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I press my tongue to the inside of my cheek. “Don’t let it go to your head, Sinclair,” I mutter. “You did what you were supposed to do.”

She exhales, half a laugh. “And here I thought you stopped noticing me.”

“I notice everything.” That lands heavier than I intend.

Her eyes search mine, like she wants to say something but is thinking better of it. I push off the wall, ready to leave, but I hesitate again.

“Whatever you tapped into…don’t lose it.”

She swallows hard, her expression fragile. “You make it sound like it’s easy.”

“I know it’s not,” I say, quieter now. “But you make people feel something when you dance like that, and that’s exactly what Imperium needs.”

It’s what I need.

She glances down at the ground and says—so soft I almost miss it—“Maybe you should try tapping into that too.”

That stops me cold, and I let out a short, surprised laugh that startles even me.

I stare at her like I’m seeing her for the first time, like I’m not sure what to do with this new version of her, but I like it.

The younger Angelique would never have the courage in her to say something like that to me.

She looks up, cheeks flushed. “I didn’t mean?—”

“No,” I cut in, still half-smirking, half-stunned. “You did.”

I step back slowly, eyes still locked on hers. “Careful, Angel,” I murmur, voice dropping. “That almost sounded like you still care.”

Then I turn and walk away, back down the hall toward the studio. But every step feels heavier now, like she’s branded something into my chest just by standing there and daring to speak the truth. I don’t know what just happened, but I know it’s just the beginning.

Back in the studio, Volkov claps his hands. “Break is over. Enough water. Time to dance like you care.” He shoots me a pointed look before waving his hand between me and Angelique. “Pas de deux. Act Two. Start from the lift.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Angelique freeze beside me. Her breath hitches and her spine locks straight.

“The lift?” she whispers, more to herself than anyone.

There it is again, her fear of a lift. Lifts should be muscle memory by now, so I don’t understand what has her so spooked.

Does she think I’ll drop her?

I step into position without speaking, waiting for her to join me. Her eyes search mine like she’s weighing something invisible, but then she crosses the floor, each step looking like it takes extreme amounts of effort.

When I hold out my hand, she places hers in mine, but there’s a tremor in her fingers again.

Her touch is light, barely there, but I can still feel her hesitation all the way up my arm.

Her body stays rigid, muscles coiled like they’re bracing for impact, and she looks away, jaw set like she’s trying to keep herself from falling apart.

I know I could ask Volkov to skip the lift today, but something about how terrified she is intrigues me, and I need to understand it.

Not to push her past a line she isn’t ready for, but because whatever she’s carrying, it’s heavier than the choreography, and if I don’t figure out what it is she’s fighting so hard to hide, it could tear the whole production apart before we even begin.

It might even tear her apart.

“Ready?” I ask, and she nods, avoiding eye contact in our reflection.

The music begins, and we move, or at least we try to.

Angelique’s timing is off from the first count, and her extensions falter, the lines of her body not quite holding, as though she’s dancing underwater.

Her breaths come unevenly—too fast, then held too long—disrupting the natural rhythm as if she’s trying to match the music while fighting her own body.

She’s worse here than she was in Layla’s class earlier.

I ease my hand to her arm, trying to guide her into the first sequence with just enough pressure to ground her, but she jerks at the contact, flinching so sharply I feel it down to my bones.

I stop for half a second, uncertain, but she doesn’t.

She barrels forward, like momentum is the only thing holding her upright.

Still, I can feel the tremble in her frame, the way she’s barely keeping it together.

What the hell is going on with her?

When it’s time for the lift, I attempt to place my hands on her waist, but her whole body stiffens, recoiling before I can even touch her. Her eyes snap to mine in the mirror and for the briefest moment, I see it—real, naked panic. Not nerves or stage fright. This is deeper and more feral.

She turns on her heel and bolts across the studio without a word. Her pointe shoes slapping against the floor in harsh, uneven thuds. Silence crashes down around us as the pianist stops playing. No one breathes. Not even me .

Angelique is halfway across the room, both hands gripping the barre like it’s the only thing tethering her to earth. Her chest rises and falls in shallow bursts, like she’s unraveling right in front of us, and I don’t know how to fix it.

Volkov stares, baffled. “What in hell was that? Is rehearsal or horror movie?”

She tries to speak but can’t get the words out. After a few breathless seconds, she swallows and chokes out an “I’m so sorry.”

Volkov throws his arms in the air. “No, no. I do not understand. You dance Odette like Swan Queen reborn, and now? Now you run like scared kitten?”

He paces a few feet, muttering under his breath in Russian, then turns back to her. “This is pas de deux. Not solo. You must trust partner.” He jabs a finger in my direction. “You must trust him.”

Trust.

The word clangs around in my skull like an echo. I know exactly what kind of damage breaks that kind of thing. I’ve lived it. Is that what this is about? She doesn’t trust me?

But why should she after I abandoned her like it was nothing?

Angelique won’t meet anyone’s gaze. Not mine, and not Volkov’s. She stares at the floor instead, as if it might swallow her whole, as if she wants it to. Her cheeks burn with shame, and I can see how hard she’s trying not to fall apart in front of us, her eyes glistening.

Volkov scoffs. “Again. From the lift. This time, do not run.”

“No.” The word leaves my mouth before I can think, sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room.

Volkov turns slowly. “What do you mean, ‘ no’ ? ”

“She’s not ready,” I say, calmly. “You’re pushing too hard.”

“She must be ready. We do not have luxury of delay.”

“We’ll figure it out,” I reply, my tone final. “But not like this.”

Volkov stares at me like he’s deciding whether to fight me or knight me. The man’s too dramatic for either. Eventually, he makes a disgusted sound and throws his hands in the air.

“We have prima ballerina who does not like to be touched. How you dance pas de deux like this? With force field?” He throws a glance toward the pianist. “Fine. Princess needs more time. Five minutes. Then we try again.”

He stalks off, muttering curses in Russian, but I stay exactly where I am and glance toward Angelique.

She’s still clinging to the barre like she might collapse, but she’s breathing slower now, just barely.

And I know—whatever this is, whatever made her panic like that—it’s not something a five-minute break will fix.

Her hands are still wrapped tight around the barre, knuckles white against the wood, as I approach, careful not to get too close.

“I didn’t mean to ruin rehearsal,” she whispers.

“You didn’t,” I reply, leaning my hip against the barre.

She glances at me, and I watch as her eyes search mine for judgment. I see shame in her eyes, or fear of being seen too clearly, but I see enough, and what I feel in response is something akin to a shield pulling tight around her.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I don’t think I can do the lift today.”

I glance toward Volkov, who’s now striding away from the pianist and toward the studio doors, ranting to someone in Russian on his cellphone.

I turn back to her, voice low. “Is it because you don’t trust me?”

She freezes. “I…” Her throat works, but the words get stuck, and she meets my gaze, her eyes apologetic.

“You were scared,” I say, trying to prompt her to share something. Anything .

The silence that follows is thick enough to drown in, but I don’t give up.

“Does this have anything to do with why you left New York?” The second the words leave my lips, I know I guessed right. Her face blanches, shoulders stiffening.

Got it.

“Alright. We’ll go at your pace.” I say quietly, holding my hands up.

She exhales, barely audible. “Thank you.”

I nod and step back, giving her more space than she needs. “Let’s run our solos again, then.”

She nods without looking at me, and we separate like magnets, losing their pull, drifting to our own sides of the studio without another word.

But I watch her while I warm up, aware of every shift in her weight, every time she stumbles and corrects herself before anyone can notice. She’s trying so hard to bury whatever feelings or memories are coming up for her, but her eyes find mine sometimes, like she knows I’m still there, watching.

The studio door creaks open moments later, and the bitter stench of cigarette smoke rolls in before Volkov does.

He clears his throat loudly. “Enough lovers drama for today. Odette is weak and sentimental. We try Odile now. Thirty-two fouettés. ”

Angelique blinks, still catching her breath from everything that just happened. “Already?”

He waves a dismissive hand through the air. “You fall like Odette, maybe you rise like Odile.”

My eyes jump to Angelique, who looks taken aback. Her expression shutters, then hardens as she lifts her chin. I raise a brow at her, trying to gauge how far she’ll let herself be pushed today before she breaks.

Volkov’s finger slices the air in her direction. “Odile is seduction and trickery. Black swan in white feathers. Can you do this, or do I send you back to Zumba class?”

Her throat works as she swallows. “I can do it.”