The clack of Celeste Vasseur's heels echoed like gunshots across the studio floor. Every head lifted. Every breath held. The dancers snapped to attention, muscles taut, posture poised. Even the air seemed to hush in her presence.
Celeste Vasseur, former prima ballerina, now the infamous director of the Varnen Ballet Company, was a legend laced in ice.
Mirelle stood in the back row, arms still trembling from the last sequence. Sweat clung to her skin beneath the thin straps of her leotard. Her eyes flicked to her mother—then to her sister, already at the front, already perfect.
Kaia executed the final pirouette of the piece like she had never left center stage. A flawless finish. Applause erupted—not from the dancers, but from Celeste herself. Two slow, sharp claps.
"Kaia," Celeste said. "Good."
Then her gaze drifted.
"Mirelle."
Mirelle's throat closed.
"You missed your cue. Twice." Her voice was not loud, but it pierced. "Again."
The entire company turned. She nodded, stepped forward, heart pounding—but Celeste raised one hand.
"No. Not now." As if changing her mind. "Come."
Whispers stirred like dust in the wake of her departure. Mirelle followed.
Out of the studio. Down the corridor. Past portraits of dancers long retired. Every step behind her mother felt like descending into a mausoleum where ambition went to die.
They reached the administrative office—cold, sparse, the scent of paper and polish clinging to the air. Mirelle hesitated at the threshold.
She was used to this part. The quiet shame. The invisible bruises. Her mother could find fault in any space—whether it was a rehearsal room, a hallway, a private car. Anywhere Mirelle followed, the criticism came with her like shadow.
But at least this time, it was private. For once, she wouldn't have to crumble in front of a dozen eyes.
Still, the words always hurt more when spoken in small spaces. When there was no one else to hear how little she measured up to Kaia.
Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, hot and stubborn. She blinked them back. There was no space for softness here.
Celeste pushed the door open.
Mirelle stepped inside.
Celeste didn't sit. She didn't offer Mirelle a chair.
"You know I have to say those things in public," she said, tone clipped, eyes scanning a stack of folders. "You're my daughter. They'd say I was showing favoritism if I let you slide."
Mirelle said nothing. She kept her eyes down. Not out of respect—but survival. If she met her mother's gaze, sometimes, it get worse.
"You need to learn to hold your own, Mirelle," Celeste continued. "I can't protect you in there. Not just because you're my daughter, you are taking it easy. We have a name we need to uphold"
Mirelle swallowed, throat dry. "Yes, mother. I'll do better"
Celeste finally looked up. Her gaze was sharp as broken glass. "Don't say it. Show it."
She set the folder down. "You need to become more like your sister. Kaia doesn't wait to be told—she commands the room."
Mirelle's stomach tightened.
Celeste continued, almost as if softening. "There's someone who can help you. Bring out your potential. Someone who understands discipline. Precision."
Mirelle didn't answer.
Celeste handed her the rehearsal schedule again, this time tapping a name printed near the bottom: Rafe Armands.
Mirelle froze.
A former prodigy. A ghost of scandal and brilliance. Her mother's former pet. Or maybe still.
She didn't want him.
But she said nothing not because she wanted her mother's approval more but because she knows that nothing she says, will change her mind.
She said nothing as her fingers closed tighter around the page. But her pulse thudded, fast and traitorous. Not fear. Not quite. Something darker. A quiet refusal to be overlooked again.
Celeste turned and pressed a button on her desk intercom. "Call Rafe Armands to the admin office. Immediately."
Mirelle's eyes dropped to the floor, already burning.
She didn't need to see him yet. Didn't want to. Her chest ached with something tight and angry.
Kaia had always had the best. The best tutors. The best costumes. The best coaches flown in from Paris and Prague. And now Mirelle was being handed him.
Her mother's pet project.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from speaking. If this was what it took to be seen—then she'd endure it.
Even if it made her bleed.
The door opened.
He entered like the air shifted for him—tall, carved with cruel grace, and too beautiful for a man who looked so bored by everything. Rafe Armands.
His eyes swept the room once—landing on Mirelle like a curse. Cold. Distant.
And then they softened. His mouth curved, sweet as spun sugar as soon as he seen her mother.
"Celeste," he said, voice velvet and reverent. "You called?"
Mirelle stiffened. The contrast was disorienting. That warmth—so easily offered to her mother. And yet when he glanced back at her, the disdain returned.
What did I do to you?
She'd seen him before, long ago, dancing in the east wing studio. He had moved so gracefully and powerful. Untouchable. She had watched from behind the half-open door, breath caught in awe.
But she had never spoken to him. Had never wronged him.
Still, his glare burned like an accusation. Did her mother speak ill of her? Maybe he also thought that she's riding her mother's coat. No talent yet still dancing.
"I didn't realize you were still training strays," he said casually.
Mirelle flinched.
Celeste only laughed. "Oh, Rafe. Be kind. She's still raw. But there's potential. If anyone can sharpen her, it's you."
He said nothing.
Mirelle didn't look up. She couldn't. But deep beneath her stillness, something hot and furious began to curl.
"Let me see it first," Rafe said, folding his arms. "Give me a move."
Mirelle's head jerked up in disbelief, her gaze flicking to her mother.
Celeste raised a brow. "What are you waiting for?"
Against her will, she did it. Every cell in her body resisting.
She stepped forward and fell into first position, then transitioned—shoulders trembling, breath shallow. She didn't speak, didn't blink. She just held it.
Celeste laughed, brushing imaginary dust from her blazer. "I have a meeting," she said brightly. "Rafe darling, be as strict as you need to be."
Then she was gone.
Leaving Mirelle frozen. Locked in form. Caged beneath his gaze.
She didn't flinch this time. Let him laugh. Let him talk. She was done standing in the wings.
She hated him. Not for what he said—but for how much it made her want to prove him wrong.
If it hurt, so be it. She was learning how to bleed without bowing.
He let the silence stretch just long enough to humiliate.
"You're holding tension in your hands," he said finally. "I thought you trained since a child?"
She stood up straighter, turning her head just slightly to look at him.
"Your back is too soft. That's not a plié, it's a plea."
Mirelle gritted her teeth hate spilling in her gut. "Ha. Ha. I bet you thought that was witty." She said sarcastically.
He glared at her and then smirked. "And your turnout—does no one correct you? Or are you used to being overlooked?"
Her throat burned. Her hands curled.
That did it.
She dropped out of form and faced him fully, eyes sharp. "You know what? Maybe I'm not perfect—but at least I'm not a washed-up prodigy playing coach because no one wants to see me dance anymore."
Rafe blinked.
Then he laughed.
Low. Cold. Almost amused. Like he couldn't believe she had the audacity.
"Well," he said. "At least you finally found your spine. Let's see how long it lasts."
He turned slightly, as if finished with her, then added under his breath, "If you ever danced with half the venom you speak with, maybe someone would remember your name."