Director Havel stood in the doorway, breathing loudly through his nose, visibly trying to control himself. His fists were clenched, jaw tight, as if suppressing a full-on eruption.
"Sit," he said tightly.
He pointed to opposite ends of the studio. Mirelle moved to one side, Trishia to the other, both of them bruised, breathless, and silent.
"Do you two realize," he began, his voice carefully calm, "that I have been told to manage my blood pressure? That I need peace? That I need calm?"
He took another deep breath. "But you—you both—are driving me crazy."
He paced the floor and stopped suddenly.
His voice climbed suddenly, sharp and ringing. "This is a dance studio, not a damn boxing ring!"
Trishia opened her mouth, but Havel held up a hand, signaling her to stop. His glare silenced her instantly.
Then just as quickly, he composed himself again, smoothing down his coat.
"The upcoming program is important," he said, voice lower now. "Everyone is working hard. Rehearsing, organizing, making sacrifices. And here you two are, rolling on the floor like animals."
He looked to Trishia first. "I know that Mirelle was scheduled to practice here. Pauline informed me before she clocked out. So tell me, why were you here?"
Trishia sniffled, tears streaming down her red face. "I'm sorry, Director. Emotions got the best of me when I heard that she took my solo. I lost it."
Mirelle straightened, eyes flashing. "I didn't take it."
Trishia glared at her with venom.
Director Havel looked at Mirelle sharply. "Both of you are in the wrong here."
"But—" Mirelle began.
"No buts," he snapped. "Not now."
Mirelle clenched her fists, biting the inside of her cheek. Why do I have to bow down when I didn't even start this? But she said nothing.
"You will both apologize," Havel said, folding his arms. "And you will forget everything that happened here. Or I can cancel both your parts."
There was a long silence.
Then, reluctantly, both girls mumbled apologies.
"Good," Havel said flatly. Then he turned to Trishia. "Your punishment will be dealt with later. Straighten yourself up. You didn't lose your demi soloist spot because of her. You lost it because you've been slacking. Practice harder. Leave now and go tell Rafe Armands to come here."
Mirelle's stomach dropped.
Why him?
Trishia sniffed and quietly left the studio, head down, not daring to say another word.
"W-why do you need to call him?" she asked quietly.
Havel raised a brow. "He's your coach, isn't he?"
Mirelle shook her head. "He isn't anymore. I quit."
He rolled his eyes. "You know the only reason I didn't remove you from the solo was because you're Celeste's daughter."
The sting of his comment cut deeper than she expected. It wasn't just unfair. It hurt. Badly. As if everything she'd worked for had just been reduced to her last name.
Mirelle stiffened, her fist curled tighter. "I was just dancing. She attacked me."
He waved her words away like smoke. The sting of his comment rooted deep inside her chest, heavier than the bruises on her skin.
Then the studio door creaked open.
Rafe stepped inside.
His eyes swept the room in a single glance, taking in Havel's fury and Mirelle's battered state.
"What?" Rafe asked bluntly.
"Your student made a commotion," Havel said coldly. "Tie her up if you have to. Teach her some manners. Because if it happens again, she's out."
With that, Havel turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
Rafe turned to Mirelle, walking toward her with slow, measured steps.
He paused and looked at her longer than usual, his expression unreadable.
"What happened?" he asked, voice quiet but firm.
Mirelle hesitated, her voice low. "Trishia stormed in and accused me of stealing her solo. I tried to tell her I didn't, but she wouldn't listen. She attacked me. I fought back."
Rafe said nothing, eyes narrowing as he took it in.
Then, "Get up."
She hesitated, but obeyed.
He grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her in front of the mirror.
"Look at yourself. Look."
She stared at her reflection—disheveled hair, reddened cheeks, the scratches on her arm.
"How dare you lose," Rafe hissed, his tone colder than ever. "You're under me. You represent my name. And you let her throw you around like some amateur?"
His voice burned hotter than his grip.
His hand gripped the spot where she had been punched, rough and unthinking.
"You're hurting me," Mirelle said through her teeth, her eyes flicking down to his hand.
Rafe loosened his grip slightly, but didn't let go. The pressure eased, but the possessiveness remained.
Without another word, he pulled her by the arm out to the hallway.
She could feel eyes on her as they passed. Some people on their way home stopped to look at them. She's sure the incident had spread like wild fire.
And now, they see her being dragged around by Rafe.
Heat flooded her face. Being dragged by the wrist like a misbehaving toddler made her skin crawl with embarrassment.
"I can walk on my own," she muttered, trying to pull away.
Rafe didn't even look at her. "You act like a child, you get treated like one."
They reached the clinic office, and Rafe pushed the door open without hesitation. It was Mirelle's first time inside, and she blinked in surprise when she saw a man in scrubs inside, clearly getting ready to go home. He looked up, startled.
"She needs cleaning up," Rafe said curtly to the nurse on duty, his tone more of a command than a request.
The nurse looked like he had one foot out the door but sighed and came forward anyway. He glanced between the two of them as he began preparing supplies.
As he cleaned and treated her scratches, Mirelle could feel his gaze occasionally flicking up to her face. She avoided his eyes, embarrassment tightening her throat. It felt like he was being forced to help, and she hated the weight of that.
When he finished dressing the worst of her injuries, he handed her a small bag with ointments and gave her instructions on what to do.
"Thank you," she muttered, her voice tight.
The nurse gave her a gentle smile. "Come back if you need anything else. Alright?"
Before she could answer, Rafe pulled her by the arm again and stepped back into the hallway.
"Training starts at seven sharp tomorrow," he said without looking at her, already walking off.
She stood there in silence, watching him disappear down the corridor.
Mirelle didn't know whether to feel thankful he brought her to the clinic—or terrified of what tomorrow would bring.