Page 13

Reign

S tudio A is the biggest studio in the building, with vaulted ceilings, mirrored walls, and a polished floor that shines like glass. It smells like your typical dance studio; sweat and bleach.

Waiting inside is a man who looks like he walked straight out of a cliché ballet movie.

Round in the middle, balding on top, and dressed in snug black slacks and a charcoal turtleneck that clings to his stomach like it's trying to escape. His eyebrows are thick and stern, and his energy is deadly calm. He’s one of my father’s most recent hires, a world-renowned Dance Chemistry Coordinator from Russia.

"Ah," he says, clapping as we enter. "Reign Harrington and Angelique Sinclair. Finally." His voice is rich with a thick Russian accent.

"I am Dmitri Volkov. You will call me Mister Volkov. Not sir, not coach , not man who ruins dreams . Just Mister Volkov." He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Of course my father would hire someone that speaks in riddles and theatrical declarations like some tyrant God of ballet, forged in vodka and contempt. I nod once and Angelique offers a quiet “ Good morning ”, her voice swallowed by the size of the room.

We move to the edge of the studio, and she sits beside me, slipping out of her warm-up booties and hoodie.

I start my stretches, letting muscle memory take over, while Angelique rolls out her ankles.

Her hands move slower than usual when she slides her pointe shoe onto her feet, a constant tremble in her fingers as she fumbles with the ribbon.

She’s struggling, but she isn’t asking for help, even when she notices me watching.

“So stubborn,” I mutter under my breath as I slowly lower myself into a crouch in front of her.

I don’t wait for permission as I take the ribbon, my fingers brushing against hers.

I hear her breath hitch at the contact, and she freezes, shifting something in me.

It’s subtle, but I feel it—like my entire body tunes into her silence, every nerve suddenly aware of the space between us, and how little of it there is.

I force myself not to look up, focusing on the ribbon instead.

Her ankle feels smaller in my hands than I expect—delicate, but deceptively strong. I work the ribbon into a knot with ease, my movements steady and careful, but my chest is tight, and my pulse is annoyingly loud in my ears. She still hasn’t breathed, and neither have I.

“You’re shaking,” I say, if only to take the attention off myself.

“I’m fine,” she answers quickly.

I finish the knot and look up, willing my eyes not to linger on her lips. Her eyes meet mine, holding my gaze, and I can see the fear behind them.

“Don’t lie to me,” I say, quietly.

When she doesn’t respond, I let go of her ankle and return to stretching, acting like I don’t care, even though she’s consuming my thoughts.

Minutes later, Volkov claps his hands together. “We begin. Solo first.” His gaze cuts to me. “Prince Siegfried. Show me who you are.”

I rise without hesitation and step forward into the centre of the studio, getting into position. The pianist plays behind me, soft and steady, and with the first note, I let everything else fall away as I move.

The choreography runs through my blood like it’s second nature.

My body follows the music, sharp lines and clean turns, and I don’t allow myself to falter—not here.

Not with Angelique watching, and definitely not with Volkov dissecting every angle.

When I land the last position, I hold it as Volkov steps into the centre of the room, arms folded, his eyes locked on mine.

“Technique…” he starts, lifting a hand to kiss his fingertips, “Perfect. Like watching swan eat caviar.”

I arch a brow at the comparison but stay quiet. Instead, I glance toward Angelique for just a moment, surprised to find that she’s already staring back at me.

“But,” Volkov continues, voice shifting into something sharper, “you dance like robot with heartbreak setting turned off.”

He throws up both hands and starts pacing.

“Where is love? Where is desperation? Prince Siegfried is not just noble man—he is romantic, he is tortured, he is alive .”

Volkov turns sharply, jabbing a finger at me like he’s accusing me of a crime. “When he sees Odette, it should split him in two. Audience must believe he would burn down kingdom for her. That he would throw himself into lake. That he cannot breathe without her. ”

My jaw tightens, but I keep my mouth shut because I know there’s no point in arguing with a man like him.

“Right now?” He shrugs with exaggerated disdain. “I see man doing beautiful moves, not man in love. And ballet without love?” He scoffs. “Is gym class.”

He turns away, sighing dramatically. “We fix this, eventually. Hopefully in this lifetime.”

I walk to the corner of the studio and grab my water bottle, keeping my movements even and unbothered. Like his words did nothing for me. But they did, of course they did. It’s always the same critique, in different shapes. Too cold. Too closed. Too controlled.

No one ever says it directly, but the truth is clear—they want more than perfection. They want pain. They want me to feel something when I dance. But letting myself feel is what cracked me open once before and left me bleeding with no one to notice.

I twist the cap off the bottle and drink slowly, ignoring the heat creeping up the back of my neck.

When I was a kid, I didn’t know how to hide, and I hadn’t learned the cruel parts of life yet.

Back then, I laughed sometimes, and I let people get close.

I think there was even a time I believed in safety, and things not falling apart. Until everything did.

Home turned to static, and my mother left without a backward glance, like we were just a chapter she skipped.

I learned, fast, that silence was safer than hope and shutting down hurt less than being left open and waiting for another blow.

I became this unreachable machine. So, Volkov’s not wrong, he’s just telling me something I already know.

“Enough,” he barks. “Angelique. Your turn.”

She wipes her palms on her thighs and rises, but I see the tension tucked in the corners of her posture. She danced a solo at the estate studio, but the way she steps into position now, it’s like she’s heading into battle instead.

When the music starts, she moves fluidly, but it’s not right.

She’s desperately trying to disappear into Odette, but I can see her fighting her own body, like her limbs are too heavy.

Her arms droop, and her extensions waver.

When she eventually slips on a turn and stumbles, the piano cuts out with a discordant stop.

Volkov exhales like he’s been wounded. “I said Odette,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose, “not dying swan from children’s recital. Again.”

Angelique glances toward me and I look away, stretching one leg out, and draping an arm over my knee.

Am I making her nervous? Or did she develop some sort of stage fright and that’s why she left New York?

The questions cloud my mind as Angelique takes her mark again, drawing in a deep breath.

Volkov paces in the corner, muttering something under his breath, but I tune him out as I focus on her again because I can feel something shift in the air as she closes her eyes.

It’s not something you can name, but I feel it, like the hush before a storm.

And then she moves, differently this time.

She doesn’t force the steps; it’s almost like she surrenders to them.

Her sorrow bleeds through the lines of her body, her extensions aching with grief, not just technique.

Her arms aren’t arms anymore, they’re wings, and she’s transformed into Odette.

There’s something achingly honest and beautiful about it.

This is the Angelique that the world needs to see.

By the time she hits her final position, I’m not stretching anymore. I don’t even remember standing. My arms hang loosely at my sides while I stare at her, my pulse high in my throat. For a second, I forget this is a rehearsal. I forget Volkov is here. And I forget myself.

Volkov claps once, the sharp crack snapping me out of my trance. He’s dabbing at his eyes with a ridiculous handkerchief like the dramatist he is.

“Brava,” he breathes. “A swan I believe. You will make beautiful Odette.” Then he waves a hand like he’s bored again. “Break time. Go hydrate or cry in bathroom. I don’t care.”

Angelique slips out without a word, vanishing down the hallway.

I watch the door long after she’s gone, choosing not to follow right away because I need a moment to understand why her dance cracked something in me.

It was like being punched in the gut by everything I’ve been trying to forget.

The way she used to look at me, the way she left me, and the way I let her.

Wanting her like that again is dangerous, and I already know how that story would end if I let her back in; she’d just leave me again. So, I won’t let myself get tangled up in her, because it’s safer not to feel when you’re the one always left behind.

When she doesn’t return after a few minutes, I make my way into the hall. I don’t even think about where I’m going, but I end up outside the lady’s bathroom, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed, one leg bent as I wait for her.

The door swings open minutes later, and as predicted, Angelique steps out, hair slightly mussed, cheeks flushed, skin damp. She pauses when she sees me, her eyes widening slightly.

“Everything okay?” I ask, for what feels like the tenth time today.

She nods, brushing water from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I just needed a minute.”

I hum, noncommittal, and glance away, about to let her go, then stop myself. “You were good in there,” I say flatly. “Better than I expected.”

She blinks. “Is that a compliment?”