CREATURE

・chapter 44・

If Asya had thought that Covent Garden's side streets were a bit busy, the Royal Opera House's front entrance was about to be a trial by fire.

Both sides of the street had been closed off by metropolitan police in an effort to control the rapidly growing crowd of people. A swarm of fans, photographers, journalists, and curious onlookers were pooling behind security rails, all with their phones and cameras at the ready. Venue staff were desperately ushering around the people teeming out of alleyways and shop entrances, but even they seemed overwhelmed by the influx of foot traffic. 

She heard herself utter a swear word she didn't often use. Sure, there were two Bolshoi principals in the house that evening and the one and only Katherine Garland on Sugarplum, but good god.

Good actual lord god, she could have appeased her little self-destructive mood in at least a dozen other less public, less irreversible ways. But somehow she'd resorted to signing herself up for a media circus in front of what looked to be the entire British press. 

The crowd lining the street seemed to catch on to their presence and people started shouting and waving, pointing frantically in their direction.  She gulped, twisting around in her seat to get a better view of the jam-packed sidewalks. Everywhere she looked there were lenses and phones, faces and hands, cameras and lights. All trained on them. On him.

Maybe no one would care that she was there, she tried telling herself. They were there to see the bad boy of ballet, not a lowly soloist with a few titles to her name. And besides, they were going to get caught together out in public eventually, it might as well be on her own terms.

But who was she kidding, this was not going to be on her own terms. No, this was going to play out in the notoriously unpredictable court of public opinion. She was at the mercy of every journalist and social media user who decided to weigh in on Roman Zharnov's return to the public eye after a six-month hiatus. And knowing the Internet, it wouldn't be long before they made the connection between a disgraced Bolshoi prodigy and the Royal Ballet's youngest-ever soloist. 

She slipped a quick look at the soon-to-be centre of attention. He seemed utterly unfazed by the swarm of people outside, that familiar icy expression etched deep into his features as he pulled up in front of the theatre. She wondered if she could at least pin some of the blame for this fiasco on him. She couldn't, she realised with an inward wince, because he had tried changing her mind. Multiple times.

He brought the car to a halt and unclipped his seatbelt and then hers, slipping her a cautious glimpse. She only hoped she didn't look as shell-shocked as she felt. 

'Stay put.' he said, leaving the keys in the ignition. 

She nodded, deciding that just this once she'd better listen to him. Just this once. He knew how this sort of thing worked, maybe she could hide behind him and it would all be over before she even knew it. She watched wide-eyed as he got out of the car and stepped onto the tarmac. 

All hell broke loose outside. The screaming got at least ten decibels louder and flashes erupted from every square inch of the street, the crowd went berserk, waving and pointing frenetically at the dancer who'd all but vanished out of the public eye. People were chanting his name with tears in their eyes, completely enamoured by his presence, it was like he had them under some sort of spell. 

She drew in a shallow breath, feeling her heart pounding against her ribcage as her fight-or-flight instinct kicked into overdrive. The sensation was uncomfortable but familiar, it reminded her of the moments before stepping on stage. When the lights dim and the auditorium goes quiet, the tension rising as the anticipation comes to a head. 

That was usually when she started counting, her breaths and her heartbeat, waiting for the note of music that told her it was time to go. To give it all she had.