Reasonable Doubt: Volume 3 (Reasonable Doubt #3)(25)

“You didn’t even call to ask me if the rumors were f**king true.” I pointed to the door. “So, please don’t think that just because I’ve agreed to help put an ass**le where he belongs, that you and I are, or will ever be friends.”

“I’m so sorry…”

“It’s six years too late for that.” I turned around. “I’ll be in court when I’m needed. You can leave now.”

I waited until I heard the sound of the door close and called the town-car driver. “What time do I need to leave for the gala if I want to be there once it starts?”

“Now, sir.”

I hung up and slipped into my coat, taking the penthouse’s private elevator to the lobby. Rushing through the hotel’s exit doors, I spotted the car across the street and headed over.

“We should be there in about thirty minutes, Mr. Hamilton.” He looked at me through the rearview mirror. “Are you meeting a date at this event tonight?”

“No,” I said. “Why are you asking?”

“Because if you were, I was going to suggest that we stop at the floral stand that’s three blocks down.”

“We can stop.” I looked out the window as he pulled off.

I’d thought about telling Aubrey that I was in town, or “good luck” for her performance tonight, but I didn’t see a point. Besides, last night, in a moment of weakness, I sent her a rather vague email and her rare response didn’t encourage further conversation.

Subject: Happiness.

Are you happy with your current life away from GBH? Are you pursuing your ballet dreams finally?

—Andrew

Subject: Re: Happiness.

Please stop emailing me and delete my number.

Thank you.

—Aubrey

“Mr. Hamilton?” The driver held the door open. “We’ve arrived…Do you plan on getting out of the car?”

“Thank you.” I grabbed the bouquet of roses and lilies off the seat and gave him a tip, telling him that I needed him to stay close, that I may be bringing someone else back with me.

The line to enter the venue was wrapped around the block, so I skipped everyone and walked straight through the front door.

“Excuse me, sir?” An usher immediately stepped in front of me. “There’s a line outside for a reason.”

“I don’t like to wait.”

“None of us do sir,” he said, crossing his arms, “but that’s gala policy unless you already have a ticket. Do you have a ticket?”

“I don’t like those either.”

He unclipped a radio from his belt buckle. “Sir, please don’t make me call security. You have to purchase a ticket just like everyone else, and you have to stand in line just like everyone else. Now, I’m going to kindly ask you to—”

He stopped mid-sentence once I handed him a clip of hundred dollar bills. “Did you say your ticket was in the front row, sir?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what my ticket says.”

He smiled and led me down the hall, into a colossal room that featured floor to ceiling windows, glimmering chandeliers, and freshly polished marble floors. Hundreds of tables were dressed in white table cloths—stamped with lavish gold and silver centerpieces, and the letters “NYCB” were etched onto every dinner menu and program.

There was no formal stage in this room, only a slightly elevated platform that stood in the center—in perfect view for all the dinner tables.

“Will this seat be okay for you, sir?” The usher waved his hand over a seat that was directly in front of the platform.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Dinner will be served in about an hour, the sponsors of the NYCB will be honored shortly after, and then the short tributes and the dance portion of the gala will begin.”

I thanked him again as I took my seat. If I had known the exact order of the program beforehand, I would’ve shown up much later.

Picking up the brochure in front of me, I flipped through the pages—stopping when I saw Aubrey’s face.

Her picture was taken mid-laugh, as she tossed her hair over her shoulder and looked directly into the camera. According to the picture, her hair was much shorter now—it barely touched her shoulders, and her eyes looked more hopeful and happy than I’d ever seen them.

I stared at the picture long and hard, noting all her new changes.

The lights in the room flickered, and a soft applause arose as a woman dressed in all-white stepped onto the platform.

“We will begin now,” she said. “Thank you ladies and gentlemen for attending the Annual New York City Ballet Company Gala. It is with great honor and pride that we present tonight’s artists—principle dancers, soloists, and corps members. As you know, due to quite a few unfortunate circumstances, we had to replace nearly ninety percent of our group over the past few months, but as always, the show must go on. And, I truly believe that this is the best class we’ve had in a very long time.”

The audience clapped.

“Our company will be performing several productions this year, but the ones that will be presented this winter are The Firebird, Jewels, and our company favorite, Swan Lake.”

More applause.

“Tonight, our corps will introduce themselves to you personally and perform small tributes as a thank you for your continued support of the arts. And as always, when it comes to the art of dance, please do not applaud until after the last note has played. Thank you.” She walked away and the lights transformed from a stark white to an airy blue, then they dissolved into heavy hues of purple and pink.