Mirelle changed quickly, wiping herself down with a towel and pulling on a fresh leotard and skirt, her skin still prickling with the aftermath of what had happened.
She refused to think about it.
When she walked back into Studio Three, where the rest of the company was practicing, the atmosphere was different. Lighter. Buzzing with energy.
She tucked herself quietly into the back corner, stretching and moving through warm-ups while the older dancers chatted excitedly. It was easy to blend into the walls, to pretend she was just another silhouette.
Moments later, the doors swung open, and Director Havel entered, his sharp eyes scanning the room.
"Attention," he said, clapping once. The studio fell silent instantly. "We have one week left before La Couronne Brisée premieres. One week."
A ripple of excitement moved through the company.
"From this point forward," he continued, voice brisk, "you should be eating, sleeping, breathing this ballet. I expect nothing less than perfection." His gaze softened slightly. "I believe in this company. This will be our masterpiece."
Everyone broke into light applause, cheers rising in little bursts. Mirelle clapped too, feeling a genuine swell of excitement in her chest. La Couronne Brisée — The Broken Crown — was not just another performance. It was a rare, high-profile production. Newspapers, critics, scouts would be there.
Maybe... maybe if she did well, her mother would loosen her leash. Maybe she'd finally see Mirelle as something other than a disappointment.
The rehearsal resumed at a sharper, more fevered pace. Mirelle threw herself into it. Every turn, every extension, every breath of the choreography—she gave it everything.
From the far end of the studio, Rafe stood, arms folded, leaning casually against the mirror. His dark clothes and sharp gaze made him stand out like a shadow among the bright movements.
Mirelle tried not to look. She focused on the music, the feel of the floor beneath her shoes, the burn of her muscles.
But she felt him.
Felt his eyes tracking her every move, the heat of it sliding down her spine, knotting in her stomach.
What was his expression?
She didn't dare to glance. Didn't want to see the inevitable sneer.
Instead, she pushed harder—holding the line of her arabesque until her legs trembled, nailing the timing of her pirouettes without faltering.
When the run-through ended and Director Havel called for a break, Mirelle braced herself for the inevitable correction.
But none came.
None from the choreographers. None from Rafe.
No barked criticisms.
Rafe hadn't moved from his spot.
And—
God, for the first time in weeks, she felt something bloom inside her.
Pride.
A small, fierce little flame.
She was untying the ribbons of her slippers when she heard a voice above her.
"You're getting good," Arlo said.
She looked up in surprise. Arlo, one of the principal dancers, was standing there with a crooked smile. He was striking—all lean muscle and boyish charm, his brown hair damp with sweat.
He was sweet, too. Unlike most of the company, who kept their distance—careful, wary, already loyal to Kaia's golden image—Arlo always gave her soft smiles in passing, little nods that warmed her on cold days.
And—he was hot.
Mirelle wasn't blind. She knew most of the girls—and even some of the guys—harbored quiet crushes on him. It felt almost surreal that he was here, standing and talking with her.
"Thank you," she said, smiling shyly.
Adrenaline still thrummed through her veins. The applause, the movement, the relief of not being singled out—it all made her bolder.
She stood, brushing off her skirt, and tilted her head up at him. "You weren't too bad yourself."
Arlo laughed, an easy sound, and Mirelle caught herself smiling wider.
"You excited for opening night?" he asked, shifting his weight, his sneakers squeaking slightly against the floor.
"Terrified," Mirelle admitted, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "But excited too. It's... it feels real now."
"You'll kill it," he said, nudging her shoulder gently. "I have a feeling."
The contact was light, friendly, and something inside Mirelle loosened. It wasn't just the adrenaline or the rush of performing well—it was the simple relief of talking to someone, of not brooding alone in a corner like she usually did.
Maybe it was Arlo's easy smile, so different from the harsh, cutting smirks she was used to, or maybe it was just that for once, she didn't feel invisible.
"This is the first time we've talked this long," Mirelle said, laughing a little as she shifted her weight.
Arlo smiled, a little sheepish. "Well, I tried. You always shot me down."
Her smile faltered slightly.
He continued, his voice warm, "You're smiling now. So it felt safer to come and talk to you."
Mirelle's cheeks heated. "Sorry," she murmured, glancing down at her hands. "You can come talk to me anytime."
It felt strange, talking so casually to a principal dancer. Background dancers like her usually didn't cross that line.
But something inside her had shifted. A flicker of confidence. She wondered, briefly, what had changed.
Well—
The only thing that changed was Rafe.
His brutal training. His cold, merciless expectations.
Arlo leaned in slightly, his voice playful. "Let's get coffee sometime."
Mirelle blinked, startled.
Was he—asking her on a date?
Before she could answer, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Kaia, standing with a few others, watching them with an unreadable expression.
Mirelle's stomach twisted.
"Maybe next time," she said quickly, backing away slightly. "I need to practice more."
"Okay," Arlo said easily, still smiling. "Tell me anytime."
Mirelle gave a small nod, retreating to a quieter corner of the studio—unaware of the pair of dark eyes following her every move from across the room.
She bent down, stretching out her hamstrings, trying to calm the lingering rush of adrenaline.
Suddenly, she felt a presence looming behind her. She stiffened and slowly straightened up.
Rafe.
He stood too close, his expression unreadable.
"What?" she asked cautiously.
"Continue your stretch," he said, voice low but sharp.
She glanced around suspiciously. No one was looking at them; everyone was busy chatting or practicing small movements.
"Here?" she asked, confused. He usually didn't even speak to her during open practice sessions.
Rafe didn't answer. His stare alone was command enough.
Heart hammering, she bent back down.
Her skin prickled when she felt his hands guiding her, firm and inescapable.
She kept her eyes glued to the floor as he pushed her deeper into the stretch, his touch precise but somehow too intimate, too charged.
It felt like everyone could see them—like everyone was witnessing something they shouldn't—even though she knew, logically, that coaches corrected dancers all the time.
Still, her hair stood on end, her pulse drumming loudly in her ears as she tried to pretend nothing was happening at all.
Rafe's hands remained on her a moment longer than necessary, steady and firm, before he finally let go. She stayed folded down, feeling the ghost of his touch burning along her skin.
"Again," he said quietly.
She obeyed, moving through the stretch once more, her limbs trembling slightly. His voice, sharp and close, murmured low corrections as he adjusted her posture with a grip that was far too intimate.
She swallowed hard, eyes locked on the floor, her mind spinning. To anyone watching, it was just coaching—normal, technical—but to her, it felt as if he was branding her, laying claim with every subtle touch.
Mirelle tried to breathe, tried to focus on the mechanics of the movement, but all she could feel was him, the heat of him pressing into her space, filling it completely.
This was weird. Too weird.
"Back off now," she muttered under her breath, her voice tight.
Rafe only smirked, leaning closer, his words a low murmur meant for her ears alone. "Are you getting wet?"
Her entire face flushed a furious red.
"Shut up," she hissed, standing up sharply and retreating across the studio to the opposite corner, not noticing the small, amused glint in Rafe's dark eyes as he watched her flee.