The days that followed the final rehearsals felt like a dream.
More and more people in the company were talking to Mirelle now—offering smiles, small conversations, even compliments. It was nothing overwhelming, but after so many years of isolation, it felt like stepping into sunlight after being trapped underground.
They said it was easier now to approach her—that she seemed lighter, more open.
She laughed easily, her voice lighter. Her movements during practice grew sharper, more fluid, each line cleaner, each extension filled with newfound confidence.
For once, she allowed herself to feel proud.
And now—
It was the day of the performance.
La Couronne Brisée.
Mirelle arrived early, well before 3PM even though curtain wouldn't rise until 7PM. Excitement buzzed through the entire theater—stagehands rushing about, costumers adjusting outfits, dancers warming up quietly in corners.
It was tradition to have light classes on performance days—just enough barre work and stretches to keep their bodies ready but not exhausted.
Mirelle joined the others, her heart racing with a strange blend of nerves and exhilaration.
The makeup artists worked their magic quickly, painting her features brighter and bolder than usual. Her cheeks flushed with a delicate pink, her eyes lined with a dramatic sweep that made them look wider, more intense. A soft shimmer was dusted across her collarbones.
When she slipped into her costume—a soft gray skirt with delicate embroidery and a pale, fitted bodice—she barely recognized herself in the mirror.
Pretty, she thought, touching the skirt lightly.
It wasn't her first performance. She had danced in small shows before—school recitals, community galas—but this was different. This was her fifth official performance with the company—
And her first in a big, prestigious production like La Couronne Brisée.
She tightened her ribbons around her ankles, smoothing the material one last time before sneaking toward the wings.
The thick velvet curtains loomed high above, and she pressed herself lightly against the side, peeking out through the narrow space.
Her stomach dropped.
The theater—the grand, massive theater—was filling fast. Rows upon rows of seats, people murmuring, shifting, flipping through programs.
Mirelle swallowed hard, nerves knotting sharply in her belly.
So many people.
She pressed a hand lightly to her chest, feeling the frantic hammer of her heart.
Excitement and terror twisted together inside her.
You can do this, she told herself fiercely. You earned this.
Somewhere beyond the curtain, the orchestra tuned their instruments—a low hum of strings and soft taps of percussion.
Showtime was coming.
The lights dimmed. The orchestra struck its first notes—a rich, somber melody that filled the air.
When her group's cue came, Mirelle moved with the others onto the stage, the spotlight blinding at first. The music guided her body into familiar patterns, her heart pounding against her ribs.
She danced.
Every step felt electrified. Her body sang with energy, her lines sharp, her turns crisp. For the first time, she didn't feel small or background—she felt alive.
She gathered into a leap, her body extending fully—and that was when she heard it.
Riiiip.
The side of her skirt tore cleanly, the delicate fabric giving way with a soft, horrifying sound. Gasps echoed faintly from the audience.
Panic clawed at her, humiliation flooding her chest like ice. She felt like a loser—exposed, ridiculous, small.
She wanted to cry, to run off the stage, to disappear.
But she pushed through.
She lifted her chin, forcing her legs to move, forcing her body to obey. Rage and shame tangled together, driving her onward.
The torn fabric flared around her, showing more of her body than she ever wanted—but she moved anyway, her steps fierce, her muscles burning.
It felt obscene. It felt desperate.
But it was real.
And somehow, that rawness caught the light.
When the music ended, she held her final pose—chest heaving, face flushed—and the applause was louder than she had ever heard for a background dancer.
As soon as the curtain fell, Mirelle ran.
She clutched the torn skirt in her hand, tears streaming freely down her face. God, it was her first time performing in a major production and she had messed it up so horribly.
Other dancers caught her backstage, offering hurried reassurances. "You looked amazing out there," one said. "No one noticed, you were incredible," another insisted.
But Mirelle barely heard them. She knew how ridiculous she must have looked. She could already imagine it—if someone had taken pictures or videos, they'd post them, and she'd be the laughingstock.
Swiping at her tears, she slumped into a corner and examined the skirt.
Her heart flared in sudden, sharp anger.
The tear wasn't random—it was too clean, too straight. Like someone had sliced it deliberately with scissors.
She lifted her gaze, scanning the milling dancers—and her eyes landed on Kaia.
Kaia, standing with her little group of friends, a smirk curling on her lips as she met Mirelle's gaze without a hint of shame.
Mirelle's anger boiled inside her, almost too much to contain. But she clenched her fists and stayed until the end, forcing herself through the final bows, every muscle trembling with the effort to keep smiling.
Oh, just wait, Kaia, she thought darkly, a promise sparking in her chest.