The door to Studio Seven shut behind her with a heavy click.
It was just Mirelle and Rafe now. No Kaia, no hovering instructors. No audience to witness her failures.
Rafe stood near the center, arms folded, a faint shadow in the dim morning light filtering through the high windows. He didn't speak at first. He simply watched as Mirelle dropped her bag by the wall and stepped barefoot onto the floor.
"Again," he said simply.
The session blurred into one long punishing repetition—plies, releves, developpes—every motion stripped raw and exposed under Rafe's unrelenting gaze. His corrections were sharp. His silences sharper.
"No. Again."
"Your back. Again."
"You're collapsing. Again."
Each word chipped at her ribs like a chisel.
Her muscles burned. Her throat tightened. Her chest ached with effort and humiliation.
She didn't remember when exactly the tears started—only that one blink too long and the moisture broke free, trailing hot and unwanted down her cheeks.
She didn't sob. She didn't collapse.
She just kept moving, even as her vision blurred and the studio walls swam around her.
When she missed her mark again, stumbling on a landing, she flinched, already bracing for more.
Instead, silence fell.
And then—
"Good," Rafe said quietly.
The single word cut sharper than anything else he had thrown at her that morning.
She froze, blinking through the blur, sure she had misheard.
He stepped closer, expression unreadable.
"You pushed past it," he said, softer than she'd ever heard him. "That's what it takes."
For a moment, Mirelle stood there, broken and burning, unsure whether she hated him or needed him more.
The tears kept falling.
But this time, she let them.
Later that afternoon, when Mirelle rejoined the company practice for the upcoming production, something was different.
Everyone noticed.
Her movements were sharper, cleaner, her presence larger. The choreographers, usually half-distracted or overly forgiving, grew stricter with her—pushing her harder, expecting more. And instead of feeling crushed by it, Mirelle felt light. Capable.
She could feel the change in her own body. The hours with Rafe had carved something stronger into her muscles, into her breath.
But it didn't take long for Kaia to pierce through the rising pride.
Loud enough for the room to hear, Kaia called out, "You're still missing something, sis."
Heads turned.
The choreographers nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, yes," one said. "Good catch, Kaia. Mirelle, you need to tighten your arms on the turn."
Another chimed in, "It's good to have someone like Kaia noticing the small details."
Mirelle swallowed the familiar bitterness, forcing a nod, even as her chest twisted painfully tight.
Hours later, after extra rounds of practice by herself, she finally drove home, her body aching, her mind heavy with exhaustion.
She pushed open the front door and dragged herself up the stairs to her room—only for her heart to stop in her chest.
Her room was a wreck.
Clothes, books, photographs—everything was dumped across the floor in careless heaps.
For a second, Mirelle just stood there, frozen, staring. Then the bitter realization hit.
Kaia.
Of course it was Kaia.
Her throat tightened painfully as she bent down, carefully picking up the frame of her favorite photograph—one of her and her father. She placed it gently back on the bedside table, tears blurring her vision.
How pitiful her life had become.
Even if she told their mother, it wouldn't matter. Celeste would only sigh and say Kaia was doing her a favor somehow. "Teaching you to be stronger," she'd claim.
Mirelle wiped her cheeks, throat raw, and sat down on the edge of her disheveled bed, feeling every ounce of her loneliness sink into her skin.
A knock sounded at her door before she could gather herself.
Celeste entered, Kaia trailing behind her like a shadow draped in silk.
"Your sister's diamond bracelet is missing," Celeste said coldly.
Kaia folded her arms, smiling sweetly. "I'm sure Mirelle took it."
"I didn't take anything," Mirelle said immediately, standing up, heart hammering.
Celeste's gaze remained flat, unmoved. "Give it back to your sister."
Mirelle's mouth opened in disbelief. "Mother, that bracelet was mine first. Dad gave it to me before... before he..." Her voice cracked, but she forced herself to continue. "Kaia has been "borrowing" it for six years."
"You need to share more," Celeste said sharply. "You're too selfish. You are both his daughters."
"If I took it back," Mirelle said, voice rising, "it would be because it's mine. But I didn't!"
The slap came fast and hard, snapping her head sideways.
Mirelle stood frozen, the sting blooming across her cheek, the shock louder than the crack itself.
Kaia smiled—a small, satisfied curve of her lips—as if she'd won something.
"You see?" Celeste said coolly. "This is what happens when you shout and accuse your own family."
Mirelle tasted blood and humiliation on her tongue but said nothing.
There never had been.
Celeste's features softened, her voice turning tender. She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around Mirelle in a stiff embrace.
"I'm sorry I had to do that," Celeste murmured against her ear. "You made me do it."
She turned to Kaia and said lightly, "Go call for the help. Have them fix Mirelle's room."
Kaia nodded, her smirk barely hidden, and swept out of the room.
Mirelle stood there, shivering, her skin burning from where Celeste had touched her, from where the slap still stung. She didn't know if the trembling came from the pain or from the deep, raw pity she felt for herself.
She just knew she was very, very tired.