The studio felt colder today.
Mirelle stepped inside, muscles stiff, head down. The other coaches were gathered at the far mirrors, clipboards in hand. And among them—
Rafe Armands.
He stood like he had all the time in the world, arms crossed, dead-eyed, devastating. Even his stillness felt pointed.
She could feel the eyes on her as she crossed the floor. The prickle of judgment. The expectation of failure.
Mirelle exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back. She moved to the barre first, following routine. Warm-up was mandatory.
She stretched, feeling every tight pull of muscle, the room pressing against her like a weight.
Only when the instructors began moving toward center floor did she step away from the barre, moving into position.
"Posture," Rafe said immediately, voice cutting through the hum of conversation.
He moved behind her, correcting her shoulder with a sharp, almost careless touch.
She stiffened under his hand. Disgust pooled low in her gut. Being touched by him—trained by him—felt like a betrayal she hadn't agreed to.
Still, she didn't pull away.
Not yet.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the glint of Kaia's smirk.
Mocking. Predictable.
Mirelle snapped her gaze forward.
"Relax, the ground's not going to eat you alive," Rafe said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Mirelle's jaw tightened. Shame curling in her stomach.
"Or maybe you just don't know what you're doing," he added, voice casual and cruel.
Mirelle breathed in once, sharp through her nose.
"Maybe you just like kicking things smaller than you," she shot back, eyes flashing.
The other coaches stilled.
Rafe's mouth twitched—not quite a smile. Something darker.
"Careful," Rafe said under his breath, his voice cutting just for her. "You're still easy to break."
He walked to her side and wore that smirk she loath.
They moved into performance drills. Mirelle felt the old pressure mounting—the expectation to fail, the weight of every eye.
Yet as the music flowed, she noticed it: her body aligned sharper, movements cleaner. She hated to admit it, but Rafe's brutal corrections had worked. She hit her marks with a precision she hadn't felt in weeks.
Not that she would ever thank him.
During the drills, Mirelle caught glimpses of Kaia across the floor. Watching her move—flawless, radiant, every turn catching the light—twisted something raw inside her.
She remembered when it had been her.
At twelve years old, Mirelle had been the one the instructors praised, the one whispered about with words like "prodigy" and "prima donna." She had tasted that glow once—the certainty that the world was hers.
Now it was Kaia who shone under the lights, the darling they all adored.
The ache hollowed her out, but Mirelle pushed the memory down. There was no place for it here.
She danced her part when her turn came, heart hammering against her ribs. Every correction Rafe barked earlier echoed through her movements. It killed her to admit it even to herself—but his brutal instructions helped.
When she finished, the coaches nodded approvingly. One of them even said, "She's getting better. Maybe Rafe's good for her."
Mirelle swallowed hard, a bitter taste rising. It sounded more like an insult than praise—as if she had been hopeless before, a charity case he was fixing.
Across the floor, Kaia wore that same small, knowing smirk.
And Rafe—silent, impassive—told her everything she needed to know without saying a word.
Later, in the dressing room, Mirelle peeled off her sweat-dampened leotard, mind still spinning. The other dancers chattered around her, laughter bouncing off the narrow walls.
Kaia appeared, smiling sweetly as she approached.
"You did good today," Kaia said, voice bright and sisterly.
A few dancers nearby murmured their agreement.
"Kaia is such a good sister," one whispered. "Always so supportive."
Her hands clenched around the hem of her sweater—then she forced herself to smile back.
She had learned early that showing others the truth only ever made her the villain. To them, Kaia was untouchable.
If only they knew.
Behind that perfect smile was the same cruelty Mirelle had survived her entire life.
Beside her, India—one of the few dancers who sometimes dared to talk to her—leaned in, grinning.
"You're so lucky," India whispered. "Rafe is hot. If I had him as a coach, I'd probably die happy."
Mirelle rolled her eyes without thinking. "Sorry," she said quickly. "I just don't like him."
India shrugged, playful. "Well, understandable... with all his issues."
As India turned away, Mirelle stayed frozen, the chatter fading around her.
The rumors about Rafe Corven clawed back into her mind—the scandal, the disgrace, the whispers of how he had been discarded after everything. A prodigy destroyed by the very world that once worshipped him.
It made her skin crawl.
The idea that he—with all his ruined brilliance—was now her coach disgusted her even more—as if pairing a failed prodigy with a broken promise would somehow fix either of them.
No, she thought bitterly, she didn't care how beautiful he was.
Rotten things could still wear pretty faces. Her eyes found Kaia again. Like her.