The next day, Mirelle stayed in her room most of the morning, her emotions a tangled mess of anger, humiliation, and betrayal.
She only left when the housekeeper called her for dinner.
Dragging her feet, she made her way down to the dining room.
Kaia and Celeste were already seated—Kaia looking fresh from a party, laughing brightly, makeup still flawless. Celeste sat composed as always, sipping her wine.
Mirelle crossed the room without a word, grabbed a glass of water—
—and poured it straight over Kaia's head.
The room froze.
Kaia shrieked, slamming her hands down on the table. Celeste's eyes widened in shock.
"You did that to sabotage me!" Mirelle snapped, chest heaving.
Kaia stood up, dripping, looking theatrically shocked. "What the hell are you talking about, you crazy bitch?"
"My skirt was sliced! It didn't tear on its own!" Mirelle shouted.
Kaia lunged like she was about to grab her, face twisted in mock rage—
"STOP!" Celeste's voice cracked through the room like a whip.
Both girls froze mid-motion, stunned into stillness.
"Sit down," Celeste barked.
They obeyed automatically, the atmosphere thick with rage.
Celeste wiped her mouth calmly with a napkin before speaking. "Do you have any proof that Kaia did it?"
Mirelle opened her mouth, then faltered. "She was smirking at me," she said, the words sounding weak even to her own ears.
Celeste's voice rose sharply. "Is that enough to accuse her?"
Kaia leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, looking victorious. "Everyone in the studio hates you," she said sweetly. "I'm the only one who's ever been kind to you. Anyone could have done it."
Mirelle's fists tightened in her lap. "You've never been kind to me," she spat.
But the words stung.
Because once—once, when they were small, Kaia had been kind. She had braided Mirelle's hair, shared candy, whispered secrets under the covers when they were supposed to be sleeping.
Once, she had acted like a real sister.
Before she became something cold and cruel.
Celeste dabbed at her lips, sighing as if exhausted by the scene. "Say sorry to Kaia."
Mirelle stiffened.
"Say sorry to Kaia," Celeste repeated, "and to me."
Mirelle choked on her fury but obeyed, the words scraping her throat.
"I'm sorry," she muttered, feeling bile rise in her mouth—angry at Kaia, at Celeste, and most of all, at herself for still craving their approval.
Celeste leaned back, satisfied. "And be grateful, Mirelle."
She flicked a hand toward her phone on the table.
"Your little accident went viral overnight."
Mirelle blinked, stunned. She frowned, clearly confused. "What do you mean viral?"
Celeste set her wine glass down, her face flashing with impatience. "Are you dumb? Viral means it garnered lots of views overnight."
Mirelle blinked fast, her mind struggling to comprehend it.
Celeste continued coolly, "Director Havel called earlier. He was very happy. Said the disaster turned into something good for the production. He extended his personal thanks to Mirelle."
"What?" Kaia screeched, pointing at herself dramatically, water still dripping from her hair. She looked at the both of them. "Mom! She did this! Look at me!"
Celeste shot her an unimpressed glance, lifting a brow. "And for doing that to Kaia," she added sharply, her tone turning cold, "no dinner for you tonight. Go back to your room."
Mirelle, who had been wallowing in self-pity and anger, now felt a deep confusion settle inside her.
Shooting Kaia one last furious look, she turned on her heel and stormed back to her room, desperate to see the video Celeste mentioned.
She shut the door behind her and immediately grabbed her phone, searching for the video everyone was talking about.
It wasn't hard to find. Her heart thudded painfully when she saw it—millions of views overnight.
Tentatively, she opened the comments.
Some were cruel. Mocking.
But others—
"That was epic. A queen!"
"Damn! The skirt is a paid actor."
"That was a good jump. Didn't think ballet is interesting."
Her throat tightened. Her eyes stung.
She didn't know how to feel. Still furious, still humiliated—but somewhere inside, a tiny ember of pride burned despite everything.
She scrolled and scrolled for hours, her emotions twisting tighter with every post. Memes had already been created, edits of her dance replayed with dramatic music.
It should have humiliated her further.
But instead—she laughed.
For the first time in so long, she laughed until her stomach hurt.
Maybe—maybe God was finally on her side.
Her phone buzzed.
It was a number she barely recognized.
When she answered, Director Havel's crisp voice filled her ear.
"Mirelle, congratulations," he said. "Report to the studio tomorrow. We're giving you a solo."
She hung up slowly, staring blankly at the ceiling, the phone still clutched in her hand. Tears welled up in her eyes—this time not from anger, but from a flood of overwhelming joy.
How did this even happen? she thought, letting the tears spill freely as she laughed softly through them.