Page 51

Angelique

T he dressing room light buzzes with electricity, my nerves twisting my stomach into knots.

It’s opening night and somehow, I made it.

I sit at my mirror, dabbing a soft peach blush onto my cheeks, watching the colour bloom across my skin.

I’ve already done my base and liner, but my lips feel dry, so I reach for my balm and press it on with trembling fingers.

Everyone around me is in a state of chaos—laughing too loud, adjusting leotards, fixing buns, spraying hair—but I stay quiet, cocooned in my little corner, trying to block out the noise and steady my breathing.

My leotard’s mostly on, the sheer mesh overlay unzipped in the back and bunched around my hips.

I’m still barefoot, my pointe shoes beside me—ribbons freshly sewn, toe boxes softened just enough.

My thighs are covered in faint marks, but I don’t feel the need to hide them tonight.

I’ve stopped apologizing for what helped me survive.

Tonight needs to mean something.

I’m brushing on mascara when I catch the reflection of a tall frame, dark hair pulled into a high bun, brows slightly furrowed behind me, and I freeze.

Wendy hovers awkwardly, like she’s not sure whether to stay or run. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and for a second neither of us says anything. She opens her mouth, then closes it, then crosses her arms like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“I just—” Her voice cracks a little. “I have something I want to say.”

I turn slightly; mascara wand paused midair. “Okay.”

She looks at me, then down at the floor, then back up, gathering the nerve. “I’ve been awful to you, and I know that. I was… jealous, and pissed off, and I felt like I had something to prove. So, I created this story in my head where you were the problem.”

The word hangs there between us, heavier than I expected.

“I shouldn’t have said all the horrible things I did,” she adds, quieter this time. “None of it was true, and I’m sorry.”

I set the mascara down gently on the vanity and stand up, offering her a small smile as I extend my hand to her.

She hesitates, then reaches out, but pauses when her eyes catch on my forearm where my mesh sleeve has slipped up slightly.

Her eyes land on the scars, some faded while others are still pink and healing.

She flinches, just a little, like it finally clicks for her that I’m not just drama or trauma.

I’m a person who’s been trying to survive.

I keep my voice gentle as her gaze lifts to mine again. “I appreciate the apology. And… I wanted to thank you for what you did at the gala.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” she says quickly, her voice defensive even now.

I laugh softly. “I know. ”

Her cheeks flush a deep pink, and she immediately glances away like she hates that she’s blushing. “I should, um… go finish my makeup.”

I nod. “Okay.”

She spins on her heel and all but scurries off, mumbling something under her breath. I watch her disappear into the row of mirrors and I half-smile, shaking my head as I sit back down and glance at my reflection again. For the first time in a while, I don’t hate the girl looking back at me.

Backstage is humming with a tension that coils in my gut and makes my lungs feel too tight.

The lights are low behind the curtains, and the stage crew moves in the shadows, quiet and focused.

I stand just out of view of the stage, my hand locked tightly with Lando’s, both our eyes shut as we take one last second to ground ourselves.

“Say it,” he whispers.

I nod, swallowing around the knot in my throat.

“We are ready.”

“We are powerful.”

“We are art.”

“And we’re going to fucking destroy this stage,” he finishes fiercely.

We exhale together, squeezing each other’s hands once more. It’s a ritual we used to do back in school before every big performance. Back when we had dreams bigger than our fears. I take a deep, steadying breath, but pause when I feel a presence beside us.

“Seriously?” Lando mutters, and I open my eyes to find Reign standing next to us, dressed in his costume.

His platinum hair is slicked back, and that signature smirk—the one that makes my stomach dip—is already tugging at his lips. My breath catches embarrassingly loud in my throat and his smirk grows because he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Lando doesn’t even pretend to be mad. He just rolls his eyes with a smirk of his own. “All it took was two seconds, and you’re already melting.”

“I’m not melting,” I mutter under my breath, though my skin’s already flushing.

“Right,” he deadpans.

His gaze shifts and lights up when he sees Terry across the stage, waving at him. “Got to go,” Lando says, giving my hand a final squeeze. “Be amazing out there.”

“I’ll try.”

And then he’s gone, striding off toward Terry, leaving me alone with Reign and my suddenly stuttering pulse.

Reign steps forward slowly, like he has all the time in the world.

His eyes sweep down my body, his expression darkening just slightly when they land on my costume, on the bruises blooming from rehearsal, the ones he kissed just last night.

He lifts a hand to my face, brushing his knuckles down my cheek, and then—without warning—his lips are on mine.

He kisses me like there’s no one else around, like this moment matters just as much as the one we’re about to perform.

His mouth moves against mine with the kind of focus that makes my knees feel like liquid, and when he finally pulls back, I’m breathless, my skin buzzing like it’s been charged.

“Ready for a performance of a lifetime?” he murmurs, still cupping my cheek.

I nod, voice barely above a whisper. “With you by my side, I’m ready for anything. ”

The stage manager signals us with a soft clap and a thumbs-up, and just like that, we step into the wings together.

The theatre is silent and pitch black, except for the faint outlines of the set.

My feet rest in fifth position, my arms held high, spine lifted like a string is pulling me from the stars.

I keep my breathing measured as I stare into the blackness, eyes adjusting slowly.

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears and the tremble in my limbs.

I glance across the stage, knowing Reign is there, and he lifts his head just enough to meet my eyes and wink, making my stomach flutter even now—on one of the most important nights of my life.

I huff out a breath, barely a smile, and then I watch him look away, bowing his head just as the first chord of his composition begins.

The lights blink on, and we start. Terry’s choreography pulses in my muscles, and each step, each turn, feels like a confession.

I dance to the story of grief, of betrayal, of pain buried so deep I nearly drowned in it, like Odette.

But I also tell the story of love, of being held, of being seen, and of healing.

Reign’s hand touches my waist, and I don’t flinch.

He lifts me and I rise, feeling more alive than I’ve felt in years because in his arms, I’m not broken.

I’m free. For a few perfect seconds, I’m flying, like I used to when I was little, leaping through the living room in my socks while my dad clapped along to Tchaikovsky, telling me I’d be a principal dancer someday.

When he sets me down, I spin into him, letting my head fall against his chest for a beat before we separate again, dancing like our souls are tied together. And maybe they always have been.

The music builds, and I close my eyes as my body bends and glides and soars. I think of my father, watching from wherever he is, and I think of the little girl he used to twirl around the garden, the one who believed she could fly just because he told her she could.

And I think of Reign, and Lando. Of the boy who kissed my scars like they were sacred and the best friend who never let go of my hand, even when I was ready to let go of everything else.

The final crescendo builds like thunder and I push through the last movement with everything I have.

Reign lifts me once more and I soar—arms out, eyes to the heavens—before he lowers me gently to the ground as the last note fades.

Applause erupts, loud and fierce. It crashes over me like a wave, and I blink hard against the tears rising in my eyes. Reign’s hand slides into mine and squeezes. I turn to him, and he’s already looking at me like I’m the most breathtaking thing he’s ever seen.

“You did it,” he whispers.

My chest heaves, tears trailing down my cheeks. I look at him—the man who helped stitch every broken piece back together. The one who never walked away and who taught me how to fly.

“No,” I say. “We did.”