Chapter 6Ingrid. Early September, Five years ago
INGRID. EARLY SEPTEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO
A week had passed since their first Repertory, Collaborations, and Performance class. Course expectations were laid out, partnerships were formed, and Ingrid had, regrettably, sealed her fate by choosing Beck as her partner.
Beck, of course, had turned the entire process into a one-man show. Lounging against the piano like he was posing for an album cover, he surveyed the room with an expression so smug it could have fueled an entire semester’s worth of her rage.
One by one, dancers had approached him, eager to partner up.
And one by one, he turned them down. He gave each of them a slow, regretful shake of his head.
Then, just when Ingrid thought he couldn't get more unbearable, his gaze locked onto hers.
And he pointed. directly at her. Like some ancient ruler selecting a gladiator for battle.
It had made a sharp, hot jolt of irritation shot down Ingrid’s spine, so fast and so intense she was surprised she didn’t spontaneously combust on the spot.
The second her glare sharpened, his smirk only widened–razor-sharp, utterly insufferable, and carrying the satisfaction of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
He was thriving on her frustration, soaking it up like a plant basking in sunlight.
And the more she bristled? The more obnoxiously entertained he seemed, his blue eyes glinting with the pure, unfiltered amusement of a man who had just discovered his new favorite hobby. And, unfortunately, that hobby was her.
It hadn’t taken long for Ingrid to size him up: charming, conniving, and quite possibly a sociopath with a pretty smile.
She’d overheard the whispers from the other dancers–the bar-hopping, the effortless flirting, fights, the seemingly endless string of hookups.
Apparently, Beck was the kind of guy who could talk his way into free drinks and out of trouble.
The man was a walking con artist with drumsticks. And she knew his type. He used people. Played games for his own amusement. The thought of him playing those games with someone she actually cared about, like Eden, was enough to put him firmly at the top of her watch list.
If Beck thought, for even a second, that she was going to be another one of his little amusements, he was in for a rude awakening.
And yet, she’d still partnered with him.
The stakes in this class were simply too high.
Ingrid was a stickler for perfection. Some might even call her obsessive.
Though she preferred the term intensely dedicated.
She wasn’t about to sabotage her grades, her reputation, or her future by pairing with someone who couldn’t keep up.
Beck’s skills, unfortunately, were not in question.
She’d seen him perform. And despite every fiber of her being desperately wanting to find a flaw, something to justify dismissing him, she had been reluctantly, painfully impressed.
If she wanted to ace this course, he was the best option. Annoyingly. But this wasn’t just about grades. Oh no. This was personal.
She wanted to savor the sweet, glorious taste of victory while rubbing it directly in Anna Wexler’s perfectly contoured face.
Anna, her self-declared rival, had been a thorn in her side since day one of freshman year.
She was the kind of dancer who didn’t just want to shine, she wanted to eclipse everyone else.
Stealing choreography ideas? Check. Over-the-top, show-stealing flourishes?
Like clockwork. Not-so-subtly sucking up to instructors? Might as well have been her job.
Ingrid could already picture it. Anna’s expression cracking, her too-perfect smile faltering, as Ingrid’s choreography, her collaboration, earned the highest praise. God, it would be wondrous. Still, that victory would come at a cost. And the price was being paired with the human migraine.
As she sat cross-legged on the studio floor, waiting for Beck to arrive so they could plan their piece, a familiar sense of dread settled deep in her gut.
Because Beck wasn’t just talented. He was cocky, unpredictable, and possessed the deeply irritating ability to make her want to both punch him and begrudgingly admit he was very good at what he did.
She could already see it–him turning their collaboration into another excuse to rile her up, to flash that stupid smirk, to act like this was fun for him.
Maybe she could collaborate her fist into his face. Now that was a performance she’d actually enjoy. Smirking at the thought, she pulled a length of darning thread through her pointe shoe, knotting it.
After days of relentless rehearsals, her ballet shoes were barely holding on.
The satin was frayed, the box softened to the point of absolute collapse.
Every unforgiving bump and groove in the studio floor pressed into her toes, a cruel reminder that ballet was as much about pain tolerance as it was about grace.
If she got four days out of a pair, it was a miracle. But brutal training was non-negotiable.
She’d auditioned for the lead in Swan Lake a week ago and hadn’t heard back yet, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t already preparing like she had the role. She was nothing if not diligent. Or, possibly, delusional. Either way, if she didn’t get the role, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.
Finishing the knot, she folded the shoe in half, cracking the insole with an audible snap. It was how she broke in her pointe shoes, brutal but necessary. Then, with more force than needed, she slammed it against the floor.
A sharp thwack echoed through the studio.
"Whoa."
The smooth, amused voice sent a jolt of anger down her spine.
She pointedly ignored Beck, instead continuing to smack her shoe against the floor with renewed vigor, each hit a cathartic outlet for the absolute nonsense she was about to endure.
"That shoe piss you off, or is this your version of CPR?"
She whacked it harder.
"Deep-seated rage, huh? What’s got your panties in a bunch? Daddy won’t fly you to Paris this weekend?"
Ingrid’s grip tightened around the shoe. Oh, he did not just–
Her glare was as sharp as a pirouette en dehors, but Beck, simply grinned, looming over her like the human version of a pop-up ad with no exit button.
"This rage is only seated because of you," she snapped, punctuating the words with another whack against the floor.
He had no idea what her life was actually like, and his assumptions only poured gasoline on the fire.
He didn’t know that her father, despite trying his best, was barely in her life.
He didn’t know that all his free time went to his new family.
Beck was poking at wounds he couldn’t even see, and the worst part? He was enjoying it.
"I have a great way for you to get out all that pent-up frustration," he mused.
"You’re a pig," she scoffed.
"I was talking about a vigorous walk in Central Park." He placed a hand on his chest, feigning innocence. "But now I know what’s on your mind, prim."
Her jaw clenched. "I think I hate you."
"There’s a thin line between love and hate," Beck said, voice low, teasing. "Tread carefully." His smirk deepened, and God help her, it really was an attractive smirk. Annoyingly so.
Ingrid exhaled sharply through her nose, squeezing her pointe shoe so tightly the fabric bunched beneath her nails. Do not react. Do not let him win.
"Dick," she muttered.
Beck’s eyebrows lifted, eyes glinting with mischief. "Yes, I do have one. Any interest?"
And just like that, her brain betrayed her. Because now she was imagining it. And worse, she knew it was big .
A horrifying, rogue thought that she could not unthink no matter how hard she tried. Because of course it was. Beck had that ridiculous, cocky, I know exactly what I’m doing energy, the kind that practically screamed insufferably good in bed.
She could picture it too vividly–the lazy smirk, the deliberate slowness, the teasing, the way he’d probably make a show of withholding just to drive someone insane before finally, finally giving in at the very last second.
Heat flared across her cheeks, mortification spreading through her body like a wildfire fueled by sheer shame.
She never thought about sex. Ever . Not seriously, at least. It was a distraction, an obstacle between her and her success, a messy, time-consuming inconvenience she had never found all that compelling.
But now? Thanks to one intolerable musician with a stupidly perfect smirk, her brain had been hijacked.
His smirk stretched into something downright victorious, his sharp blue eyes flicking over her face, cataloging every single tell like he was mentally filing it away for future torture.
He wasn’t just amused. He was thriving off this, standing there like a cat who had not only caught the mouse but was now toying with it just for fun.
Her grip on her pointe shoe tightened, fingers curling into the satin as if she could squeeze the embarrassment out of her system.
"In your dreams," she snapped, before hurling her pointe shoe straight at his smug head.
To her endless frustration, Beck caught it one-handed. He twirled it between his fingers with a thoughtful hum.
"That’s called projection. It’s okay if you dream about me. You don’t have to be embarrassed," he remarked, pointing to himself with the shoe as if he were the pinnacle of human desire.
"You think you're a gift to the world." Ingrid shook her head. "You honestly think I would dream about you?"
"What can I say? I'm all about making dreams a reality," his response was delivered with a teasing grin, his eyes holding a playful glint.
"Truly inspiring," she muttered under her breath as she pulled on her toe pad and then quickly slid her foot into the pointe shoe, wrapping the ribbon around her ankle.
Beck sauntered over, crouching until his increasingly punchable face was level with hers. Ingrid refused to look up, but she could feel his gaze on her, hot and persistent, like an itch she couldn’t scratch.