girls said. “Just please don’t show them where you’re from in Michigan on your hand, the way you did when you met us.”
The group laughed, and Ophelia smiled, the champagne flushing her cheeks.
“What?” Katie asked. “It’s a good way of describing—”
More lighthearted, kind laughter.
“Honey, no one cares where you come from, out there. They only care where you’re going, and what they can get from you,” the other girl continued. “But don’t worry. Just stick with us. We’ll show you the kind of men you want to avoid. Especially Ophelia, here. Careful girl like her—I’ll bet she’s never had a night she regretted later. Have you, Ophelia?”
Well, that question at least she could answer with a completely truthful “no.” But something about the way they all felt like family, drinking champagne, and talking about the future together, made Ophelia hesitate. A part of her wanted to tell the truth. The whole truth. The whole lack of nights to regret at all.
But the look in the younger girl’s eyes, with all the admiration for the life she didn’t know Ophelia hadn’t really ever gotten the chance to live…
Somewhere in the background, she could hear Eliza’s cruel laugh. And she knew it was better, as it always was, to keep it to herself.
“It’s important to make good decisions. Especially on tour,” she said instead, and Katie nodded her head like she’d given some great piece of wisdom. “With the new places and the unfamiliar surroundings, a lot of dancers let themselves get distracted, and that can be a disaster. Remember, we’re going to have fun. But this trip is about your career, first and foremost.”
A fraud, Ophelia thought. That was what she was.
“Everyone! Everyone! Gather ‘round!”
How many times had she heard Tomas say those words over the last three years? And yet, she still liked the way it effortlessly brought the whole company together, moving as gracefully as only a group of world-class dancers could.
“Now, I know you’re all enjoying yourselves drinking my champagne,” he began when they had all gathered, to a chorus of giggles that sounded like they should have come from a much younger group. “And you should! You’ve had a great run in New York, and you’re going to have an amazing world tour.”
This was met with a cheer from the gathered crowd, but Ophelia stayed quiet. You, he’d said. Why not we? Ophelia swallowed hard. She’d known enough rejection and hardship—even as short as her career had been so far—that she could sense it coming.
“You should be proud of yourselves!” Tomas continued, his smile lines forming deep trenches as he grinned. “I know that I’m very proud of all of you. And it’s because I’m so proud of each and every one of you that I have complete confidence that you’re going to do a fantastic job out there without me.”
This time, the only cheer was from a girl who had drunk a little too much of the champagne, who was quickly shushed by her friends. For the first time since the audience had started seating hours earlier, the theater was perfectly quiet.
“What are you saying?” Katie asked, with the look on her face matching the feeling in Ophelia’s chest.
“Well, I’m trying, very badly, to say goodbye.”
The admission cued disbelief and expressions of shock, with the dancers looking to each other as though they hadn’t all been equally blindsided.
“Why?” Ophelia heard someone ask, though she wasn’t sure who.
“Well, the short answer is that I’ve been bought out. Which is good news! The face that such a high-profile investor is interested in coming in and taking over just shows what great work you’ve all—”
He might have still been talking, but the dancers and their newly-found axes to grind drowned him out. Ophelia, for her part, sat silently. She was in shock. As much as Tomas had done for everyone—as much as it was his talent as a company director and owner to encourage and bring out the best in each and every performer—Ophelia couldn’t help but think that she owed him more.
He’d been her mentor. He’d taken her in when she was 21, technically trained and passionate, but an undirected mess of talent and ambition. He’d formed her into the dancer she was today. He’d made Ophelia the dancer she’d been proud to be over the performances of the last few days. Every success, every joy she was feeling, was due to him.
“Quiet!” Tomas yelled, and it was as startling to hear as it was rare. He never raised his voice, and it felt like a betrayal that he should have to now, at the end.
Ophelia felt as though, on top of everything, they’d let him down.
“I know this is all very sudden, and I know you have a lot of questions for me. When you get back from your smash-hit world tour, then I will be happy to hear about it from each of you, and yo
u can ask me all the questions you want. But, for now, I need you all focused on the tour in front of you, and nothing else. Do you understand?”
When he took on this tone of voice, like a stern father, everyone in the company felt like shamed brothers and sisters.
“Now, as I always say—and you’ve all heard me say this—every time there’s a goodbye, there should be a hello. And tonight, I’m pleased to introduce you to the new owner of the Williamsburg Ballet! Please give a warm welcome to his Royal Highness, Sheikh Salim Bin Tahir!”
There was a smattering of half-hearted applause, and in walked a man who was anything but what Ophelia had expected when she’d heard his name.
He was wearing a sharp, expensive suit, and had a sharp way about him to match. Ophelia’s mind couldn’t help returning to Nikolai Ansaroff, as the last sharp, suited man who had wormed his way into the only part of her life that truly mattered. But for the initial similarities, there was also a difference between them in the way they carried themselves, though Ophelia couldn’t say exactly what it was.
What she could say was that she didn’t quite realize when Tomas left, which felt wrong to her. Somehow, when the man—the new owner—was talking, he had slipped out. All her focus, all her attention had been on her mentor who was abandoning not only her, but the whole theater. And somehow, so easily, Salim had taken her attention from him.
And it wasn’t even as though he was saying anything all that interesting. His introduction to them all was generic; some polite words about how talented everyone was and how awed he was by the production. He was capable of reading the room, at least, and saw that no one in the company was going to be falling over themselves to welcome him—at least not so quickly in the wake of finding out that they had lost Tomas.
But he was charming, nonetheless. And Ophelia couldn’t help but resent him for it. It would be so much easier if she could just hate this newcomer who’d decided to upend such an important part of her life, right as it was all coming together so perfectly.
For one brief, shining moment, everything had been exactly as it should have been, and then this man had ruined it. She hoped the iciness in her stare was enough to make that clear.
Chapter 8
Salim
Being a prince, even a prince that wasn’t directly in the line of succession, meant many things. It meant wealth and a reputation to maintain. It meant both freedom and responsibility. But, above all, it meant attention.
Salim was used to attention, and he was used to molding it the way he needed. Public speaking, he’d found, was always a matter of give and take. It was easier, in rooms like this, when he could actually be up close and personal with his audience, to see their reactions in real time. It was harder in huge groups, where he had to extrapolate a bit more.
He didn’t envy his father, or his brother—who would succeed him—and their required televised addresses. That, he imagined, must be difficult. Far more difficult, Salim imagined, than winning over a small group of people who knew that it was in their best interest to like him, even if it wasn’t their first instinct in the wake of losing their former director.
One by one, he saw them coming around. He tried to keep the address as short as he could, while still having the required effect. He knew he couldn’t stop talking until he had at least a majority on his side. After that, the ones he’d managed to bring around would do his job for him.
It was hard not to look at Ophelia.
She was the reason for him being here, sure, but it was imperative that she not know that, if this was going to work at all. He needed her to be interested in him enough to avoid Nikolai’s advances, and that would never work if she knew he’d bought out an entire company just to have a reason to be close to her.
Still, in that moment, she was as bewitching as she had been in the alley, and as she had been on stage. Both those times, her body had seemed like a perfect means of expression and amplification of her feelings. On stage, it had been everything and anything it needed to be. In the alley, it had been pre-show focus and preparation.
But now? Now, it was cold, hardened resentment. She was rigid and unyielding, and none of the things he said—none of the little jokes and asides that got a laugh or seemed to sway other members of the company—got through to her.
He wanted to search her face for signs that it wasn’t solely the case. He wanted to discover if there was something, anything else there. It was important to his purpose here that there was.
He closed the speech when he had won over his majority, and began seeing signs of some of them growing bored. Tomas had, as requested, slipped out earlier on. Salim needed him out of the way if this was going to work, and while Tomas didn’t know what Salim was trying to make work, he’d agreed easily enough.
“And now,” Salim said, gesturing for a stagehand to roll the drinks cart onto the stage, “I have a little introductory present for you. Tomas gave you champagne to celebrate the past, but I’ve brought you a little something to celebrate the future. It’s four days until your next performance, ladies and gentlemen. I do hope you enjoy!”
Salim noted—with no small amount of pride—that the applause he received at the end of his speech was much more enthusiastic and genuine than had been the applause he’d gotten at the beginning. And, as the more party-oriented members of the company began swarming the drinks cart, he stood to one side and began receiving the personal introductions that he knew were coming.
Those were easy. Mostly, the dancers just wanted a little bit of face time with the new boss to try to make an impression, and Salim’s main objective here was to make them feel that they had done so. This was easier with some than with others. However, he tried to leave even those who should have known better than to greet their new boss in their current state with the feeling that it had been a positive interaction.
He let part of his focus wander to the drinks cart. He’d spared no expense in assembling the gift, and though it was a transparent bribe to start things off on the right foot, it seemed—at least for some—to be an effective one. Over and over, he heard their expressions of delighted surprise. For those that chose to take advantage of it, tonight would be an extraordinary night of getting to sample some of the finest wines and liquors in existence.
After the way Ophelia had responded to him—or, rather, how she hadn’t responded—he knew better than to expect that she would be among the dancers coming up to introduce themselves. But still, he made himself wait until everyone who seemed inclined had had their say to him before he went on his rounds to the principals.
He started with Ryan, and moved on to another couple of solo dancers before he allowed himself to approach Ophelia. A part of him was worried that she would attempt to slip off into the night before he got a chance to greet her, but mostly, he felt confident that—whatever her feelings about losing her mentor—she would naturally be curious about him. Enough that that curiosity, if nothing else, would compel her to stay until he got to her.
By the time he did, the party was back up again in full swing, and Ophelia’s companions in sitting quietly and sticking to the champagne had dwindled.
“Ophelia, I presume?”
“You do,” she said, quickly and sharply, and then, almost as quickly, seemed to regret it. “I’m sorry, that was—”
“Completely understandable, considering. I know this is a shock. And I know that big transitions like this generally happen with a great deal more warning, and not in the middle of a run.”
She was eyeing him carefully, and Salim was immediately relieved. The mixture of frustration, curiosity, and attraction that he’d been so hoping to find in her eyes was all there. He was relying on this reaction from her for this whole scheme to work, and finding it just as he anticipated gave him real, firm hope that he would be able to outdo his old rival.
“Then why did it? Why did you swoop in so quickly if you knew how disruptive it would be to all of us?”
There was no hiding the
bitterness in her voice, and the regret at how harshly her words came out. The champagne and the emotional and physical exhaustion after the week and night she’d had must have helped with that, Salim figured. But no matter—the harsher she was with him now, and the more he was understanding and respectful and tolerating in turn, the more likely she would be to admire him for accommodating her in this trying time.
“In all honestly, I couldn’t help myself. And you were a part of that.”
The best lies weave in a little truth, he knew. But as soon as he said the words, he wondered if he hadn’t let a little too much truth in. She was instantly suspicious, and Salim found himself nervous in a way he couldn’t remember having been since he was a boy. Only the years of practice he’d had in controlling his emotions gave him the confidence to speak, knowing that his strange, unexplained nervousness wouldn’t be reflected in his voice.
“I was a part of that?”
Salim gave her a reassuring smile.
“Your performance. I was here for the opening show, and I must say, I was amazed. I’ve never seen anyone dance the way you do.”
Her suspicion was fading. This must be familiar territory for her, Salim thought. People giving her well-earned compliments for her performances. With the way the audience had been transfixed by the show…
“And I wasn’t the only one who thought so. I don’t know how well you can tell from the stage, but in the audience, the general feeling was quite clear. It’s quite a talent you have, to have that kind of effect over so many different people.”
He was laying it on too thick, now, he could feel. Traces of suspicion were reappearing in her face. The strange irony of it was that he was being entirely truthful. But if this was going to work, he needed more than to be genuine; he needed her to believe it, as well.
