Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(117)

Zhen drops his gaze to gather his words. “I’m not embarrassed. I’m…shocked.”

“Oh.” I haven’t seen him really surprised before? At least maybe not concerning me. “What is it…?” My eyes start welling again. I thought the tears had ended.

He pushes back his black hair. “In New York, you were caught having sex with Luka. Nothing with cocaine.”

I’m stunned silent. Brenden is assuring me that he didn’t tell, but I never doubted him. I think…Luka must’ve told someone.

Zhen lists off a few more things: the contracts we signed, the threat of the no minors policy, and Luka being forced into quitting by Geoffrey. Basically, everything.

It’s all out in the open with the whole company. Blood drains out of my head, cold biting me.

I’d feel more at risk of being fired if this day didn’t start out weird. But I just realize—there are young kids, no older than ten or twelve, crying by Viva’s trapeze.

And I caused their grief. With the no minors policy. “Is it already enforced?” I stare off, a chill snaking down my spine. Brenden wraps his arm around my shoulders, but I’m as stiff as a board.

“It’s all just talk right now,” Zhen says. “I don’t think anything official has happened.”

Brenden’s phone buzzes.

I lean over and read the text.

Brenden sent: is something going on? Baylee is freaked.

Things are up in the air – Luka

Another text comes in fast.

She’s staying in Infini no matter what. It’s boiling down to the policy & our old contracts – Luka

Brenden asks me, “What? You keep shaking your head.”

“Who has that much sway in Aerial Ethereal to override a contract written by the company’s creator?”

Not long after I say it, artists start collecting their bags. With quick glances at their cells, they leave the gym. Brenden checks his phone for any cancellations, but he shakes his head.

The hallway starts emptying, but no one rushes into the gym. Everyone seems to be headed for the elevators. Like they’re going home to their suites.

Viva has an early-afternoon show soon. Most of the cast should be warming up. I look again at someone who may have answers.

Dimitri catches my questioning expression this time, and he nods heartily at me. Like stay strong, Baybay. We’re fixing this.

We’re helping you.

I blow back, my lips parting in recognition of what this all may mean. That they’re not giving up on Luka. On us.

For the first time, we may actually have people on our side.





Act Forty-Three Luka Kotova



One hour to 8:00 p.m. show-times and no decision has been made yet. I’ve been held in Antoine Perrot’s office since this morning. He’s the Director of Infini. In Corporate hierarchy, he’s above Geoffrey Lesage. Beneath Marc Duval.

(Everyone is beneath Marc.)

The glass door is shaded with blinds. I can’t even peer into the hallway. Trying not to stress, I kick back on a chair and I toy with a wooden puzzle from his desk. Also, I eavesdrop on his Corporate phone call.

“There’s nothing more I can do on this end.” Perrot (he goes by last name) perches his phone to his ear, anxious hand on his short silver hair. In his early fifties, he looks a lot like John Slattery, the actor from Mad Men. (Yeah, I looked him up on IMDB.) I listen intently.

“Marc, I know. I’ve had the creative staff try to reason with the artists, but they aren’t budging just like New York and Montreal.”

My lips gradually lift. About three hours ago, Perrot shot out of his seat when he learned the cast of Nova Vega and Celeste were nowhere to be found. All taking the day off. It’s now 10:00 p.m. in their respective cities, and the artists missed their openings.

To avoid local media coverage, Aerial Ethereal cancelled their shows five minutes before curtain-call, citing illness within the cast.

Like they all have the flu.

But the cast abandoned their shows to make a change. It’s not all about me or Bay. Most refuse to perform until Marc agrees that the no minors policy will never be implemented.

Still, my huge family and the Wrights have been seeking a dissolution to the contracts we signed five years ago. Brenden is advocating for Bay. Her aunt has even hired a lawyer, her husband’s colleague.

I eavesdropped on all the lawyer-talk. AE’s representatives harp on one thing: the contracts we signed were an opportunity. A so-called gift that no other minors—at least the ones caught having underage sex—received. They were fired. We kept our jobs.

And we had a choice. We could’ve not signed the contracts, quit AE, and then we would’ve been a couple. Maybe we would’ve went to high school together.

Had a semi-normal teenage life. Been happy or sad. Who can really know what our lives would’ve been like?

All I know is what happened. Where we are now.

Our lawyers have been combating AE, calling the terms of the contracts “grossly extreme” and an “abuse” of power. I don’t know if we really have a chance.

It could be wishful thinking, but to have her family, my family, fight for us this time—it’s validation I didn’t even realize I needed. Five years ago, we were just kids in their eyes, and nothing we said would’ve made a difference. We couldn’t change their minds.