“No.”
“I still can’t believe your mother disappeared, and you didn’t think it would be a good idea to let the police know,” Sam says.
“The police never helped my mother.”
“Not until they put her scumbag ex into jail,” Sam snaps.
“After he almost killed her, and she had to run. I grew up knowing if the police ever knew about Mom’s problems; the only thing they would do is take me from her. There was no way I was going to let that happen,” Dean retorts.
“I don’t think she disappeared,” I say. “It was planned. Strategic. She left you a note, that’s part of it but think about it. You didn’t call the police or let anyone know she was missing. But then Murdock showed up. You didn’t know him, but he was able to convince you your mother trusted him enough to watch out for you. Natalia didn’t just walk away. She went on a mission.”
Chapter Seventeen Mariya
Thirty years ago…
When she was young, dreaming of the life that waited for her at the end of childhood, this was what she imagined. Everyone had their dreams for her. Their expectations and demands. From her parents it was love and aspiration. They wanted better for their little girl. They wanted more.
From others, it was arrogance. They weren’t dreaming for her. When they thought of her, she wasn’t a person, but a commodity. They thought only of what she could do for them and how it could benefit their own lives. They believed in their superiority in their entitlement to her. They wrapped it in a pretty bow, draped it in satin, and surrounded it with music, but the intention was still lurking underneath. They only wanted her for the body she was born with. They could mold her into their perfect vision. Train her from the time she was able to stand to become exactly what they wanted her to be.
People would come from everywhere to see her, they told her. They would adore her. But it was never about her. Her name was little more than the label on a product. No one sitting up in the velvet seats carrying on in applause truly cared about the blood pumping through her heart or the thoughts in her mind. They didn’t care about her eyes or her fingerprints. The only thing that kept her apart from others that mattered to them was the way the music formed itself in her bones and muscles and moved her across the well-worn wood.
It was a proud tradition. Those were some of the earliest words she ever knew. She was taught in the old ways. Ways honored so they wouldn’t be lost. When anyone in the world thought of ballet, they thought of Russia, she was told. That was something to be proud of.
She wanted to be proud. She wanted to feel that rush of excitement and devotion she saw in the men and women who taught her. They had a passion she never had. It was what made the men leap so high it looked like they were flying. What made the women float like rose petals in their partners’ hands. They were born with that. It was in them from before their first breath. Those dancers inherited their passion through the generations, the same way she inherited the blond of her hair and the length of her legs.
But she did not inherit that passion. She didn’t love what she did. She wanted to. She wanted to be proud of the heritage that made her name known. She wanted more than anything to look out over the audience and find joy and fulfillment in their adulation. She wanted to lose herself under the lights, the stage, the rising curtain, the delicate precision, the joyous frenzy, the twirls, and tiptoes, and leaps, and lifts. The low curtsy to welcome cheers and applause washing over her.
It was her place to be a dream shared by all of them; a painting brought to life. She was a confection of softness and light when they looked at her. She tried to remember that. But she knew the blood in her shoes, the bruises from falls. She knew the tiny pinprick pains from her hair combed sharply back and pinned in place. The rigorous hours of practice. The tragedy of her companions, her friends, suffering from injuries that ruined their lives forever. They would never dance again. They were simply discarded.
It wasn’t for her. She did it for her parents for as long as she could. But it wasn’t what she wanted. There was so much more in the world, and she knew it. She could feel what else existed beyond the studio and stage. That’s what she dreamed of moonlight on her skin rather than stage lights. Bare feet rather than pointe shoes. The gaze of one man rather than a sea of eyes.
When she met Ian he showed her that type of life could exist for her. The possibility was there. All she had to do was chase after it. He brought her into his world and gave her what her parents truly wanted for her. And what she wanted for herself. A life that was better. A life that was hers.
He would be home soon. Five days without him felt so long. She was used to him having to leave and the time it took away from her. It wasn’t something she would ever complain about or try to fight against. What he did was important, just like what she did was important, and he never tried to keep her away from the days she had to leave for that. It made the time they had together more precious. The love and affection they couldn’t give to each other in those days when they were apart was distilled down into when they could be together, making every one of those seconds more valuable.
She wanted to
