The next training session brought them back to Studio 7—the small, intimate space where Mirelle hated how the walls seemed to close in around her.
She warmed up quietly, methodically, stretching out her arms and legs, rolling her ankles, preparing her body for the brutal session ahead.
But she could feel him.
Rafe.
Sitting casually in a folded chair near the mirrors, arms crossed, his sharp gaze pinned on her.
He didn't speak.
He just watched.
And somehow, that was worse.
Mirelle shifted uncomfortably, focusing on her pliés and tendus, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was performing for him—every movement exaggerated under the weight of his stare.
She pressed into a deep plié in second position, knees bending wide, arms rounded lightly in front of her, holding the posture even as her skin prickled.
"Start," Rafe barked, his voice slicing through the thick silence.
Mirelle jumped slightly but moved immediately, flowing into her barre work, tendu, jeté, arabesque.
She executed each movement as cleanly as she could, sweat beading at her brow despite the chill in the studio.
By the time she finished the set, her cheeks were flushed, her breathing quick.
Without a word, Rafe stood and crossed to the speaker system. He selected a track—a sharp, demanding piece of music—and pressed play.
"Dance."
Mirelle moved into the center of the room and began, letting the music pull her body into familiar shapes. She lost herself briefly in the rhythm—twirling, leaping, stretching—her muscles screaming but her mind blissfully blank.
Then—
The music cut off abruptly.
She stumbled to a stop, blinking at Rafe.
He stood by the speaker, his arms crossed.
"Everything was wrong," he said flatly.
Mirelle's hands curled into fists at her sides.
"Your arms are sloppy. Your turnout is lazy. Your timing is a joke."
Frustration bubbled up inside her. It felt unfair, cruel—like he wasn't seeing her at all, like he was inventing flaws just to punish her.
She bit the inside of her cheek, struggling to keep the angry tears from welling.
"I am doing it right," she snapped under her breath, anger flaring hotly inside her, unable to stop herself.
Rafe looked at her like she was saying something ridiculous, a mocking glint flashing through his eyes. "Get to position," he ordered.
Reluctantly, she moved back into first position—heels together, toes turned out, spine tall, arms rounded in front of her like she was holding a beach ball.
Rafe approached.
Close.
Too close.
He circled her slowly, and then—his hands were on her waist, adjusting her hips sharply. His touch was firm, clinical—and yet her body reacted shamefully, instinctively, to the press of his palms.
She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, but she could feel it—the heat coiling low in her stomach, the humiliating way her skin lit up under his hands.
"Chin up," he muttered, pushing a finger under her jaw.
She obeyed stiffly, mortified by the way her pulse raced.
Every correction, every adjustment, felt like he was peeling her open, exposing something raw and ugly and desperate inside her.
His hand trailed down, gripping her inner thigh to straighten her leg, sliding firm fingers down from the inside to the tips of her toes. She quivered violently, her body betraying her once again.
Heat flooded between her legs, mortifying her even as she clenched her teeth against the sensation. His hand had touched closer than it should have—far closer.
"Stop touching me," she snapped, voice raw.
Rafe only smirked. "Then do better," he said coolly. "See your legs?"
Without waiting, he touched her again, rougher, his hand sliding up the inside of her thigh this time—closer, more reckless.
Mirelle sucked in a sharp breath, her body locking up.
Rafe's gaze darkened, flicking down her body before meeting her eyes with disgust. "Are you getting wet again?"
Horrified, she stood up abruptly, abandoning the stretch. "No!" she blurted too fast.
"Back to position," he barked, sharp and merciless.
Heart pounding, she dropped into the splits again, holding it even as her muscles trembled—even as the shameful, sick heat grew worse between her legs.
Time dragged painfully until Rafe clicked his tongue in disapproval.
"Tch. I can smell you. Go change."
Face burning with humiliation, Mirelle scrambled up and fled toward the changing room, tears stinging her eyes.
Inside the bathroom, she slammed the door shut and leaned heavily against it, chest heaving.
Humiliation burned hotter than anything else. She knew—knew—Rafe had done it all to humiliate her.
Her fists clenched.
"Damn him," she whispered fiercely.
If he wanted her humiliated, then she would humiliate him right back.
A reckless, furious idea bloomed inside her. She stripped off her panties completely and shoved them into her bag, pulling her leotard and little practice skirt back into place—nothing underneath.
When she returned to the studio, she pretended nothing had changed. She walked lightly, casually.
But when she bent to stretch, she caught the faint sound of Rafe sucking in a sharp breath.
Mirelle smirked inwardly.
Fuck you, she thought viciously.
Rafe rose from his chair, coming toward her, and she knew—knew—he could see the outline of her body through the thin fabric.
She lifted her leg higher on purpose, flexing with perfect technique, feeling the fabric cling obscenely.
Two could play this game.
She could feel the way his hands hesitated—then gripped her rougher than necessary, correcting her position again.
She didn't care.
If he hated how his body reacted to her, then she would give him every reason to hate it more.
Rafe's hand froze a moment on her thigh before he straightened, his face twisting into a sneer.
"Are you a whore?" he asked, voice low and sharp.
Mirelle met his gaze evenly, her pulse thundering. "You told me to change," she said, voice almost sweet in its defiance. "I didn't have any extra underwear."
Something dark flashed through his eyes. He jerked back like she'd slapped him, stalking to his chair and slumping into it roughly—but not before she caught it.
The tenting of his slacks.
A small, vicious satisfaction bloomed in her chest.
Rafe's next instructions came harsher, sharper.
"Again," he barked.
Mirelle danced, pushing herself through each movement, feeling his furious gaze burning her skin.
Each time she posed, stretched, or bent, she made sure to tilt her hips just a fraction more, to lift her leg just a little higher—making it impossible for him not to see the outline of her body beneath the thin fabric.
Rafe corrected her from his chair, the venom in his voice growing with every command, but she didn't stop.
If she had to act like a whore to survive him, then she would—and she would drag him down with her.
But as time dragged on, her body began reaching its limit. Her muscles burned, her skin slick with sweat, and shamefully, the heat between her legs only grew worse.
She felt it—the dark, damp spot forming at the crotch of her leotard, her nipples stiffening visibly against the thin fabric.
Mirelle flushed deeply, a wave of mortification crashing over her.
I look obscene, she thought helplessly.
For a moment, she considered stopping. Ending it before it got even worse.
But then she looked up—saw Rafe's hateful, furious glare locked on her—and the inspiration she needed blazed to life again.
No, she thought viciously. Fuck you. You started this.
And she kept moving, stretching, dancing—pushing herself deeper into humiliation just to spite him.
Until finally, Rafe's voice cut through the thick air.
"Enough. Tomorrow again."
Mirelle straightened, panting slightly, but a triumphant smile curled on her lips.
She had won this round.