by Holly Rayner
“So, you can see, I have to admit to a certain amount of selfishness.”
That was better. Curiosity was replacing the suspicion.
“How so?” she asked, and Salim felt a thrill go up the back of his neck.
He hadn’t heard her speak in a normal, relaxed way until now, and now that he had, he found himself surprised and intrigued. The tone of her voice was a little deeper than expected, and had a slight huskiness to it. It wasn’t the delicate, saccharine-sweet sort of sound you’d expect from a woman with such a petite, dancer’s body. It caught him slightly off guard, and he found that his response took a bit longer to come out than he would have liked.
“Oh…well, in grasping the opportunity for myself before anyone else gets the chance to. I couldn’t wait for the time that these sorts of negotiations normally take, and I certainly couldn’t wait for the end of the tour. I wanted in before then. When the world meets you, and—” he gestured around, “the rest of the company, of course…they’re going to be as amazed as I was. As amazed as everyone in that room was.
“I want my name associated with this company before then. I don’t want to come in afterwards when it’s all said and done and your reputation is already established across the globe. And I certainly don’t want to risk someone else scooping you up while I’m hesitating.”
He did his best not to show how intently he was focusing on her reaction, and the relief he felt at her accepting his motivations. But it made sense, after all. A girl like that would know her own talent, and every word out of Salim’s mouth was, in point of fact, the truth. That it was only a portion of the truth was irrelevant.
Ophelia raised her glass, indicating the drinks cart.
“You’re awfully generous for a man who claims to be selfish.”
Salim shrugged, and allowed a cocky grin to slide across his lips.
“Oh, that? A transparent bribe, I’m afraid. And besides, just because I was selfish in jumping on an opportunity as soon as I saw it, doesn’t mean I’m stingy. It just means I’m smart. I know Tomas was good for this company. I talked with him for quite a while about it, actually, but even if I’d just spoken to him briefly, that’s plain to see in his results.
“I don’t intend to do anything less than he did. If I can encourage and uplift the company in the same way as him, I’ll consider my time here a great success. It may take me a little time to really grasp how to do so, but I promise you: under my direction, the Williamsburg Ballet will reach heights you haven’t yet dreamed of.”
It was a strange thing to discover, as he went, that the more he talked, the truer it was. But all the same, he found himself getting caught up in it. How easy it would be to get lost and disappear into the role he’d set up for himself here. He’d had to make sure it seemed like a natural enough fit that he wouldn’t be questioned too deeply for it. Going from collecting art to collecting artists wasn’t so much of a stretch, after all.
The casual, graceful way Ophelia’s body relaxed, and the surprisingly attractive quality of her voice as she replied, made it easy for Salim to refocus on the task at hand.
“Well, I don’t know about that, but I’m glad you think you do. As it stands, we’ve still got the things we’ve already dreamed of yet to do.”
Salim smiled, and basked in the way he saw her instinctively react to the warmth of his smile.
“Yes, of course. To London!”
He raised his glass, and was pleased to find that she only exhibited the slightest hesitation before she did the same.
“To London.”
Chapter 9
Ophelia
Tomas had assured them all that everything about the tour would be the same as before. They were going to London, and then on from there. That hadn’t changed. The crew hadn’t changed. The dancers, the choreography…all of that was the same. The goal was the same. The art was the same. Nearly all of the people were the same.
And yet, all the trappings were different. Ophelia had travelled with productions before. Not extensively, to be sure, but each and every time had been for the sake of a performance. She knew what it was to travel on the shoestring budget that was all that dance companies could afford.
This was different. The first-class tickets were different. The limos were different. The extra staff brought on with the express purpose of carrying bags and coordinating details and expediting every possible thing that money could expedite was certainly different.
“He’s from the Middle East,” Ophelia had overheard Eliza saying from the other side of the first-class cabin, which was entirely filled with the Williamsburg Ballet cast and crew. “They just do that kind of thing there. Besides, he’s royalty, isn’t he? This is nothing to him.”
Ophelia couldn’t tell if it made her more nervous or excited. Over the last few days, as the pieces were put in place and they boarded the flight to London, Salim had been like a ghost working behind the scenes. It was like he was always there in the effects of his actions, but never physically present.
And Ophelia didn’t know why that part of it bothered her so much. It was something about the way he’d talked after the New York closing party. Part of that night was a bit of a haze from the champagne and the emotional upset of losing Tomas, but she could swear that his interest in the company was intensely personal. The way he’d spoken about her talent, and about the experience of watching the performance, had given her the impression that he was intent on managing them all himself.
So, as much as she had tried not to let herself be taken in by the words of a fly-by-night sheikh with a penchant for spur-of-the-moment purchases, she found herself disappointed, anyway. In a way that also felt strangely personal.
When they landed in London, the theme of the last few days continued. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the hotel the fleet of limos brought them to was not the one that Tomas had originally had booked for them. The entire floor that was to be theirs was not, by any stretch of the imagination, supported by the ticket sales of the modest theater in the least-fashionable portion of the West End that Tomas had told them they’d be performing in.
But that, too, was different. When the staff ushered them into the theater for their first on-site rehearsal in the space, the entire company was overawed.
“We’re going to be performing here?” she heard Katie say beside her.
And, as much as Ophelia had tried not to let the luxury and opulence of their journey get to her, she had to admit that she shared Katie’s amazement.
She wasn’t alone as she took some time before they got down to work exploring the space. Every seat, every box, every row, was beautiful and steeped with a sense of history that Ophelia had never really experienced. It was, in a word, breathtaking. And, as they rehearsed in the space, she couldn’t help but feel some of that same newness that was usually lost after opening night.
Maybe it was because of the dedicated staff and their careful planning, or maybe it was because of just plain old dumb luck, but everything leading up to the London performance went more smoothly than anyone in the company had anticipated.
In Ophelia’s experience, there was usually something that went wrong. But the lead up to the show was flawless, and Ophelia found herself onstage, where she was most comfortable, amazed at her own good fortune.
Chapter 10
Salim
The few days between acquiring the company and the opening performance of their London run were some of the busiest of Salim’s life. He’d had some sense that there would be work involved in his new role, but he hadn’t been prepared for the amount of micromanagement that Tomas had been doing to shepherd the company up off the ground, nor the number of things that he wanted to alter in order to give the company, and the tour, their greatest possible chance of success.
Nor was he quite prepared for the personal interest he found himself taking in the preparations. Things he would normally have delegated, interviews he would normally have outsourced, he found himself c
onducting. Choices of venue, choices of accommodation… all these things ended up under his direct decision.
Other things, he was aware, were falling by the wayside. The friends he had meant to meet up with in New York went ignored. The details and inspections of his new Caravaggio, even, ended up delegated to others. Since the auction, he’d been too wrapped-up in his new venture even to go and look at it.
But here, now, sitting in a historic venue—which had taken several of his staff a great deal of effort, along with a lot of money to obtain on such short notice—Salim felt that all of the trouble had been more than worth it.
It was true that the theater in Williamsburg had a certain charm to it. It was small, off the beaten path, and had the effect of making everyone who visited feel like they were a great deal cooler and more underground than they had ever been. Besides, it was where the company had developed and rehearsed the ballet. It was their home, of sorts, and that had given it a comfort that couldn’t be found elsewhere.
But here, on this stage, was where a performance of that caliber belonged. And the treatment that they’d received over the last few days was, in Salim’s view, entirely validated. Perhaps it was impossible to tell for sure, but to Salim, it seemed as though the sense of value, the sense that their skills were considered worthy of that kind of luxury, carried over into their dance. The dance, which had glimmered in Williamsburg, sparkled here.
And then, there was Ophelia.
It wasn’t that Salim had forgotten what it was like to watch her dance, or the way that the graceful movements of her body could evoke emotions he didn’t know he had. But to see her again, here, was a validation of everything he’d poured into this project. Here, just as in Williamsburg, the audience was transfixed. No one in the room was looking at anyone but her. Salim even suspected that the sound of the audience around him was quieter—as though everyone was holding their collective breaths as she took the stage with each solo dance.
He remembered the plot of the ballet from when he’d seen it in New York. It was a new story, but had enough elements in it, from what he’d read, to make those familiar with the classics of the art form feel it belonged there.
It centered on a woman, played by Ophelia, who was locked in a tower. She was a princess, and the whole thing had a very Rapunzel-esque feeling to it. But while Rapunzel had been locked in the tower by someone who came and looked after her, this version had a rather dark turn.
The ballet began on the night when her caretaker didn’t come back. What exactly had happened was never established, only that Ophelia’s character was trapped and alone, with no way out.
Until a hero arrived. The male lead. Unlike in Rapunzel’s story, this hero didn’t need any help getting up into the tower. He scaled the wall himself, with the princess cheering him on. From then on, he visited every night, but left every morning, leaving her mourning his absence till sunset.
The second act began with the princess begging the hero to take her out into the world with him. He agreed, and he began to take her with him every night, showing her the wonders of the world, bit by bit.
It was hard to say when every member of the audience realized that the hero wasn’t real, and that the princess was simply imagining her adventures with the prince while she slowly wasted away in the tower.
It was a tragic realization, but for Salim, it was the princess’s imagined adventures—complete with great big group dances in fantastical places—that did it for him. The reveal certainly made watching the audience interesting, as he saw people lean over and tell each other the conclusion they’d come to as the dance went on.
Eventually, it became clear that when Ophelia’s character asked the hero not to put her in back in the tower, she was asking for death, without knowing it. The audience changed from hating the hero for refusing to let her out, into begging him to put her back in. To make her live just a little bit longer. To give her just one more day for help to arrive.
In the end, the ballet was a tragedy. The lovers’ final adventure was to a world so beautiful that Ophelia’s character’s plea to the hero was successful. They stayed there. And the princess was happy.
If it weren’t for the final scene, in which the villagers found the tower and her body, Salim might have been happy for her as well.
The emotional ride—the change from hope, to despair, back to bittersweet hope—had caught Salim off guard the first time he’d seen Ophelia dance it. But this time, he knew what to expect, and this was all familiar, only more intense.
What Salim hadn’t expected was a bit of new emotion creeping in as he watched. At first, he wasn’t sure what it was; Salim had never been a man prone to jealousy of any sort, and whatever he wanted, in general, he could have. Perhaps the only exception was his self-inflicted competitions with Nikolai—but then, it was rivalry, never jealousy, that motivated him.
But seeing the male lead—Ryan, his name was—and the intimate way his body moved with Ophelia’s brought a bout of jealousy roaring to the surface. Salim had to swallow hard to force it back down, focusing instead on the art that they were creating together on stage. This was her profession, and besides, he had no right to be jealous.
He was here for a purpose, anyway; he was here to stop Nikolai from getting what he wanted, and that was all he should focus on.
But thinking of Nikolai, and what he wanted, had been a mistake. Seeing Ophelia with her talent on full display, and the purity of expression she was capable of, then immediately pairing it with the crude things that Nikolai wanted her for, clouded Salim’s mind.
When the intermission came along, Salim had intended to go backstage and greet the dancers, but he found that he could not. Thoughts of Nikolai, and the bet, prevented him. Instead, he went for a walk outside, and did some quick research online to make sure that his friend was nowhere near London, and in no way about to bring his particular brand of smarm and charm to this night he had worked so hard to put together.
It was only when he was satisfied that Nikolai was far away, already in in Spain, where the tour would go next, that Salim was able to relax and return to the theater.
The second act was much the same as the first in character and quality. Though Salim had seen the entire ballet through before, he still found himself enraptured. He’d heard of hanging on every word before, but it was a first for him to be hanging on every movement.
The company as a whole performed excellently, he was pleased to find, now that he had the headspace to even notice. He’d done a bit of due diligence before acquiring the company, of course, and had found that they were all talented dancers. But he’d been too caught up in Ophelia and her enrapturing performance at the time to even see them.
Now, knowing them as he did, having met them and made arrangements for them, he felt a sense of pride in seeing them on stage. Though his purchase of the company and his fostering of it was an act for the purpose of a very clear end, he began to realize just how much truth there was in what he’d told the reporters who had asked about the overlap between his art collection and ballet.
The pride he felt in knowing that he had secured the safe care of a great piece, and that it would be shepherded down to the next generation with the greatest of care due to his action…it was that same pride he felt, now. Only, instead of the sense of longevity, there was a sense of ethereality. He wasn’t protecting art for some future generation—he was enabling it to be experienced to the utmost by the people here and now, all around him. It was a different warmth he felt from the process, but not an unwelcome one.
Of course, when Ophelia took the stage, he felt all his ruminations fade. He watched her intently, along with everyone else in the audience. And, when the show was over, he felt a keen sense of loss, even knowing that he would get to see her perform again—as many times as he wished.
As the audience filed out of the theater, Salim sat in his private box. His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he knew who it probably was. He had friends in London he ha
dn’t seen in months, and he’d told them that he would go out with them once the performance was done tonight.
Among them was a beautiful woman he’d casually been meaning to pursue. A world-class beauty, she was. She’d made a career of it, modeling for some of the biggest names on the London fashion scene. It was meant to be a bit of fun, aside from his current project. Something to keep his mind off of getting sucked in too deep with his competition with Nikolai—something he’d learned in the past could be important.
Besides, he had a carefully arranged plan, based on years of experience with women; to get Ophelia interested enough in him to rebuff Nikolai, she needed to be intrigued by him, and not bored. She needed a sense of mystery and of forward momentum. A strong introduction—like the one he’d given her the night he’d announced he’d bought the company—followed by scarcity, but with reminders of himself in her life to make sure he was on her mind.
From past experience, a week ought to do it. And that would line up well with the last day of their run in London, and put her in the perfect position to ignore Nikolai in Madrid.
He had a plan: he was not to see Ophelia until their last night in London, and he was to go out tonight and enjoy himself with his friends and a pretty, shiny distraction.
His hand went to his phone in his pocket to view the message and respond, but he hesitated. Everything about the plan, though carefully considered, felt wrong. He didn’t want to go out with his friends tonight, and he didn’t want to avoid Ophelia for the rest of her time in London. He wanted to see her tonight.
Resolutely, he stood. He’d made up his mind.
Chapter 11
Ophelia
The show had gone well. Better, even, than Ophelia had hoped. There had been something about that stage, that audience. She’d felt as if she was floating above everything from a great height. It had been all bright and wonderful, and she was proud and happy.