Page 1 of Claiming Genevieve

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GENEVIEVE

Ihear the click of the front door opening just as I unzip the garment bag that holds my dress for this evening’s party, and I glance toward the cracked-open bedroom door in surprise. I hadn’t expected Chris to be home this evening at all, and I wonder if he’s changed his mind about coming to the party with me tonight.

There’s aclinkfrom the entryway downstairs as he drops his keys into the bowl. Despite the size of this high-rise apartment, everything is so stark and minimalistic that there’s a constant echo. I can hear everything that happens downstairs—even up here—unless the door is closed.

It wouldn’t be my design choice—but this place isn’t mine. I just happen to live here.

“Chris?” I call out as I walk over to the bedroom door, peering out into the hall, my slippers scuffing against the deep gray, poured-concrete floors. Chris is a big fan of minimalist industrialism—everything in this high-rise is concrete, iron, glass, or leather, all in dark blacks, grays, and stark whites. Truthfully, I hate it, but it’s hard to complain when I’ve lived in this multi-million-dollar apartment for free for the better part of the last year.

I never even owned a pair of slippers until I moved in. But the floors are always too cold to go around barefoot, and Chris let me know early on in our relationship that he hated the sight of my feet. They’re an imperfection—a reminder that even the beauty of ballet comes with ugliness.

He’s only ever been interested in the beautiful parts of me.

“Genevieve?” he calls up as he starts to walk up the stairs, and I step out a little further, catching sight of him. When I first met Chris, I thought he was handsome—in a catalog-perfect sort of way. The night we met, he was wearing a Tom Ford suit in dark gray, his dark blond hair perfectly styled back, his dark blue eyes latching onto me the moment I approached the bar. He looked rich, and that was what I needed—a handsome, wealthy patron to supplement what the ballet company pays me as theirprima. There were plenty of middle-aged and older men happy to patronize any of the ballerinas in the company—especially me. But I’d held out for someone whose company I might actually enjoy. Someone I’d want to go to bed with. Someone who might share at least a few of my interests.

I got the first, two for a little while, with Chris. But the shine has worn off the penny, and now I’m just faking it. I have been for a while. Once I really got to know him, the allure vanished quickly.

“I thought you’d already have left for the party,” he says as he reaches the landing of the second floor, stepping forward to push past me into the bedroom. It makes me stumble back a little, and I wince, frowning at him as I catch myself on the side of the door. It’s been a long time since Chris has been anything resemblinggentlemanlytowards me in our relationship—but this is worse than usual. He seems annoyed that I’m still home.

I sniff the air as he passes, quickly, wondering if maybe he went out for drinks with his work colleagues, and that’s why he’s behaving like this. I don’t smell alcohol, but I do catch a whiff of perfume—something sweet and floral that smells like Chanel.

My mood instantly falls. I’d never claim that I’m in love with Chris, and I know he wouldn’t say that he’s in love with me. Our relationship has always been a mutually beneficial one, giving each of us things that we want and need. But we’ve always been respectful of it. I’ve always known that I was expected to be faithful, and I thought he followed the same rules. The whiff of perfume that I’m catching as he walks past me, though, suggests otherwise.

“I thought you were going out right after work,” I counter, trying to keep the recrimination out of my voice. It doesn’t work. My voice sounds tight and choked, and I know he can hear it from the way his steps falter for a moment. He recovers quickly, his Italian leather shoes clicking against the hard floor as he walks to where my dress is hanging and looks at the store label on the garment bag.

“Pearls and Lace? Seriously?” he chuckles derisively, and looks back at me. “Do I not give you enough of an allowance, Genevieve? You need to shop at some local boutique instead of Chanel or Dior?”

“That ‘local boutique’ is owned by one of my friends,” I bite out. “And from the way you smell, you’re shopping enough at Chanel for the both of us.”

I see his shoulders stiffen. He turns back to look at me, his face smooth and expressionless. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and for the first time in our relationship, I feel a small flutter of fear ripple through me. I know what men like Chris—well-connected, wealthy, powerful—can be like when someone no longer matters to them. And the way he’s looking at me now makes me feel like I’m nothing. Like he could throw me aside in an instant and not care what happened to me afterwards.

Even without love, I always thought that there was respect between us. A companionable friendliness, even. But right now, the room feels as ice-cold as the smoothly poured concrete under my slippers.

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Genevieve,” he says coolly. “I don’t like you speaking to me that way.”

I should drop it. IknowI should. What do I care, anyway, if he’s sleeping with his secretary—or some other tired trope like that? It’s not as if I love him. It’s not as if I see marriage and a future with him. That’s never been our relationship. But something clenches low in my belly at the thought of just letting this go. Because Iknowwhat his reaction would be if he caught me with another man’s cologne on my skin.

There was a man I was partnered with, another dancer, not long after Chris and I first started dating. He was handsome, Russian, and extraordinarily talented. Chris saw us dance together once, noticed our chemistry, and demanded that I be given another partner. My teacher wanted to refuse—after all, the chemistry between us was good for our performance—but Chris donated a hefty sum, and the company’s manager acquiesced. When I came back to practice on Monday, I had a different partner.

The truth is, I felt more than just artistic chemistry with that dancer. There had been real, palpable chemistry between us, and Chris had seen it. But the thing is—I would never have acted on it. I’ll admit I fantasized a little, felt a rush of heat when those long-fingered hands wrapped around my waist or our bodies brushed on stage…but that’s as far as it would ever have gone. Because I believed that Chris and I had an agreement that went both ways.

Now, I’m wondering. And I’m angry. I’ve kept up my side of the deal, while it seems he hasn’t bothered to do so.

“Is the jealousy unfounded?” I cross my arms over my small breasts, glaring at him. I don’t have time for this argument—Ireallydon’t—but I just can’t bring myself to let it go. “Are you telling me that someone wearing that perfume just got alittletoo close to you, and you had nothing to do with it?”

Chris rolls his eyes, as if he’s a teenager and not a wealthy hedge-fund manager in his early thirties. “I’m not seeing anyone else, Genevieve, if that’s what you’re getting at. But seriously, be honest with us both. Would you really care?”

I stare at him. “Of course I’d care. We’re in arelationship, Chris. But I guess that makes sense, now that I’m really thinking about it for the first time. You’d only care if I fucked someone else because I ‘belong’ to you.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but I don’t stop. I’m too wound up now, and everything that I’ve been bottling up for months seems to be spilling out of my mouth all at once. “I thought we had something good. Not love, but something that made us both happy. But I’ve been seeing more and more that I’m just a possession to you. Just something pretty to hang on your arm when you need a trophy?—”

“Genevieve. Enough.” Chris snaps, his voice sharp and cutting. I can feel how the tension in the air between us has built, threatening to push this argument over the edge into something bigger than I meant for it to be.

“You should be going to the party with me tonight.” I glare at him. “Instead, let me guess. You’re going out to Hush? With the owner of that Chanel perfume?”

Chris narrows his eyes at me. “We’re both going to be late, Genevieve. Sorry I don’t want to go to your stuffy party. Spending the night palling around with ballerinas and their manager isn’t exactly my idea of a fun time?—”

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