The clack of Celeste Vasseur's heels echoed like gunfire across the studio floor. Heads lifted. Breaths caught. The dancers snapped to attention—muscles taut, postures poised. Even the air seemed to hush beneath her gaze.
Celeste Vasseur, former prima ballerina and now the infamous director of the Varnen Ballet Company, was a legend wrapped in ice.
Mirelle stood in the back row, arms trembling from the last sequence, sweat clinging to her skin beneath the thin straps of her leotard. Her eyes flicked first to her mother—then to her sister, already at the front, already perfect.
Kaia executed the final pirouette of the piece with a flawlessness that demanded admiration. Applause erupted—not from the dancers, but from Celeste herself. Two slow, deliberate claps.
"Kaia," Celeste said, voice cool. "Good."
Then her gaze shifted.
"Mirelle."
Mirelle's chest squeezed painfully.
"You missed your cue. Twice." Celeste's voice wasn't loud, but it sliced through the air. "Again."
The company turned. Mirelle nodded meekly, stepping forward, heart pounding—but Celeste lifted one hand.
"No. Not now." A pause. A shift. "Come."
Whispers stirred like dust in their wake. Mirelle followed, steps dragging as if walking toward a sentence she had no hope of escaping.
Out of the studio. Down long, sterile corridors lined with portraits of dancers long retired. Every step behind her mother felt like a descent into a mausoleum where ambition went to die.
They reached the administrative office—cold, sparse, smelling faintly of paper and polish. Mirelle hesitated at the threshold, dread sinking heavy into her bones.
She knew this ritual too well. The private scoldings. The quiet shame. Her mother could find fault anywhere—a rehearsal room, a car, a hallway. Anywhere Mirelle followed, criticism waited.
At least this time, it would be behind closed doors.
Still, the words always cut deeper when there were no witnesses.
Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, hot and unwelcome. She blinked them back. There was no space for softness here.
Celeste pushed the door open. Mirelle stepped inside, small and shrinking.
Her mother sat down with effortless authority, while Mirelle remained standing.
"You know I must be harsh in public," Celeste said briskly, scanning her up and down. "You're my daughter. If I showed leniency, they'd call it favoritism."
Her mother could shower Kaia with praise without hesitation, but with her, even the smallest kindness had to be strangled, rationed—for fear of being accused of favoritism. Mirelle was the burden Celeste had to be harder on, the shadow too risky to acknowledge in the light.
Mirelle kept her eyes down, posture drooping. Meeting Celeste's gaze would only make it worse.
"You need to hold your own, Mirelle. I won't—I can't—protect you." Her voice sharpened. "And we have a name to uphold."
Mirelle swallowed. "Yes, mother," she whispered. "I'll try."
Celeste finally looked up, her gaze sharp as broken glass. "Don't say it. Show it."
She pushed a folder across the desk.
"You need to become more like your sister," she said, voice cool. "Kaia doesn't wait to be told. She commands the room."
Mirelle's stomach twisted, the words landing like stones.
But then Celeste's tone shifted, almost—almost—gentle.
"There's someone who can help you. Someone who understands discipline. Precision."
Celeste tapped the rehearsal schedule, highlighting a name near the bottom:
Rafe Armands.
Mirelle's heart sank.
A former prodigy. A ghost wrapped in scandal and brilliance.
Her mother's former favorite.
Her fingers tightened weakly around the paper as her pulse thudded, dull and resigned.
Celeste pressed the intercom. "Send Rafe Armands to the admin office. Immediately."
Mirelle stared at the floor, chest hollow.
She didn't want this. Didn't deserve this.
She had never even heard of Rafe coaching anyone. Why him? Why now? Her mother, who had always said tutoring her would be a waste, suddenly thought this man—a man who hadn't even proven himself as a coach—could fix her.
It made no sense. Unless, like everything else, it was just another punishment disguised as help.
Kaia had always had the best—the best costumes, the best coaches. Mirelle had gotten the scraps. She wanted to cry, right there, but she wouldn't. Her mother always said that when she cried, she only made herself look more pitiful—and being pitiful made her weak.
Mirelle had learned long ago: no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much it hollowed her out, she had to swallow it down and pretend it didn't exist.
Footsteps approached.
The door opened.
And Rafe Armands entered, sucking all the air from the room—tall, easily six feet, with broad shoulders and an effortless arrogance that seemed built into his bones. Black hair, tousled and slightly unruly, framed a face both devastating and sharp, all high cheekbones and a jaw dusted with a small, deliberate beard. His eyes, dark as onyx, swept the room with detached disinterest.
He was striking, magnetic—the kind of beautiful that made it obvious why he had once been Celeste's favorite.
His gaze swept the office, pausing on Mirelle with a flicker of disinterest.
Then he smiled, warm and reverent, for Celeste.
"Celeste," he said smoothly. "You called?"
Mirelle stiffened, but it was a small, invisible thing.
The contrast in his demeanor was a slap she barely had the strength to feel.
"I didn't realize you were still training strays," he said casually.
Mirelle flinched inwardly but kept her face blank.
Celeste only laughed. "Oh, Rafe. I want you to train her. She's still raw, but there's potential. If anyone can sharpen her, it's you."
Rafe said nothing.
Mirelle stared at the floor, shrinking into herself. The urge to disappear clawed at her chest.
"Let me see it first," Rafe said, folding his arms. "Give me a move."
Mirelle's head jerked up instinctively, only to find no sympathy in her mother's gaze.
Celeste merely raised a brow. "What are you waiting for?"
Every muscle sagged with exhaustion, but she moved anyway. First position. Shoulders trembling, breath shallow. She held it like a dying thing.
Then the intercom on Celeste's desk crackled to life, and a voice announced her next appointment. Celeste sighed, standing up.
"If you'll excuse me, I need to attend a meeting." She turned to Rafe with a small smile. "Be as strict as you need," she said before walking out.
Mirelle stayed frozen, trapped under Rafe's gaze.
The silence dragged, heavy.
She looked straight ahead, not even acknowledging him, but still held her pose.
Finally, he spoke.
"You're holding tension in your hands," he said. "I thought you'd trained since childhood."
She straightened slightly, but her movements were sluggish, defeated.
"Your back's too soft. That's not a plié. That's a plea."
Her teeth pressed together, a brittle defense.
"Ha. Ha. Very witty," she muttered without heat.
He smirked. "And your turnout's pathetic. Does no one correct you? Or are you just used to being overlooked?"
Her throat burned. Her chest hollowed.
She dropped out of form, voice cracking. "Maybe I'm not perfect," she said, barely audible, "but at least I'm not a washed-up prodigy with no choice but to coach."
Rafe blinked.
Then he laughed—low, cold, cruel.
"Well," he said, amused, "at least you finally spoke. Let's see how long that lasts."
And Mirelle, trembling, broken, vowed silently—
Even if no one ever remembered her, she would at least survive this.