Page 19

Angelique

L ando tugs the hood of his sweatshirt tighter around his curls as we walk toward the studio. The morning air is cool, with a stillness that feels like the rest of the world is still asleep. Dew clings to the hedges, and a faint mist hangs over the estate grounds.

When I woke up this morning, Reign was already gone, but he’d brewed a fresh pot of coffee and left a breakfast plate for me with a sticky note saying ‘see you and Lando at the studio’ before leaving.

A small, stupid part of me finds it endearing because in a way, it almost feels like maybe he still cares.

But another, louder, part of me wonders why he’s like this.

Warm one moment, distant the next. Why is he acting like we’re still friends?

Like we’re more than that? Like we never stopped being anything at all? Like he didn’t ghost me five years ago?

He never gave me an explanation, or a goodbye, and now he’s back in my orbit—making me breakfast, leaving notes, calling in my best friend like he suddenly knows what I need. And the worst part is, a part of me wants to fall right back into him, as if nothing ever happened.

“You’re absolutely sure he said he wants me there, too?” Lando asks for the seventh time, glancing sideways at me.

I can’t help laughing at how nervous he sounds. “Yes, Lando. He wants you there.”

He still looks skeptical. “Are we talking about the same Reign who once told me I’d never be able to do a double tour en l’air because I have ‘too much flair and not enough air’ ?”

I laugh again, this time louder. “That was twelve years ago, and you landed on your face.”

“My flair was ahead of its time,” he mutters, but he’s smiling now. “But what’s the point if we’re changing the choreography altogether now?”

“There’s still going to be a pas de deux in the new choreo, and I’m still struggling to dance with Reign,” I admit. “I haven’t let him do a lift yet.”

“Why not? What happens when he tries?”

“Images of Alec flash through my mind, and I end up halfway across the studio.”

He looks at me with concern. “What if it happens when I try to lift you, too?”

I shrug. “I'm more comfortable with you, so I’m hoping it won’t. Otherwise, this entire production is screwed.”

Lando laughs nervously. “No pressure then.”

We’re just about to reach the studio when we both pause at the sound of a soft piano melody drifting out through the partially open door, hauntingly beautiful and full of feeling. The melody winds through the morning fog, wrapping around my ribs until they ache with sadness.

“Do you hear that?” he whispers.

“Let’s go look,” I reply .

We edge closer to the studio, steps feather-light on the stones. I gently press my fingers against the doorframe, careful not to push it open as we both peer through the narrow glass panel.

Inside, Reign sits at the piano. His eyes are closed, fingers gliding across the keys with little effort.

The music pours out of him, and it hits me all at once—this is what he’s missing when he dances.

This emotion, the way he seems lost in something bigger than himself.

He looks...free. And it's at this moment that I realize I've never seen Reign Herrington truly feel before.

“I didn’t know he could play like that,” Lando whispers, eyes wide.

I shake my head. “I didn’t know he could play at all.”

The melody slows and softens as Reign’s eyes blink open, and in the reflection of the mirrored wall, his eyes find mine, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. When he finishes the last notes, he stands.

“Done spying on me?” he asks, voice carrying easily through the door.

Lando jumps so hard that he yelps and elbows the door, causing it to swing open with a loud creak, revealing us frozen in place, caught eavesdropping.

“Shit,” Lando mutters, standing up straighter.

Reign raises an eyebrow. “Subtle, brother.”

He deadpans, before his eyes lock on mine again, like he’s not quite ready to look away.

I break eye contact and attempt to act like my skin isn't prickling from the way he's looking at me. Reign shuts the piano lid with a quiet thud and crosses his arms. He doesn’t look mad, just mildly amused in that very Reign way that makes it impossible to tell what he’s really thinking.

“You didn't have to wait outside,” he says .

“We didn’t want to interrupt,” I say, stepping into the studio, Lando close behind me. “That was… beautiful.”

Surprise and discomfort flicker across his face.

Has no one complimented his playing before?

“I didn’t realize you could play so well,” Lando adds, sounding almost cautious. “To be honest, I thought you quit after Mum left, but it sounds like you got even better on your own.”

Reign’s jaw ticks, and his posture shifts uncomfortably. I glance at Lando, who immediately looks like he regrets bringing up their mom.

Reign shrugs, brushing it off. “It helps clear my mind.”

I want to ask what it is he’s trying to clear his mind of, but we’re not close enough anymore for that level of honesty. I step further into the room, walking slowly toward the piano, letting my fingers graze the edge of it, glancing up to find Reign watching me a few steps away.

“What was the piece you were playing?” I ask. “It sounded so sad.”

He hesitates. “Something I’ve been working on.”

“You wrote that?” I immediately want to kick myself for sounding so impressed.

Reign nods, then shifts his focus, done with the conversation. “Are you both ready to rehearse?”

Lando claps his hands together and gives me a crooked smile. “Absolutely.”

We move toward the centre of the studio to begin a quick warm up. I look back at Reign, the song he played still echoing in my head, and I can’t help the overwhelming urge to hear more of the music he’s composed.

Lando stretches his arms out with a dramatic sigh, already playing it up like we’re about to go on stage at Covent Garden. It’s both hilarious and adorable how excited he is to be here.

“So,” he says, glancing between us, unserious, “am I being you or her?”

“You’re me,” Reign replies, rolling his eyes.

Lando gives a quick bow. “A tall order, but I’ll try.”

I stifle a giggle as I roll my shoulders and stretch my arms overhead, trying to push through the residual tension.

I can still feel Reign watching, and my pulse quickens in response, my breath shallow as heat rises under my skin.

I try to focus on Lando, who is doing a grand jeté across the studio and narrating it like an announcer at the Olympics.

“Ten out of ten! Gold medal for sheer theatrical chaos!”

I allow myself to laugh, and for a second, the heaviness lifts.

“Let’s start with an adage and then move into a lift,” Reign interrupts from his spot by the mirrored wall, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused by his brother's theatrics.

“You’re no fun,” Lando pouts as he steps toward me, already in character, but his eyes are kind.

I step into first position, my muscles still aching from yesterday, but it’s different this morning.

There’s a buzz under my skin that I can’t shake, like something’s shifted ever since we made the decision to rewrite Swan Lake.

This new version feels personal, like it was rewritten specifically for me and my own healing journey.

I exhale slowly as the music begins, letting myself fall into the rhythm.

Lando’s hands are warm as he takes mine, his grip reassuring.

We move through the opening sequence, our turns flowing more naturally than I expected.

He’s not as technically sharp as Reign, but he listens with his body and gives me room to breathe .

It’s easier with Lando. Not easy—but easier. He doesn’t push too hard or press too close, he doesn’t make my skin prickle like it’s waiting for something to go wrong. With him, it feels like I have space. Like I’m allowed to take up space.

We’re halfway through the first lift when Reign cuts in. “Angle your wrists—no, softer.”

I try to adjust, watching myself in the mirror, but when he steps closer to demonstrate, reaching for my elbow, my body tenses and I flinch on instinct before I can stop myself.

His hand pauses mid-air, then slowly retracts. “I’ll talk you through it,” he says, voice gentler now. “Your right leg needs to sweep higher on the transition. Let’s start again from the arabesque.”

I watch him as he returns to leaning against the mirrored wall, arms crossed. His eyes are focused on mine as Lando and I try again, but this time when I move, I feel something spark to life in me; like a nerve waking up after too long asleep.

Lando’s hands find my waist again and when he lifts me, I rise steadier. My leg extends with more confidence, the lines of my body cutting clean through the air. I’m weightless, suspended in motion, and I want to believe I can stay there. I want to believe I can trust my body again.

“Better,” Reign murmurs, and the word coils around my spine, grounding me as much as the floor when I land again.

The music continues playing and we keep moving, step by step, through the old choreography, but it’s different now.

Reign isn’t correcting every beat anymore.

He’s watching and making mental notes, and when our eyes meet again, there’s heat there.

He’s studying the way I move, like he’s searching for something only he knows how to recognize, and it rattles me in the best way.

We finish the run and land the final pose, my breath heavy and my heart louder than the music.

“Good,” Reign says after a beat. “Again.”

Lando groans. “No praise? No gold star? No break?”

Reign raises a brow. “Do you want praise or perfection?”

Lando mimes shooting himself in the head and slumps dramatically onto the floor. “You sound just like dad. I knew you were always the favourite.”

Reign smirks. “No, you were just louder. And you know how much he hated that.”