Page 9

Angelique

T he weekend slips by faster than I expect, and I spend most of the time doing barre work in the studio and stretching at the guesthouse, while Lando flits around the living room in silk robes and sunglasses, offering iced coffee like it's holy water.

But no amount of prep could've made today easier, because the day I've been dreading has finally arrived.

Imperium Ballet stands like a fortress in front of me with its tall columns, vast windows, and a grand set of stairs that sweep toward the entrance.

The building is made up of white stone, weathered with time but still pristine, and the Harrington crest is etched into the stone above the double doors.

It looks more like an elite art museum than a dance company, but maybe that's what Charlie was going for when he built the place.

Lando parks out front, sunglasses sliding down his nose as he shoots me a grin. “Ready for your first day?”

“Not even remotely,” I mutter, but I still follow him up the stairs.

Inside, Imperium feels like a different world.

Cool marble underfoot, high ceilings that echo with laughter and the rustle of warmups, pointe shoes tapping softly against tile.

The halls are already busy with dancers spilling out of studios, chatting, stretching, and sipping from steel water bottles.

Lando leads the way, practically gliding, his dance bag slung effortlessly over one shoulder. He cuts through the crowd like a celebrity, which, to be fair, he sort of is here. We reach a small circle of familiar faces by the lockers.

Alfie is halfway through an aggressive hamstring stretch and moaning like he’s dying, Max leans against the wall, sipping cold brew and watching Alfie, unimpressed, and Willow’s sitting on the floor in a split, arms propped on her knee like it’s effortless. They all light up when they see me.

“Look who finally came to play,” Alfie grins.

“Took you long enough,” Willow adds, reaching up for a quick hand squeeze.

I smile, my nerves easing just a bit as I crouch down beside them.

“She’s back,” Lando declares, dropping his bag dramatically. “And I come bearing new introductions.”

He gestures toward a trio I don’t recognize—two girls and a guy, all lounging nearby.

“This is Quinn, Alfie’s long-suffering boyfriend,” Lando says, motioning to the guy with pink buzzed hair and a septum ring. He gives me a little salute.

“And that’s Sora and Jules, Willow and Max’s partners.”

Sora, in oversized sweats and flawless eyeliner, smiles and waves, while Jules, with her ginger curls and quiet energy, offers a soft “ hey ”.

“Angelique,” I say, offering a small wave. “Nice to meet you. ”

“She’s the infamous one,” Alfie says, nudging Quinn. “The one I told you about who dipped from Big Apple.”

“Big Apple can suck it,” Willow mutters, then turns back to her stretch.

I laugh under my breath, and for a second, everything feels almost normal.

Like I’ve always been here. The plan was always to join Imperium, but when my father died before my eighteenth birthday, I had no choice but to move to America under my mother’s care.

And when I finally turned the legal age to return, I’d already landed a principal position at Big Apple, so it made little sense to come back.

We head to Studio B together; the group falling into a comfortable rhythm. The floor is cool as I claim a spot near the back, sitting down and stretching while the others talk about Swan Lake.

“I heard auditions are next week.”

“I bet Reign already picked Wendy as his partner.”

Wendy?

“I doubt he’ll be in this one. He hasn’t danced a production in almost a year.”

I keep quiet, folding into a forward bend, palms flat on the floor.

No one knows the lead roles are already taken, and I’m not about to be the one to tell them.

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifts and the murmurs die down as Reign walks in, dressed in black.

His shirt is fitted, his sleeves pushed up, and on his arm is a girl.

She’s petite, with sharp cheekbones and smooth, luminous skin. Her long, inky hair is pulled into a slick high ponytail that swishes with every step. She wears a blood-red leotard, and a soft ballet wrap tied neatly at her waist, her legs in pristine white tights.

I notice how her hand rests on his arm, and how she smiles while she speaks to him. Something tightens in my chest. Of course he has a girlfriend now. I mean, he always could’ve had anyone he wanted, so why did I think he was single?

Maybe because I never dated anyone in the time that I’ve been gone.

Maybe because a part of me had hoped he’d do the same, even if he was the one that ghosted me.

Lando leans in and whispers out the side of his mouth, “You’re staring.”

I look away quickly, pretending I’m fascinated by the way my foot looks in a flexed stretch, my neck burning. “I was not.”

“You so were,” he whispers, like the smug little chaos fairy he is.

I keep my head down and reach for the barre, pretending the pressure building in my chest is from my calf muscles, not whatever the hell that just was.

Forcing my focus back to my stretches, I press into a deep lunge, trying to shake off the static under my skin.

But I can still feel his presence in the air surrounding me.

Curiosity wins out after a few minutes, and I look up one more time.

Reign is on the other side of the room, one leg up on the barre, leaning into a stretch with intense, effortless control, but he’s not focused on his posture, or on Wendy.

He’s looking at me. Dead-on. Eyes locked.

My breath catches—a small, sharp inhale that feels like an internal scream.

He doesn’t look away, so I do, my gaze snapping back to the floor, my heart thrumming behind my ribs.

The studio doors open seconds later, and I nearly sigh in relief as a woman walks in, tall and willowy, with long honey-brown hair cascading down her back and green eyes that scan the room warmly.

She wears beige wide-legged trousers and a fitted black sleeveless top, moving with the grace of someone who doesn’t need to prove she belongs here because everyone already knows.

And rightfully so, she was Imperium’s biggest success. A prima ballerina that went big, travelled the world guest starring at various companies that paid exorbitant amounts of money to Imperium to borrow her. And once she retired as a dancer, Charlie offered her an instructor position.

She claps once, drawing the room to attention. “For any newcomers,” she says, her voice calm but confident, “welcome to Imperium. My name is Layla, and I’ll be your techniques instructor.”

Her gaze finds me in the crowd and softens as she gives me a small, encouraging smile and I nod back with a small smile of my own, but my insides are still tangled.

Layla begins the warm-up moments later, the energy in the room shifting as everyone removes their sweats and ties their hair into buns. Dancers silently fall into formation, heads bowed, bodies alert. There’s a hunger here that hums beneath the surface.

Layla walks us through a brutal series of pliés, tendus, dégagés, and battements.

Her voice is calm, but her expectations are anything but.

She corrects angles, demanding sharper articulation, and never lets a single bent wrist or lazy port de bras slip past her gaze.

My muscles scream in protest halfway through, but I grit my teeth and push deeper, harder.

When she calls for adagios at the centre, I feel the shift in the air as everyone's postures straighten.

This is where the actual competition begins.

We move through a round, each combination testing my balance, control, and artistry.

My legs and arms burn, but I keep going, sweat trickling down my spine until she finally signals the end of the session.

But before anyone can scramble for their towels or water bottles, she lifts a hand. “Before you all disappear, I have a few announcements regarding our upcoming production.”

Everyone freezes and Layla smiles. “If you haven’t already heard, we’ll be staging Swan Lake.” There’s a collective murmur, excitement rippling across the room.

“As many of you know, Swan Lake is a technically demanding and emotionally layered ballet, therefore we’ve already begun casting for principal roles, and I’m thrilled to be the one sharing some of those decisions today.”

The room stills as Layla turns to Reign. “Congratulations to Reign Harrington, who will dance the role of Prince Siegfried.”

Applause breaks out, mixed with a few whispers of shock about him returning to the stage.

“And his understudy,” Layla continues, “will be Lando Harrington.”

Lando stiffens beside me for a beat, his eyes finding mine instantly, and when I smile softly the floodgates burst and it’s even better than I could’ve ever imagined.

“Holy shit, Lando!” Alfie crows, grabbing his shoulders.

Max pulls him into a hug and Willow squeals, squeezing his arm while the rest of the group laughs and congratulates him with cheers and shoulder pats.

When he glances down at me, his eyes are wide and glassy with disbelief. “Is this real?”

I nod. “One step closer to being cast as Prince Whatever.”

His lips tremble in response as he blows me a kiss, and I laugh before turning back to Layla. She waits a beat for the room to settle, then continues.

“And Angelique Sinclair,” she says, scanning the crowd, “will dance the dual roles of Odette and Odile.”

It feels like time slows as the room falls into a hush.

“Excuse me?” a sharp voice cuts through the silence.

I turn to see Reign’s maybe-girlfriend step forward, arms crossed, and fury etched into her every feature. “Who the hell is Angelique ?” She says my name like it’s diseased.

Layla gestures toward me. “Wendy, Angelique. Angelique, Wendy.”