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Angelique

T he New York sun melts against the horizon as long, golden orange rays beam through the tall windows of Studio Three at the Big Apple Ballet Company. Dust motes dance in the light while I stand at the centre of the floor, sweat clinging to my spine under my black leotard.

We should've called it hours ago but my dance partner, Alec, insisted we stay after hours.

He said we needed to run the lifts again, and he's not wrong. We fucked up almost every single one during group rehearsal today. We were out of sync and clashing every chance we got, which is highly unusual for us. And with opening night just around the corner, it’s not something we can afford to ignore.

Alec is attractive—dark, tousled hair, light brown eyes, and a jawline sculpted for Hollywood. But he's arrogant, and distastefully cocky. He’s the type of guy who thinks talent and his parents’ money make him untouchable, and I've never liked him for it.

"Okay, Alec," I say breathlessly, hands braced on my hips. "Let's get our shit together and hit this one clean. I want to go home."

He nods, just as winded, but I notice something flicker in his eyes as he stares at me. A shift, or more like a crack in his mask, but I brush off the wariness that creeps into my subconscious, and that's my first mistake.

We move into position again and he lifts me—hands finding my waist as I rise, arching backward across his shoulder, my arms extended in perfect swanlike form.

I prepare for the descent, the controlled slide down his body to the ground, but his hand moves.

Sliding down, fast and firm, over the curve of my ass and slipping between my thighs.

He cups me through my tights, bold and obscene.

I gasp, startled, as my body locks in midair. My spine jerks in on itself, trying to recoil until Alec finally releases me and I fall, the impact knocking the wind from my lungs as I hit the floor hard, my hip slamming against the wood, pain exploding from the impact.

"What the fuck was that?" I scream, looking up at him, pissed and humiliated.

He stalks toward me in two quick strides before he's on top of me, shoving me flat on my stomach and forcing my face against the floor. The wood is cold against my cheek and the pressure of his palm on my skull is almost unbearable. My limbs scramble, flailing for leverage, but he's too strong.

"Alec, stop. What are you doing?" I ask, my voice shaking and desperate sounding.

"Shut up," he spits. "I'm sick of you always calling out orders in front of everyone as if you run shit.”

His hand trails down my back, fingers grazing the arch of my spine before going lower.

"No," I beg as my voice cracks and tears blur my vision. "Please don't do this."

But he's already pulling at my leotard, fingers curling into the seam between the fabric and my tights. He yanks hard, ripping it down, and the sound of the tear echoes in the studio.

"You think just because your mom’s the director that makes you untouchable?" he sneers, dragging his fingers through the torn gap in my leotard. "You're just a spoiled little brat who needs to be put in her place."

A scream tears from my throat, jagged and strangled, but it doesn't even sound like me anymore. He rips through my tights and underwear next with a vicious yank, the sound of tearing fabric drowned only by the shuffle of his own clothes. A second later, I hear the unmistakable crinkle of a plastic wrapper and instantly know it’s a condom.

My heart hammers in my chest as I try to crawl away from him, but he’s too strong as he pins my wrists, and his knee digs into my thigh as he presses the head of his cock against my entrance.

“No—please—” I gasp, but the word barely escapes my lips before he shoves himself inside me.

A white-hot pain rips through me, like fire, like being split in two. I scream again, but it’s swallowed by his palm as it clamps over my mouth. My eyes lock on the mirror in front of us, unable to breathe, as I see my face twisted in horror.

Is this real? Is this actually happening to me?

He thrusts, hard and fast, each time worse than the last, like he’s trying to destroy something inside me.

The friction is unbearable and my vision swims as I clench my teeth, trying to anchor myself, my fingers clawing at the wooden floor as I try not to fall apart.

I want to disappear, to vanish into the air, into the mirror, into the light outside of the windows. I want to be anywhere but here.

It doesn’t last long and when he finishes, he pulls out and yanks the condom off quickly, holding it up like some twisted trophy.

“You’ll never be able to prove it was me if you try to tell anyone.” He sneers, breathless, tucking himself back into his tights with that same sickening ease.

He glances down at me, spent and shattered. “See you tomorrow, pigeon,” he mutters, a smug little smirk curling his lips.

Then he turns, the condom still dangling from his hand, and walks out of the studio, leaving the door wide open behind him.

I don't move for several minutes. I can't. So, I stay on my stomach, exposed and shaking, my cheek still pressed to the same floor I danced on only moments ago.

My body aches in places I didn't even know could hurt and when I reach down and touch between my legs, I'm not at all surprised to find that my fingers come away stained red.

I stare at the blood, gutted. I didn’t think this would be how I lost my virginity—violated on a cold studio floor, with no choice, no love, no tenderness.

Only fear, and pain. I'd always thought my first time would be… something else. Maybe not perfect, but real. Chosen. Something I’d remember because I wanted to.

Instead, this is what I get. Blood and silence and shame.

Slowly, I curl into myself, my arms wrapped tight around my body, trying to hold in the pieces of who I used to be. And I cry until there's nothing left inside me except numb, hollow silence.

When I can finally stand, I limp toward my duffel bag, my muscles screaming with every step. I shakily peel off what's left of my leotard and tights and use them to wipe the blood from my thighs before tugging on my sweatpants. The softness of the fabric against my torn skin feels like a mockery.

Before I leave, I catch my reflection in the mirror again, but the girl staring back at me isn't the same person she was only hours ago. The guilt hits me like a truck, shame seeping into my bloodstream.

"I let this happen," I whisper, voice barely audible. "I let myself get raped."

I cry again, silent, broken sobs that only I hear.

I don't go to rehearsals the next day, or the day after.

Instead, I stay curled up in bed, limbs sore, stomach twisting every time I close my eyes and see his face.

It takes four days before my absence is escalated to the company director, who happens to be my mother.

She summons me to the company with a clipped email.

No warmth or concern, just a demand that I meet her in her office at three this afternoon.

When I step into the building, I'm drowning in the baggiest sweatpants I own and an oversized T-shirt that hangs off me like a curtain, swallowing every curve of the body that no longer feels like mine.

A black baseball cap shadows most of my face, concealing the hollow, sleepless bruises beneath my eyes.

I keep my head down, praying that no one looks too closely. But I can't shake the suffocating paranoia that everyone's watching. That somehow, they all know what happened, and they’re silently judging.

I hold my breath the entire walk through the halls, flinching every time I hear footsteps behind me, terrified that it's Alec. That he'll corner me again, touch me again, break me all over again as if it’s possible to break any more than I already have.

When I reach my mother's office, I knock softly, my knuckles barely making a sound.

"Come in," she calls, distractedly.

My mother, Analise Sinclair, is seated behind her massive oak desk, manicured fingers flying across her keyboard, the rhythmic clicking the only sound in the room.

Her long blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail, so tight it tugs at the edges of her already botoxed face, not a single strand out of place.

Her skin is pale, porcelain-like, a stark contrast to my tanned brown complexion—one of the many reminders that I belonged more to my father than to her.

When I step into her office, her green eyes lift and scan me, taking in the baseball cap, the baggy clothes, the hunched posture. But then she returns to typing, like none of it matters.

"Take a seat," she says, chin jutting toward the chair across from her like I'm just another staff member she's too busy and annoyed to deal with.

I move stiffly across the room on trembling legs, and lower myself into the seat, wincing when my body touches the cushion, still tender.

I sit upright, rigid, hands folded tightly in my lap as I try to breathe past the pain.

She finishes her typing with an aggressive tap of the Enter key, then turns to me with a tight-lipped frown.

"Care to explain why our principal dancer has been skipping her rehearsals?" No hello or is everything okay?

"This production is crucial, Angelique,” she continues before I can reply. “Your understudy has had to fill in for your parts, and frankly, she can't compare. The board's been breathing down my neck to make sure everything runs flawlessly. You disappearing? It's put me in a tough position."

I stare at her. The woman who used to kiss the bruises on my knees once upon a time and tell me I was born to dance.

The one who, as a child, I believed would burn the world down to protect me.

But all I see now is the director. The brand.

The mask she wears for the company that's consumed her since she divorced my dad ten years ago and moved here.

Whatever warmth existed in her eyes back then is long gone.

“Something happened,” I manage, my voice quiet and raspy. It feels like the first time I've spoken since that night.

Because it is.

She stiffens, pausing mid-scroll. “Elaborate.”

“Alec.” I almost vomit at the sound of his name coming from my mouth.

Her eyes narrow and there's a long pause before she speaks again. "Did you two fuck?"

I blink. "What?"

"Are you pregnant?" she asks, folding her arms across her chest, jaw clenched, tone ice-cold.

The breath leaves my lungs in a gust. "No, mom…he raped me," I whisper. "He…he held me down and—" The words die on my tongue, caught in the barbed wire of shame and agony. My throat burns and I feel like I'm choking on the words.

Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.

I fidget with my fingers while I wait for her to erupt.

For her face to twist with outrage on my behalf, and for her arms to open as her voice trembles with horror.

I wait for the mother I thought I knew, but when she finally speaks, it’s like she's picking her words from a crisis PR handbook.

"Angelique…do you understand what you're saying?

" she asks, as if I'm delusional. "Alec is one of our senior dancers.

His parents donate hundreds of thousands to the company every year.

If this story gets out—if the press gets wind of it—it won't just be him they come for.

It'll be the company. It'll be you. Do you want the world to know that you’ve been raped? "

A sharp ache slices through my chest, sudden and deep, as if something inside me has cracked clean in two.

That would be my heart.

"I don't give a fuck about the press," I say, my voice rising. "Or what the world thinks."

She exhales sharply through her nose, composed even in disgust. "We can't be reckless about this, okay? We need to protect what we've built. Think about your future, and your name. You don’t need something as shameful as this following you around for the rest of your life."

The bile rises in my throat, burning the back of my mouth as I stare at her, stunned.

“Shameful?” I repeat. “Am I the one that did something wrong?”

She doesn’t answer, but I can tell by her expression that I’m beginning to get on her nerves.

“Are you…are you asking me to keep this quiet?” My voice breaks at the idea. “You want me…to protect him? To protect some sort of company image?”

“I want you to be smart,” she snaps. “Think about the bigger picture. You're a dancer, Angelique. You've trained your entire life to get into a company as prestigious as this and become a principal dancer. Are you willing to throw it all away over one misunderstanding? ”

“Misunderstanding?” I whisper.

She falters, just for a moment, then pivots, eyes darting toward her schedule.

“Take some time away. Maybe it's best if you go back to England for a while.

Stay with the Harrington's. You've always said you loved it there,” she says, returning to her typing. “I’ll find a way to give you a respectable exit from the company.”

Her words land like a blow to the chest. That's it. No rage, no tears, no I believe you . And it's in that moment—sitting in her cold, sterile office, aching in every part of my body—that I know she doesn't believe me. Or worse…she does, and she just doesn't care.

“You’re letting me go? But what about the production?” I ask, feeling my hands go cold from the lack of oxygen. It’s hard to breathe when your heart feels like it’s ripping out of your chest.

“We’ll make do with your understudy,” she says with a shrug.

I keep staring at her, waiting for something to shift. For a sign of the woman who used to braid my hair and sneak me hot chocolate before rehearsals. But there's nothing behind her eyes except cold calculation and ambition.

And that's the moment it all breaks. Everything. My faith, my trust, and the last tiny piece of love I held for her. Without a word, I rise and walk out of her office, my footsteps echoing in the quiet halls, and I don't look back as I push my way out the front doors.

By the time I'm in a cab and heading to my small apartment, the numbness in me cracks. My heart is shattered, my body bruised, and my soul? It feels scraped raw. I make a silent promise to myself in that moment that I'm never dancing professionally again.