Chapter 81: Reflections（1）

Nadia's POV
The reflecting pool at Lincoln Center mirrored the crisp autumn sky, its surface occasionally disturbed by the gentle breeze. I sat on the edge, seemingly absorbed in studying an opera score, while actually scanning every approaching figure with heightened awareness.
"Any sign?" Ryan's voice came through the nearly invisible earpiece, tense despite his efforts to sound calm.
"Nothing yet," I murmured, turning a page to maintain my cover. "Stop asking every thirty seconds."
I felt rather than saw our surveillance network positioned around the plaza. Ryan concealed near the steps to the Metropolitan Opera House, his technical equipment disguised in an ordinary backpack. Braden reading a newspaper at a café table, sunglasses hiding his watchful eyes. Dorian pretending to be a lost tourist studying a map, his theatrical skills deployed for practical purpose. And Andy, positioned highest with the best vantage point, quietly coordinating our communications from the upper terrace.
10:58 AM. Whoever had sent the message would appear soon.
I forced myself to breathe evenly, to project the image of someone genuinely considering a career-altering opportunity rather than someone anticipating a confrontation. The Royal Opera scores in my lap were legitimate—Dorian had insisted on authenticity in every detail—but my focus remained entirely elsewhere.
A shadow fell across the page. I looked up, expecting to find our mysterious correspondent.
Instead, I found Tatiana.
Tatiana Vandercant—former lead of The Proposition, granddaughter of producer John Vandercant, the woman who had tried to burn down the theater with me inside after her breakdown. The woman whose role I had taken, whose spotlight I now occupied.
She looked dramatically different from when I'd last seen her. The extravagant designer clothes replaced by a simple black turtleneck and tailored pants. Her previously elaborate hairstyle now a sleek, professional bob. Most striking was her expression—the entitled arrogance replaced by watchful calculation.
"Hello, Nadia," she said, her voice controlled and distant. "May I join you?"
Shock rendered me momentarily speechless. Of all the possibilities we'd considered, Tatiana had never entered our calculations.
"Unexpected twist," Dorian's voice whispered in my ear, confirming my companions shared my surprise.
"What are you doing here?" I asked Tatiana directly, abandoning pretense.
She smiled without warmth. "I sent you an invitation. I believe you received it."
The letter. The Royal Opera opportunity. The mysterious surveillance. All Tatiana?
"You've been watching me," I stated, processing this revelation with difficulty. "Following me."
"Not personally, no." She gestured vaguely. "I have resources for such tasks."
"Professionals," I realized aloud. The tracking particles, the specialized surveillance—beyond the capabilities of a single person, but well within reach of Vandercant wealth.
"Naturally." She seated herself beside me without waiting for permission, maintaining precise distance—close enough for conversation, far enough to appear unthreatening to casual observers. "You seem surprised to see me. Were you expecting someone else?"
"I was expecting the person who wrote the letter," I replied carefully.
"I dictated it," she said, surprising me with her directness. "Though I employed a specialist to craft the precise language and deliver it appropriately."
"Why?" The single word contained multiple questions—why the elaborate scheme, why the Royal Opera connection, why now?
Tatiana studied the reflecting pool for a long moment before answering. "When my grandfather forced me into starring in The Proposition, I hated you," she said finally, her tone clinically detached, as if discussing someone else entirely. "The understudy with raw talent but no pedigree, no connections. Just ability and determination. Everything I lacked."
Her candor surprised me. The Tatiana I remembered had been incapable of such self-awareness.
"After my... episode," she continued delicately, referring to her attempted arson with remarkable understatement, "I spent time in a specialized facility in Switzerland. Very discreet, very expensive. Very effective."
"Stay calm," Andy's voice murmured in my ear. "We're right here."
"The treatment involved confronting reality rather than manipulating it," Tatiana continued. "No more using family connections to manufacture a career I hadn't earned. No more pretending to talents I hadn't developed."
"So the Royal Opera offer..." I prompted when she paused.
"Is entirely legitimate." Her gaze met mine directly. "I may have been a disappointing performer, but I remain a Vandercant. My family has supported the arts for generations. I've spent the past six months utilizing those connections constructively rather than selfishly."
"You arranged an audition for me." The concept remained difficult to process. "Why would you help me?"
Something flickered across her features—regret, perhaps, or deeper emotion quickly suppressed. "Restitution," she said simply. "For trying to destroy you when I should have recognized your talent."
I studied her, searching for signs of the unstable, entitled woman I'd known. Instead, I found someone transformed—not necessarily warmer or kinder, but clearer. More focused. Determined in an entirely different direction.
"The letter mentioned the Phantom audition," I said. "You've been monitoring our household."
"I've been monitoring your career," she corrected. "Which necessarily includes awareness of your current opportunities and... living arrangements."
The slight pause suggested she knew more about our unconventional household than I found comfortable. How much had her "resources" observed? How much did she know about the complex dynamics between the five of us?
"The Hamilton European tour interview," I ventured, testing the extent of her involvement. "Was that your doing as well?"
A small smile curved her lips. "That was... a fortunate coincidence I chose to leverage. The opportunity is legitimate. The hiring manager's interest in your lighting designer is genuine. That he shared information about your household during their meeting was simply... useful."
"You manipulated us," I concluded, anger beginning to rise beneath my professional composure.
"I created options," she countered smoothly. "For you specifically, Nadia. The men in your life have defined your path long enough. Braden with his brownstone and connections, Dorian with his theatrical ambitions, Ryan with his technical opportunities, even quiet Andy with his steady presence. They've shaped your choices without you realizing it."
Her assessment felt simultaneously invasive and unnervingly perceptive. Had I been so transparent? So easily read by someone who had barely known me?
"The Royal Opera offers independence," Tatiana continued, her voice taking on genuine passion for the first time. "Not West End commercial success alongside your... companions, but genuine artistic development on your own terms. Under your own name. With your own singular talent as the only currency that matters."
"Careful," Ryan's voice warned in my ear. "She's manipulating you."
But was she? The offer itself seemed legitimate, however dubiously presented. And her assessment of my situation contained uncomfortable elements of truth. My career had indeed progressed within the framework of my relationship to the four men—first as Braden's pretend girlfriend, then as part of our unconventional family, now potentially as one-third of a Phantom trio with Braden and Dorian.
"Why the surveillance?" I asked, redirecting to practical concerns rather than philosophical ones. "Why the secrecy? The tracking particles?"
Tatiana waved dismissively. "Precautions, merely. My grandfather's associates are thorough, sometimes excessively so. The important question isn't how the opportunity was presented, but whether you'll consider it."
"The Royal Opera instead of the Phantom," I clarified.
"Precisely." She nodded approvingly, as if I were a student who had finally grasped a difficult concept. "Solo artistic development rather than continued reliance on your... support network."
The subtle emphasis carried unmistakable judgment of our arrangement. Not moral condemnation, but practical assessment—she viewed my connections as limitations rather than strengths.
"You're asking me to choose between my career and my relationships," I summarized.
"I'm suggesting there's a point where relationships become constraints," she corrected. "Where even loving bonds can become creative limitations."
Something in her phrasing caught me by surprise. "You don't actually know about my relationships, do you?" I realized suddenly. "You've observed externals—who enters the brownstone, who leaves, general patterns. But you don't know the internal dynamics at all."
A flicker of irritation crossed her features. "I know enough."
"You don't," I countered with newfound confidence. "You've constructed a narrative that fits your assumptions—the ingénue controlled by powerful men. It's a convenient story, but it's not my reality."
Tatiana's expression hardened slightly. "Your professional development would benefit from independence. That's not assumption, it's objective assessment."
"Maybe," I acknowledged. "But you're presenting a false dichotomy. My career isn't separate from my relationships—it's intertwined with them, shaped by them, but not controlled by them."
"Brava," Dorian whispered in my ear, his theatrical appreciation of dramatic dialogue evident even in this tense situation.
Tatiana studied me with recalibrating assessment. "You're more... integrated than I anticipated," she said finally. "The arrangement seems to have strengthened rather than diminished you."
The observation contained no warmth, only clinical interest—a hypothesis requiring adjustment based on new data. She reached into her bag and extracted a business card, offering it with precise movements.
"The Royal Opera audition remains available regardless," she said as I accepted the card. "Should you reconsider. The contact information is legitimate, the opportunity genuine. Whatever you decide about the Phantom, about London, about your... household, this path remains open."
She stood, smoothing her clothing with automatic elegance. "I've made my restitution. What you do with it is your choice."
"Wait," I said as she prepared to leave. "The Hamilton position. Is it real? Is Ryan genuinely being considered?"
Something like surprise flickered across her features. "Your concern for his opportunity while considering your own is precisely what I've failed to understand about your arrangement," she observed. "But yes, the position is legitimate. Your lighting designer impressed them significantly. Whether he accepts will naturally depend on various factors."
"Including whether I choose the Phantom or the Royal Opera," I suggested.
She smiled thinly. "Decisions have consequences. Choices create paths that include some possibilities while excluding others."
With that cryptic observation, she nodded precisely and walked away, her posture perfect, her movements controlled. I watched her disappear into the flow of pedestrians crossing the plaza, her black clothing rendering her nearly invisible once she'd moved beyond immediate range.
"That was unexpected," I murmured, knowing my companions could hear through the communication system.
"Understatement of the century," Dorian replied, his voice tight with contained theatrical analysis. "Our villain reveals herself to be a complex anti-hero with redemptive motivations. Plot twist of exceptional caliber."
"Is she gone?" Braden asked, his practical focus on immediate security concerns.
"Yes," Andy confirmed from his elevated position. "No visible backup or surveillance. She appears to have come alone as promised."
"We should regroup," Ryan suggested, professional caution evident in his tone. "Discuss implications somewhere secure."
I remained seated, staring at the reflecting pool, watching clouds drift across its mirrored surface. Tatiana's appearance had been shocking, but her offer presented even more complicated questions than we'd anticipated.
"Nadia?" Ryan's voice held concern. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," I assured him, gathering my scores and standing. "Just... processing."
"Understandable," Braden replied. "Meet at the south exit in three minutes. Standard dispersal protocol."
We'd established careful extraction procedures, expecting potential surveillance or security concerns. Now they seemed almost comically excessive given Tatiana's straightforward approach. Still, professional caution remained appropriate—her resources might still be observing, analyzing, reporting back.
As I walked toward the rendezvous point, I fingered the business card she'd given me. Royal Opera House. A development director's name and direct contact information. A legitimate opportunity, presented through illegitimate means, by the last person I'd have expected to offer professional assistance.
The world had just become considerably more complicated.