The studio lights hummed low overhead, spilling pale gold across the polished floor. Early morning practice—before the others arrived.
Mirelle stood by the barre, muscles already trembling from the first set of drills. Rafe had said nothing when she entered, only gestured her to the center of the floor.
Now he circled her like a hawk.
"Flexibility first," he said, his voice sharp and disinterested.
She waited, expecting instructions. Instead, he approached, his hands finding her arms without warning. He rotated her shoulders slightly back, guiding her into a simple arabesque.
"Higher," he said.
She shifted, lifting her back leg behind her, toes pointed, balancing on her front foot. Her spine arched naturally, but she knew her form wasn't as clean as Kaia's—or what Rafe would demand.
He didn't speak again.
Instead, he touched.
His palm flattened between her shoulder blades, pressing gently but firmly, encouraging her back to extend further. One hand slid to her hipbone, adjusting the tilt to open her alignment.
Mirelle stayed still. She didn't flinch.
She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Flexibility in ballet wasn't about forcing the body. It was about elasticity—elongating each muscle, controlling each breath, making the impossible look effortless. It meant lengthening through the crown of the head even as the hips opened. It meant holding tension and softness at once.
"Hold it," Rafe murmured.
She did.
Pain lanced through the arch of her back, but she breathed through it, staring at a fixed point on the far wall.
"Better," he said, but it sounded like an insult.
He moved her through a slow series of stretches—splits, cambres, penchés. Every adjustment was clinical, precise, but no less violating for it. He touched her waist, her ribs, the back of her knee, pushing and pulling small corrections.
He never asked permission.
And she never protested.
When the rest of the company started filtering into the studio, Mirelle was already dripping sweat, heart hammering—but she stayed in form.
She wasn't going to break.
Not yet.
Rafe stood a few steps away, arms crossed, watching her with a face carved from stone.
"Still a long way from Kaia," he said, voice sharp enough to cut. "Maybe it's just your last name carrying you through this career."
Mirelle bit back the sting. She straightened, forcing herself to meet his gaze.
"Maybe it's your ego that can't stand watching someone fight harder than you ever did," she said, her voice low but steady.
For a second, something flickered in Rafe's eyes—amusement, maybe. Then he smirked, cold and lazy.
"Rest," he said simply.
Mirelle didn't argue. She dragged herself to the side of the room, muscles screaming, heart still pounding.
She sat down, wiping the sweat from her brow, and watched the others as they filtered in, stretching and chatting like this was just another morning.
Like none of it mattered.
She pulled her knees to her chest, staring blankly at the floor.
Rafe's words echoed viciously in her mind: maybe it was just her last name carrying her.
Mirelle Vasseur.
Second daughter of Aleman Vasseur, the founding father of Varnen Ballet Company—a multi-billion dollar empire that stretched beyond ballet into clothing lines, global studios, luxury endorsements.
She had been the apple of her father's eye. The prodigy everyone whispered about. At twelve, instructors had promised she'd be a prima donna before she even turned eighteen.
And then he died.
And Mirelle collapsed.
For two years, she abandoned ballet completely, drowning in a grief no one helped her climb out of. When she returned at fifteen, she wasn't the same. Her body wasn't the same. Her fire was cracked.
Her mother hadn't waited for her. Kaia had already taken her place—and Celeste had done nothing to stop it. Had only smiled tighter whenever Kaia cut Mirelle down, turned a blind eye when the bullying became unbearable.
And around that same time, Mirelle remembered bitterly—the unnatural attention Celeste had started showing Rafe Armands.
The golden boy no one would dare question.
She barely had time to shake off the memory when Kaia approached, stretching with artificial ease.
"How's your practice, sis?" Kaia asked, voice light, almost affectionate.
But her eyes said the opposite.
Mirelle forced a sweet smile, answering just as lightly, as if the chaos at the breakfast table that morning hadn't happened—as if Kaia hadn't "accidentally" spilled an entire glass of water across her lap for daring to meet her eyes.
As if their mother hadn't simply tutted and said, "Maybe Kaia's right, Mirelle. You should fix how you look at people."
Mirelle tucked her emotions neatly away, just like she always did.
"I'm fine," she said, voice light, almost cheerful. But inside, she felt that familiar tension coiling in her gut—the one that always came when Kaia was too close, too sweet. The feeling that at any second, something would go wrong.
Mirelle began gathering her things, making an excuse to step away.
Kaia's voice followed, loud enough for a few nearby dancers to hear. "Running away again? As if I'm doing something wrong? I'm just concerned."
Her tone was honeyed, but the gleam in her eyes was pure malice.
One of the younger dancers passing by frowned at Mirelle. "You should be nicer to Kaia," she said under her breath.
Mirelle said nothing. She only smiled tightly and turned away, feeling the weight of every lie settle heavier on her shoulders.
She moved quickly to the other side of the room, needing space, needing air. She smoothed her hands down her tights, forcing her breathing to steady as she readied herself for the next round of practice.
The company shifted, falling into their assigned places as the music began. Mirelle took her mark and danced the routine they'd been rehearsing for weeks. Each step, each leap, each landing was cleaner than the last.
When the sequence ended, she stayed frozen for a breathless second, heart racing—waiting for the usual correction, the usual sigh.
None came.
For once, she hadn't made a mistake.
Warmth flooded her chest, a small fierce joy she hadn't felt in years.
She didn't look at Kaia, didn't dare. She stayed locked in that small victory, clutching it to herself like a secret.
She sat down again, muscles aching, and watched the others stretch across the floor, her body heavy but her spirit lighter for the first time in what felt like forever.
As she sat there, the realization crept in—training with Rafe was yielding results she hadn't expected. She'd always had good trainers before, but this... this was different.
For the first time, her body was responding exactly as it was supposed to. Moving the way he had forced it to move.
It grated against her pride, but the truth was undeniable.
Her gaze drifted across the room, finding Rafe where he stood, deep in conversation with the other coaches. He barely spared a glance in her direction, focused and aloof.
Maybe he was exactly what she needed.
Maybe—for once—her mother was right.
A ridiculous, desperate thought wormed through her chest: maybe if she got better under his training, maybe this time, her mother would finally be proud of her.