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The September evening chill sweeps through the open French doors of the rooftop studio at the opulent historic building housing ABTC just off Central Park West. I breathe in the humid air, a sure sign that rain is around the corner.

Stark moonlight streams in from the arched windows, joining the dim glow of the two kerosene lamps I brought with me. The studio is dilapidated—some windowpanes are missing or cracked, the lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling broken. Most dancers avoid coming up here.

But it’s my haven. Me and the moonlight. My spot of brightness in the dark.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror as I spin and spin, each rotation giving me the highest of highs. Grinning, I close my eyes, letting my body take over, my limbs long and strong, practicing the moves I know as well as breathing.

I’m in my element. Ballet. Dance. Pure control.

Thirty-two fouetté turns. That’s what the famous black swan dance in Act III of Swan Lake calls for. It’s when you hear the audience cheer at the ballerina for spinning like those rotating dolls in the toy store.

Thirty-one. Thirty-two. I count the rotations in my mind, but I don’t stop.

I can do more. I’m much stronger than that.

My toes pinch, my calves burn, but the pain grounds me and I push forward, the high in my veins and determination in my lungs driving me.

“You’re one of the best Odiles out there,” Madame Renoir said in the past.

The best.

All those late night hours practicing when the world was asleep, the strict diets and tiresome exercises, Mom and Grace working extra hard to make money to put me through dance lessons even though we had barely enough to survive on.

The best fucking ballerina.

My lungs heave out panting breaths as I slow down and stop. Forty-five turns. But the last three were too unstable. I need to work on that.

I walk to the corner of the room and dislodge the third floorboard from the wall. Biting my lip, I survey the items in the hiding place. A small metal box for things I’ve collected over the years—ballet ticket stubs, my first pair of pointe shoes, and the doll Mom gave me. I’ve always thought these items would give me luck if I store them here, hidden away in the lauded institution of dance.

Carefully, I take out the doll and twist the dial, watching the faded porcelain ballerina twirl, the gems on its tutu sparkling under the moonlight. A wistful longing tugs inside my chest as I think back to that day long ago at the Met Opera, when everything was different.

When I was different.

Blowing out a breath, I play a new song on my phone.

Now, it’s time for the challenge. The one role I haven’t been able to master since I was sixteen because of what happened. The only role I’ve ever wanted to dance since I was ten. The role that’s a prerequisite for promotion to principal ballerina.

Odette, the white swan, typically danced by the same ballerina portraying the black swan.

Looming shadows flicker and twist against the walls as the chilly wind taunts the flames inside the lamps.

Closing my eyes, I will my battering heart to calm and my tensed muscles to relax. Tchaikovsky’s emotional music streams through the speakers. Placing my body into position, I wait for the starting point of Odette’s solo in Act II.

And I fly.

The evocative sweeps of the string instruments and the somber sounds of the oboe carry through the abandoned space as I dance in the company of the lonely moonlight.

Por de bras, développé, arabesque —I glide through the poses. I’m the graceful white swan I saw that magical day when I was ten. It’s my white feathers sparkling now, effervescent, luminous under the cloak of the night.

But, as it has been every single time in the past, the story shifts and the mood deteriorates. Instead of delicate movements, my limbs won’t cooperate. My muscles tense, but I push through. I persist. I’m the white swan. The fucking white swan. The frustrated motions come out stilted and sharp, nothing like the effortless poise of Odette. Nothing like the beautiful ballerina from all those years ago.

“Graceful, Taylor. Why do you dance like you’re angry at the world?”

“Gentle. You’re in love, but you’re afraid to lose it. Have you ever been in love?”

Madame Renoir’s voice rings in my head, chasing away the ethereal notes of Tchaikovsky’s music.

Love. What is love? It’s nothing but pain and betrayal. The first time I felt the emotion was when I watched Swan Lake with Mom.

The second time I came close to the elusive emotion was six years ago—well, that was when I realized how wrong I was.

Images of Camden barge through my consciousness—his light auburn hair reminding me of my favorite food, carrots; his boyish smile; the intensity in his green eyes when he told me he’d wait until I was ready to say the three little words back to him and to sleep with him for the first time because he knew I was a virgin then.

“I love you, Tay. I’m the luckiest guy on earth to be your boyfriend.”

Lies. Pathetic lies. Gut-wrenching pain I still feel today, many years later, especially after what happened. I remember the day he broke up with me vividly.

He stared at me with revulsion, his face flushed. “You disgust me.”

I recoiled in horror, tears welling in my eyes. “Camden… I w-was forced. I tried to stop them…I really did! I c-couldn’t m-move and—”

He curled his lips into a sneer. “You know, I saw you that night. I saw you with him…with them .” He spit out the last word. “It didn’t look like you weren’t enjoying yourself.”

Betrayal punched a hole in my heart. I shook my head. I thought he was different. Different from Mom’s horrible rich ex-boyfriends who gave her black eyes and bruised lips. Camden said he loved me and I thought I was falling for him.

I thought I was safe because he was the sweet boy next door, not one of those rich assholes. He was the boy who shared the same ballet dreams as me.

“I just can’t look at you the same way ever again. You’re…ruined,” he gritted out.

I’m not fucking ruined, you asshole.

Angry at myself for thinking of the past, I dance harder, stretching my limbs higher and farther, making up for my lack of focus with effort. I ignore my aching muscles, the blistering pain of my swollen toes from cramming them into old pointe shoes—shoes I should’ve tossed a week ago, but fuck, they’re expensive to replace at the rate I go through them.

My body fights back, refusing to obey my mind. My positions don’t land, my footwork missing a few beats.

“I’m so proud of you.” Excitement and pride shone through Mom’s voice when I told her I got accepted into ABTC last year. There was relief in her statement, like she’d achieved the purpose of her life, and she died soon afterward in a tragic car accident.

Gritting my teeth, I hurl myself into another move. A pirouette I complete too quickly.

It’s supposed to be slow. Controlled. But I’m unraveling, as I always do in this role.

“This is atrocious, Taylor. And you want to be promoted to principal this year?” That’s what Madame Renoir would say if she were here, watching me butcher one of the most beautiful dances in the ballet.

You’re not worthy of Odette, Taylor. You’re soiled.

Fuck. Go away, Lochness Monster. Giving my inner negative voice a ridiculous name often helps with these thoughts.

“I will be a principal dancer,” I yell, the words shrill, slicing through the night like an assassin’s blade.

“Have you ever been in love?” Madame Renoir’s words echo inside my mind, and my eyes burn.

Never again. Love isn’t for me. But that doesn’t mean I can’t master this dance or reclaim my body.

I let the anger always lying dormant in the base of my spine flicker alive and surge up my body—violence to offset the sorrow.

“Gentlemen, I didn’t disappoint did I?” The monster’s dark voice ghosts inside my brain, followed by a glimpse of blond hair.

A flash of light eyes—were they blue? Green? I can’t remember. A streak of red glints in my vague memory. The pulsing between my legs that night.

Sharp pain sears my knees and calves as I collapse onto the floor. Biting back a groan, I feel a familiar warm stickiness seeping from the scrapes. Blood. My breathing is ragged as I turn over to lie on my back.

Shadows of men in suits, but their faces hidden, flicker on and off like a broken television screen. They star in my nightmares, depriving me of sleep.

Fuckers, you can’t control me. Not anymore.

It’s been years. The past is in the past and it can’t hurt me anymore. While I’m no longer the naive girl thinking the world is my oyster and somewhere out there, I have a prince waiting for my Odette. I’m twenty-two and a damn good ballerina at the top ballet company in the country.

Fly Harriet.

The monster’s voice whispers words I don’t understand, followed by the pulsing sensation between my legs. It’s not real. These are trauma flashbacks . I know this from the self-help books I’ve read over the years.

I reach down between my legs and twist the small metal piercing through my tights. A VCH piercing I got for pain, not for pleasure. Tears spring into my eyes at the sharp pain radiating from my core. I don’t cry. I haven’t been able to since I was sixteen.

Better. Much better now. I rake in harsh pants of frigid night air. The shameful heat has receded, replaced with reassuring agony.

Pain as punishment. Pain I can control. It’s a grounding technique for me.

I control my body. No one can hurt me anymore.

My breaths are white puffs against the darkness, the icy gale from the outside sweeping in.

Slowly, I close my eyes, my fists balling against my sides.

I’m the white swan…Odette , I repeatedly chant to myself. But all I can see are the grotesque, black feathers sprouting from my skin.

Dirty. Inky blackness. Permanent. A chilling howl travels into the empty room as the music fades into silence.

I’m the white swan and I will be promoted to principal ballerina.

Because my sacrifices…my family’s sacrifices, can’t be in vain.