The next day, Mirelle stood in front of the mirrors in Studio Four, her arms stiff at her sides as she stared at her reflection. Pauline, the choreographer, tapped her foot behind her, the rhythmic, impatient click echoing off the walls like a countdown.
Mirelle tried to memorize the steps, to stay focused, to listen to every instruction being thrown at her—but her mind was elsewhere. It kept circling back to Rafe. The way he touched her. The way he humiliated her. The shame that lingered in her chest like an open wound.
I'm never going back to him again, she promised herself. Never.
"Are you even listening?" the choreographer snapped from behind.
Mirelle flinched like she'd been slapped.
"Just because you went viral doesn't mean anything in here,"Pauline continued. "If you want to be known for more than one torn costume, you need to prove you actually belong here. This is a solo—not a spotlight accident."
Mirelle bit the inside of her cheek, nodded stiffly, and stepped into position again.
She danced.
Each movement was a silent promise to herself: I'll do better. I'll earn this. I'll prove it wasn't just luck or scandal.
But the choreographer still shook her head. "Not clean enough. Not connected. Again."
Mirelle swallowed her frustration and began again.
An hour passed.
Then another.
Her feet ached. Her chest burned.
Pauline sighed for the 10th time, her head shaking. "Go practice on your own until night. Show me something worth watching tomorrow," the choreographer said, already gathering her things before walking out without another glance.
Mirelle stood there in the silence, drenched in sweat and shame. Her breaths came in short, shallow bursts. She didn't cry, but her eyes stung with unshed tears.
She pushed herself harder. Again. And again. She repeated the combinations, forced her muscles to move through the choreography. But she knew it wasn't enough. Her lines lacked sharpness, her rhythm faltered, and the emotion felt forced.
Her hands curled into fists. She looked at herself in the mirror, her face blotched with sweat and frustration.
She hated the way she looked right now—tired, unpolished, raw. Nothing felt right. Not her body, not her technique, not her expression. Everything felt like it was slipping through her fingers, and she couldn't stand the sight of herself failing in real time.
Why can't I get this right?
Suddenly, the studio door slammed open with a loud BANG, the echo cracking through the tension like thunder.
Trishia stood in the doorway, face flushed, hair wild, eyes lit with fury.
Mirelle's stomach dropped.
She knew that look. Knew the way Trishia's jaw clenched when she was out for blood.
Trouble.
"You fucking bitch!" Trishia snarled, storming forward. "You took my piece!"
Mirelle blinked, confused. "What? I don't know what you're talking about—"
Trishia didn't wait. She lunged and grabbed a fistful of Mirelle's hair, yanking with enough force to make her scream.
Mirelle stumbled, her hands flying up to stop her from pulling her hair. "Please, calm down! I didn't know—I swear I didn't know!"
"Liar!" Trishia screeched. Her voice cracked from rage. "You stole my solo, you fucking thief!"
Pain exploded in Mirelle's scalp as she struggled to break free. Trishia was taller, stronger, and clearly unhinged. Mirelle's head spun, her neck snapping back from another violent tug.
She looked toward the doors. No one was there.
No one was coming.
Her heart pounded like it was trying to escape her chest.
Desperate to get away, Mirelle lashed out, kicking hard at Trishia's feet, aiming to knock her off balance. Trishia faltered, stumbling—but her grip on Mirelle's hair didn't loosen fast enough.
They crashed to the floor, the sound sharp and brutal. Mirelle landed hard, gasping, winded. Trishia tried to climb on top of her, one leg swinging over to straddle.
If she pins me down, I'm done.
Mirelle twisted, fighting the burn in her ribs, and kicked with all her strength. Her foot struck true, hitting Trishia between the legs.
Trishia howled in pain and fell back, stunned and wheezing.
Mirelle didn't wait. She scrambled to her feet, lungs on fire, and lunged, slamming her shoulder into Trishia and sending both of them skidding across the hardwood floor.
"STOP!" Mirelle shouted, her voice hoarse. Her arms were trembling, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.
But Trishia wasn't done.
"You think you're something now? Viral slut gets a solo and thinks she's untouchable?!"
Mirelle tried to stay calm, tried to reason with her, but the venom in Trishia's voice made it clear: there would be no talking.
She gave up on words.
She fought.
Fists flew. Nails scratched. Mirelle clawed back with everything she had. Trishia grabbed at her again, trying to pull her by the hair. They tumbled, scraped, slammed into the mirror wall.
Mirelle elbowed her. Trishia screamed and slapped her hard across the face.
They went down again.
Mirelle kicked wildly, trying to stay out from under Trishia's weight. But the taller girl straddled her waist, her hands yanking hard on Mirelle's hair, trying to pin her down completely.
Panic surged.
Don't let her lock you down. Don't.
With a burst of fury, Mirelle twisted her body and slammed her knee up into Trishia's crotch again. It was brutal and immediate.
Trishia cried out, her grip loosening.
Mirelle shoved her back, sending her toppling over.
She didn't wait. Mirelle rushed forward and tackled her again, this time slamming her to the ground so hard they skidded across the floor.
"I said STOP!" Mirelle cried again, desperation turning into fury.
Trishia cursed, hair wild across her face, voice shaking. "You don't deserve that solo. You don't deserve any of it!"
Mirelle stared at her, chest heaving.
At that moment, the door banged open again—louder this time—and several choreographers and a handful of dancers who were still in the building rushed inside. Director Havel was at the front, his voice slicing through the tension.
"What the hell are you both doing?" he barked, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.