Page 6

Reign

TWO WEEKS LATER

T he leaves crunch beneath our shoes noisily as my father and I walk the winding path through the west gardens.

The estate is quiet this morning, still damp from last night’s rain.

Sunlight filters through the heavy clouds, forming a pale glow over the clipped hedges and wild roses that climb the stone walls.

He’s talking about renovations again—budgets, community outreach, expansion plans for the Fall. His voice, once a guiding force in my life, now drifts somewhere just above my thoughts, grazing the surface but never quite sinking in.

“We need new flooring in Studio B,” he says. “And the east wing’s heating is still unreliable. If we want guest artists to stay through winter, we can’t have them dancing in scarves.”

I nod absently, scanning the tangled rows of roses. “Noted.” But my mind is elsewhere.

For the last few years, he’s been slowly passing the torch—handing me control of the family ballet company, Imperium, piece by piece, like I’m being trained for something I never agreed to want.

It’s all written in his will, of course.

When he’s gone, the company is mine, and I’m not blind to what Imperium means—not just to him, but to our family, to the dancers that work there, to the art.

It’s the company that built our family name.

The legacy he’s spent a lifetime perfecting. The crown jewel of British ballet.

And sure, I could do it. I could lead the company, help choreograph productions and manage the board.

I know how things work. I’ve danced every principal role, endured the politics, learned how to make a room bend without ever raising my voice.

But the truth is, I don’t know if this is what I want, because this company exists for one thing, and one thing only. Dance.

And while dancing is something I’ve mastered out of necessity, expectation, and obligation, music is the only thing that ever felt like mine.

Late nights at the piano, alone in the studio, letting the weight of the world bleed out of my fingers—that’s where I come alive.

That’s the only place I’m not haunted by the shadows of who I’m supposed to be.

But there’s no space for music in a place built on the bones of ballet.

No room for me—not the real me, anyway. Just the version of myself everyone sees on stage.

The mask and the myth. And if I stay, if I take it all on, I can’t help but feel like I’ll be carving off the part of myself that matters most. Burying it beneath expectations. Sacrificing it at the altar of duty.

My father glances at me as we round the corner of the hedge-lined path, still talking about bringing in new talent for the spring showcase.

Does he notice how quiet I’ve gone? Probably not.

Or maybe he does, and he’s just pretending not to—just like I’m pretending not to always feel the weight of all this pressing down on my spine.

“Reign, Imperium can’t stay in stasis. We need to adapt.” I know he’s right. I just don’t think I’m the right person to lead it. “We can build new studios, hire better instructors, bring in more international talent, but without something special—something unforgettable—we’re just another company.”

I stop walking and he does too, sensing the shift in me.

“You want a performance that changes lives,” I say.

He nods. “One that reminds people why they fell in love with ballet in the first place.”

My father keeps talking, but his voice cuts off suddenly at the sound of soft piano notes floating through the open window of the studio. I slow my steps and arch a brow, already turning toward the sound.

“Someone’s in the studio,” I murmur.

He follows me without a word, both of us straining to hear. The music crescendos and I unmistakably recognize it as Tchaikovsky. I step off the path, walking toward the half-closed doors, careful not to make a sound.

Inside, Angelique moves across the floor fluidly.

Her long hair is pulled back in a loose, messy bun, dark curls escaping to cling to her damp neck and cheeks.

She's in a black leotard and a sheer wrap skirt the colour of ash, the fabric fluttering around her thighs with every movement.

She rises effortlessly onto the tips of her pointe shoes, her lines flawless, her control devastating.

Every extension, and every tilt of her head carries a kind of grief that’s almost too intimate to witness. I shouldn’t be watching, not like this. Not when it feels like I’m intruding on a moment she didn’t intend to share. But I can’t look away.

The way she dances has always taken my breath away. Watching her dance was one of the things I missed most after she moved away. It’s what I’ve always envisioned when I play the piano, her moving across the floor to my compositions. My way of remembering the girl who left with a piece of my heart.

My father finally joins me at the threshold, his breath catching the moment he sees her, and then he exhales, reverent.

“She’s dancing Swan Lake,” he says quietly, like he needs to say it aloud to believe it.

I don’t take my eyes off her as I nod in agreement. “Odette,” I whisper, confirming what we both already know.

There’s a long silence before he murmurs, more to himself than to me, “I think she might be the answer we’ve been looking for.”

I don't respond, because I know he's right. Watching her dance does something to me—something I can’t quite name. Her dancing is more than technical brilliance, more than physical control or artistry. There’s something raw and honest in the way she moves, like she’s telling a story without saying a single word, and somehow, I understand all of it.

It’s the kind of performance that makes you stop breathing, just so you don’t miss a second. And it’s not even a performance because she’s not trying to impress anyone. She doesn’t know she’s being watched, and that’s what makes it feel even more real.

I feel something shift in me, in what I thought I knew about this career, about this company, and about what dance could be.

This— she —makes it feel worth it again.

Not the legacy, not the business, not the stage lights or accolades.

Just someone dancing like it’s the only way they know how to survive, and suddenly, I want to be a part of that.

Not for the company, not for my father, but for myself .

Before I can stop him, my father steps forward and pushes the studio doors open. The loud creak of the hinges breaks the quiet.

“Well done!” he says, clapping his hands with a flourish as he strides forward.

Angelique startles and stumbles to her feet, her cheeks flushed. I follow behind him reluctantly, muttering a curse under my breath as I step inside, dragging my expression back into my neutral and detached mask.

“That was excellent, my dear,” my father beams, stopping a few feet from her, his arms spread wide as if he’s just witnessed a miracle.

Angelique shifts uncomfortably, brushing a loose curl behind her ear. Her eyes skim my face—quick and cautiously—then back to him.

“You are certainly your father’s daughter,” he says, and I see that quick, unmistakable pang of pain that crosses her face at the mention of her dad.

Her posture tightens, the line of her shoulders closing inward like a door being quietly shut.

“He would’ve been so proud,” my father adds, softer now.

Her father, Elijah Sinclair, was like a second dad to me. He was my father’s best friend, and the reason I was able to see Angelique as often as I did. They would stay in the guesthouse every summer, until he died.

She nods, but the smile she gives him is tight around the edges. “It’s nice to see you again, Charlie.” His face warms at the familiarity of her voice.

“Lando mentioned you were staying in our guesthouse,” he says, folding his arms as if settling in for a proper chat. “I’m sorry I haven’t had a moment to pop by and say hello. ”

“No, please,” Angelique says quickly. “You’ve no reason to apologize. I’ve been keeping to myself.”

I stay silent, watching the two of them with a strange sense of displacement. Like I’m the third wheel in this conversation.

My father glances back at the barre where her sweatshirt drapes across the rail. “That piece,” he starts, tilting his head like he’s pondering something he already knows the answer to. “Was that Swan Lake?”

Angelique’s lips twitch, just slightly. “It was,” she says, brushing her palms down the sides of her legs. “It’s the solo piece I was rehearsing at The Big Apple Ballet Company, before I quit.”

I shift where I stand, suddenly hyper-aware of the way her voice shakes around that name. The Big Apple Ballet is a company we all used to revere, one that she left without fanfare, apparently.

“Ah, yes. The Big Apple.” My father nods, considering her with those assessing eyes. “Why’d you leave?”

Her gaze drops to the floor, and for a second she seems to shrink into herself. Not visibly, though. She does it in a way most people wouldn’t notice, but I see it, and it makes me curious.

What’s going through her head right now? What memory did she just fall into?

“I had… different values,” she says at last, the words evasive, but loaded.

A beat passes between us while my father watches her for a moment longer. He surprises the hell out of me by doing the one thing I thought he never would.

“Well,” he says, straightening up. “How would you feel about joining Imperium?”

Her head jerks up, startled.

“To dance Swan Lake, with Reign,” he adds.

My chest goes tight.

What the fuck?

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

“We’ve been searching for something special. Something transformative.” He smiles. “I saw it in you today, Angelique. The grace, the hunger, the pain. You’d be the perfect Swan Queen.”

She looks at me then, briefly, like the suggestion physically touched her, and she’s not sure how to react. Her eyes shine with hope, fear, and maybe disbelief. And I know her well enough to know she’s calculating the cost.

Angelique exhales, slow and steady. “That’s… kind of you to offer, Charlie,” she says carefully. “But I don’t dance anymore. I quit when I left The Big Apple.”

My father chuckles, brushing the air like her words were a joke. “Is that so? Because from where I’m standing, you were dancing just now—and beautifully, might I add. That was a performance people would pay good money to see.”

She stiffens suddenly, her arms pressing closer to her body, her chin tilting down like she’s trying to disappear. And still, he keeps going.

“You know,” he says lightly, strolling a few steps deeper into the room. “Since you’re staying at our guesthouse, it would be a real gift to the company, to the town of Marlow, and to our family if you’d considered it. Just a short run, nothing overwhelming.”

My jaw tightens. Of course he’d twist it like that—wrap an offer in something that sounds generous but lands like a debt.

It shouldn’t surprise me. It’s textbook Charlie Harrington—polite, persuasive, and perfectly timed to make someone feel like saying no would be selfish.

And Angelique… she’s too polite to push back, and he knows it.

Her eyes flash, barely, and then the panic sets in. Subtle, like a tremor in the earth before the ground gives way.

“I… suppose I could consider it,” she mumbles.

That’s not a yes, not really, but it’s enough for him.

“Brilliant,” he beams, already halfway out the door like everything is confirmed. “Reign will work out the details with you. I want this production to be extraordinary—and the two of you, together…” He claps a hand to my shoulder as he passes. “Brilliant.” And then he’s gone.

The silence he leaves in his wake is stifling. Angelique is staring at the floor, lips parted as if she’s still trying to understand what just happened.

“You should’ve said no,” I mutter, then turn and walk out before she can answer.

Because the truth is, I want nothing more than to dance with her.

To lose myself in her movement, and to find meaning in the shapes our bodies make onstage.

But only if it’s hers to give. Only if she’s dancing for herself.

And what I saw just now—that wasn't a choice. That was cornering a bird already too broken to fly. And I’m not going to be the one who cages her.