Chapter Four: Breaking Point
The next day, Mirelle barely made it to the locker room before Kaia found her.
Leaning lazily against the row of lockers, Kaia smiled that syrupy smile. "Training so hard, sis. It's admirable, really. Training for... nothing."
Mirelle didn't answer. She shoved her shoes into her bag with more force than necessary.
Kaia's voice followed her like smoke. "Some of us are born to shine, you know. Some... just aren't."
Mirelle squared her shoulders, chin lifted, ready to stalk out, but Kaia took a step closer, voice dripping mock concern.
"What are you even doing here?" Mirelle said, tilting her head. "You're supposed to be reporting to mother."
Kaia was already smirking wider. "Ooh, you can talk back now?" she teased. "Is it because of Rafe?"
Kaia's smile sharpened. "Rafe is good, isn't he? Not just in training."
There was something sly and cutting in her tone that made Mirelle's skin crawl.
"Leave me alone," Mirelle muttered, grabbing her bag.
Kaia leaned closer, whispering in a voice only she could hear. "You're nothing, Mirelle. And you'll achieve nothing."
Mirelle forced herself to walk away, nails digging into her palms to stop herself from shaking.
By the time she entered the practice hall where Rafe waited, her blood was already boiling.
He barely glanced at her. "You're late."
"I was held up," she snapped before she could help it.
His gaze sharpened, slicing through her like a scalpel.
"Warm up. Now."
The session began brutal. Rafe's corrections came sharper, his touches less forgiving.
"Extend. You're curling in again."
"I'm not curling," Mirelle bit out, adjusting anyway.
"Then you're just sloppy."
She shot him a glare. "Maybe you're just blind."
A low, humorless laugh left him.
The sharp words kept flying, the tension between them snapping tighter and tighter.
And then—she crossed the line.
"Maybe if you had kept your own career together," she hissed under her breath, "you wouldn't have to break others to feel powerful."
The studio went deathly silent.
Rafe stepped closer, his face unreadable. Not anger, not surprise. Something colder.
"Hold," he said, voice flat.
He guided her into a deep arabesque penché—one of the most punishing poses—forcing her back leg higher, her spine arching dangerously.
"Don't move," he said.
Pain shot through her lower back and hamstrings almost immediately. Still, she grit her teeth and held it.
Seconds dragged.
Minutes.
Her muscles screamed, sweat dripping from her brow, her breathing ragged.
Still, he stood there. Watching. Waiting.
Mirelle felt herself trembling, her vision blurring—and then her body gave out, collapsing hard onto the studio floor.
For a moment, she just lay there, humiliated, gasping for breath.
Training ended with no fanfare. No scolding. No kindness.
Rafe dismissed her with a simple, "Again tomorrow."
Half-blind with exhaustion, Mirelle stumbled to the bathroom.
It wasn't until she closed the stall door behind her that she realized something was wrong.
She felt dampness between her legs—not just sweat.
Horrified, she pressed her hand down—and understood.
A mortified flush burned her cheeks. She smelled herself, desperate and afraid that maybe... maybe Rafe had noticed.
Shame sank its claws deep into her chest.
She clutched the sink with shaking hands, staring at her reflection.
She hated him.
She hated herself more.
Later that afternoon, Mirelle found herself walking down the cracked sidewalk toward the small dance supply shop a few blocks from the academy. Her old ballet shoes were giving out, and she couldn't afford another mistake during practice.
She stepped inside, the door chiming softly above her head, the smell of worn leather and fresh resin filling her lungs. Rows of satin slippers lined the walls, glittering like soft trophies she no longer felt she deserved.
Mirelle pulled out her worn wallet and began counting the bills inside. Her fingers moved slower than usual, each crumpled note a reminder.
Her mother had given her just enough allowance to last the week, a fact she hadn't even tried to mask. "Budget appropriately," Celeste had said crisply. "It reflects your sense of discipline." Meanwhile, Kaia carried credit cards with no limits, always dressed in the newest custom-designed Varnen clothing line pieces, flaunting them like second skin.
According to Celeste, it was fair. Their 'salaries' based on merit, she said. Performance.
Mirelle smiled bitterly to herself, thumbing the thin stack of bills. If only her father were still alive.
Aleman Vasseur whose name alone could silence rooms. He had been her greatest champion, the one who brushed her hair back before auditions, who clapped the loudest at every recital.
When prostate cancer took him, Mirelle had been the only one at his bedside—Kaia "too busy" with rehearsals, Celeste "too exhausted" with company meetings.
He had died holding Mirelle's hand.
Mirelle exhaled slowly and picked a single pair of shoes from the rack. Plain, sturdy. Nothing fancy.
It was ridiculous, really—buying ballet shoes from the company her own family had built. But the Vasseur name meant nothing for her anymore. Kaia was the proper daughter now, the golden child trotted out at parties, smiling for the cameras, shaking hands with sponsors.
Mirelle was barely tolerated.
The girl at the register gave her a polite smile, rang it up without comment.
Mirelle left the shop clutching the small brown paper bag against her chest like a fragile thing.
She walked home slowly, her legs still heavy from training, her mind heavier still.
Home.
Such a fragile word for a place that hadn't felt safe in a long, long time.