The main studio buzzed with noise and movement as the company ran through scenes for the upcoming performance. Mirelle stretched quietly at the back, hyperaware of the glances drifting her way.
Something had shifted.
When she moved now, the lines were cleaner. The jumps higher. The turns sharper. Not perfect, not yet—but undeniable. She could feel the difference humming in her blood, and worse, she could see it in the choreographers' eyes.
"Mirelle, take center," one of them called.
Her heart thudded painfully as she stepped forward, sliding into the piece they had been rehearsing all week.
She danced—and this time, there were no corrections mid-phrase. No impatient claps. No sighs.
Just silence.
When the music faded, the choreographers nodded to each other.
"Good," said one. "Very good."
A few of the dancers murmured among themselves, and Mirelle's skin prickled under the weight of their attention.
"Trisha," the lead choreographer said, turning to the demi-soloist, "if you're ever unavailable, Mirelle can cover your piece."
Trisha, a senior dancer known for her tight, glittering smile, beamed sweetly at the choreographer. "Of course. Mirelle's doing really well."
But when her gaze shifted to Mirelle, it sharpened—polite on the surface, cutting underneath.
"Good job," Trisha said smoothly, the words tasting like iron.
Mirelle bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment, feeling her chest swell painfully.
Joy prickled somewhere deep inside her—but it was immediately drowned out by a new, colder pressure.
She caught India's eye from across the room, the other girl looking worriedly at her. It made her chest squeeze tighter. Though Trisha seemed sweet on the surface, her words had left bruises Mirelle could still feel—and being Kaia's friend spoke louder than any fake smiles.
A heavy sense of dread pressed against her ribs.
As the practice ended, Trisha cornered Mirelle near the mirrors, her tone sickly sweet. "Did you buy the choreographers' attention, Mirelle? Or did someone help you slip them a bonus under the table?"
"I practiced, Trisha," Mirelle said sharply, heat rising in her voice. "I stayed after all of you went home. It's not my fault I'm getting better."
Trisha laughed, a light, mocking sound. "Of course you did," she said. "I'm sure you're doing something for them too."
Her words were soft, almost casual—but the malice underneath was razor sharp.
Before Mirelle could answer, Kaia slid in, all brightness and concern.
"Come on, Trisha," Kaia said lightly. "Don't be mean."
Some of the dancers nearby murmured admiration at Kaia's "kindness," and Mirelle felt her throat tighten.
Kaia stepped forward, bright and beaming, drawing the room's attention. "I'm so proud of my little sister!" she announced sweetly, pulling Mirelle into a sudden hug that made her stiffen.
While everyone smiled and murmured their approval, Kaia leaned in close, her mouth near Mirelle's ear.
"Maybe it's just that you're easy enough for your coach to pass around for favors," she whispered icily in her ear.
Then, Kaia released her, stepping back with a bright, beaming smile.
"I'm looking forward to your progress, sis," she said loudly enough for everyone to hear, her voice sugary and false.
Mirelle froze, her hands curling into fists at her sides.
By the time she blinked, Kaia and Trisha had already melted back into the crowd, leaving her standing alone, cold and trembling under the studio lights.
Later, she entered the small studio where she and Rafe usually trained. Her limbs moved mechanically, the sharp sting of Kaia's words still burning under her skin.
Rafe was already there, speaking about something—corrections, instructions—but she barely heard him. Her mind was elsewhere, spiraling.
"Are you deaf now too?" Rafe snapped, voice slicing through her daze.
She startled, heart hammering.
"Start your stretches," he ordered sharply.
Mirelle dropped to the floor, forcing her muscles into the first position. She tried to shove Kaia and Trisha from her mind, focusing instead on Rafe's harsh tone, the cold efficiency of his commands.
At least this man showed his hate openly.
Somehow, it almost made her feel safer.
But it wasn't enough.
Rafe's sharp gaze narrowed the longer she floated through motions without real focus.
"If you don't concentrate," he barked, stepping closer, "I'm walking out."
Mirelle flinched, her chest tightening. She bowed her head quickly.
"Sorry," she murmured, her voice small.
She dragged her mind back into her body, forcing herself to stretch deeper, sharper, more precisely. Focusing only on the pain, the commands, the rhythm—anything but Kaia's voice still slithering in her head.
Rafe didn't ease up. His hands adjusted her shoulders, pressed down on the arch of her back, forcing her to lengthen through every muscle fiber. The corrections weren't just rough—they were intimate, demanding.
Each touch sent a shiver through her, heat blooming low in her belly against her will.
He guided her into a deeper bend, one hand firm against the small of her back, the other sliding dangerously close along her thigh.
"Hold it," he muttered.
She held—barely. Her breath came faster, ragged, as his fingers skimmed her ribs to adjust her posture. The room seemed to throb with a heavy, forbidden tension.
He stepped closer, his gaze cold, voice low enough to carve into her. "Just because the choreographers threw you a compliment, don't think you're anything special," he said. "You're still a shitty dancer."
When he finally stepped back, Mirelle stayed frozen, dizzy from the sharp focus and the slow burn under her skin.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
"Focus," Rafe snapped from across the room, his voice slicing through the thick tension.
When she dared to peek at him from under her lashes, her gaze dropped—and there it was.
The undeniable strain in his pants.
Her throat dried up, and shame mingled with a treacherous, wicked pulse of something darker.
She snapped her gaze away, her heart pounding with horror and something far more dangerous.