Chapter 6Ingrid. Early September, Five years ago #3
"I used to dance in front of my jewelry box," she admitted, her voice quieter now.
"Pretending I was a ballerina like the one inside. Spinning, twirling, trying to match the way she moved. I’d wind it up over and over just to keep the music playing, terrified that if it stopped, the magic would disappear. "
Beck’s gaze sharpened with curiosity. "So that’s where it all started for you?"
"Yes," she nodded, a small smile playing on her lips.
"When I saw The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center.
I must have been four, maybe five. I remember sitting in one of those massive red velvet seats, my feet not even reaching the edge, and just..
. watching. The chandeliers, the golden balconies, the size of the stage.
It was like stepping into another world. And then the music started."
She paused, the memory flickering to life in her mind.
"Tchaikovsky’s score swelled through the theater, and suddenly there were snowflakes twirling, soldiers marching, sugar plum fairies gliding across the stage.
It was like someone had cracked open a dream and poured it right in front of me.
I didn’t just want to dance, I needed to.
Right then and there, I decided that one day, I would be up on that stage, making people feel the same kind of wonder I felt that night. "
Beck was quiet for a moment, watching her closely.
"And you never let go of that dream," he murmured, more a statement than a question.
"Never. It’s been my life ever since."
Beck tilted his head slightly, considering this. "Guess we’re not so different after all."
"Maybe not," she admitted. Then, before the moment could stretch into something too soft, too dangerous, she added, "Did your parents not care that you were sneaking into adult clubs as a kid?"
"My mom was just happy I was out of her hair. And my dad wasn’t in my life," he said simply, his voice carrying the kind of practiced nonchalance that made it obvious there was more beneath the surface. The words were too easy, too weightless for something that heavy.
Ingrid immediately regretted asking. "I’m sorry," she said, and she meant it. Because that really sucked.
Beck shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips, one of those distant, faraway ones that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "It is what it is. I guess uninvolved parents gave me the freedom to explore what I loved. Drumming became my escape. A way to make noise when no one was listening."
Something in the way he said it made her chest tighten. It was too familiar.
Her parents had never been absent, not exactly.
They’d been there physically. Provided for her, clothed her, paid for all the lessons and training that shaped her into who she was.
But love? Presence? A sense of being truly seen?
That had always been fleeting. Her mother, once an overbearing control freak, had thrown herself into an endless cycle of self-discovery, trying on new passions like they were clothes at the Chanel store.
Her father, though kinder, had always been preoccupied with work, his new marriage, and the life he built without her.
She’d never been neglected. Just… peripheral.
That’s where Eden had come in. Eden, who had been more than a best friend, she had been a constant.
A sister in every way that mattered. The one who saw Ingrid, who never let her disappear into the background.
Through every late-night breakdown, every punishing rejection, every moment of self-doubt that had left her questioning whether she was enough, Eden had been there.
"I get that," Ingrid admitted, the words slipping out before she could stop them. "Ballet’s my escape too. It’s a way to drown everything out and disappear into something else. Even if it’s only for a few minutes."
Beck’s gaze lingered on her, dark and knowing, like he understood in a way most people never did. "Guess we both found our own ways to survive," he murmured.
The air between them shifted, thickening into something heavier, and she hated it. She didn’t want to see herself in him. Didn’t want to acknowledge the sudden, unwanted connection threading between them.
Before it could get too uncomfortable, Beck stretched his arms out, breaking the moment with an exaggerated sigh.
"I’m who I am because of everything that happened to me," he said. "It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, but hey, here I am. Practicing with a prima ballerina who’s slowly, and I mean slowly , warming up to me. "
A grin tugged at his lips, his eyes sparkling. "She won’t admit it, but she actually likes hanging out with me."
Ingrid scoffed, relieved to hear his usual arrogance back. "Delusion really doesn’t suit you."
Beck’s smirk stretched even wider. "You sure? I think I pull it off pretty well."
“Also, I’m not a prima." The words tasted bitter the second they left her mouth, a reminder that she still hadn’t heard back about Swan Lake.
"Yet," he corrected, pointing a drumstick at her like some kind of self-appointed oracle. "I’m speaking it into existence."
She gave him a flat look. "That’s not how auditions work."
"Manifestation," he said, wiggling his fingers in an exaggerated gesture.
She exhaled sharply. "Do that again, and I swear I’ll snap your drumsticks in half."
"Noted," he said. "No jazz hands for the ballerina. Got it."
Her lips twitched before she could stop them. Damn it. She was not about to start finding him funny.
Before she could force her expression back into something unimpressed, her phone buzzed from across the room. Her stomach flipped. Any minute now, the cast list was supposed to drop.
Her heart pounded as she sprinted to her bag, yanking her phone out with shaky fingers. The screen lit up with a text from Sylvia.
Sylvia: YOU GOT IT!! You’re PRIMA! Not shocked at all, but still HELL YES. Tchaikovsky is 100% fist-bumping a ghost right now. CONGRATS!
The words blurred. For a moment, Ingrid forgot how to breathe. Then the realization hit her like a lightning strike. Oh my God. She got it. The lead in Swan Lake.
A strangled noise left her throat–part gasp, part laugh, part dolphin screech. She clutched the phone to her chest, barely able to process the fact that the role she had dreamed of for years was now hers.
Behind her, Beck raised an eyebrow. "What happened? Did Barney’s announce a flash sale?"
She barely registered the question, bouncing on the balls of her feet as an electric thrill shot through her limbs. She needed to move, to do something to keep from exploding.
"I knew it," Beck said, watching her with an infuriating amount of satisfaction. "Didn’t I tell you?" His smirk softened, something genuine flickering in his eyes. "Congratulations, prima."
Still grinning, she narrowed her eyes at him. "How did you know?"
"The unholy screeching. The hyperactive jogging. It was a dead giveaway." Then he shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world."Why act like you didn’t know you’d get the lead? You’re perfect."
A beat of silence.
He blinked, suddenly realizing what he’d just said. "I mean you were perfect. When you were dancing." He immediately rubbed the back of his neck, looking slightly uncomfortable. "That’s what I meant. Obviously."
Ingrid arched a brow, savoring the rare sight of Beck fumbling over his own words. "Oh? So I’m not perfect now?"
His gaze flicked to hers, dark and unreadable. Then, slow as a drumroll, he tilted his head.
"Well, yeah…" His voice dropped just slightly. " Look at you."
The way he said it, so casual, like it was obvious, sent a pulse of heat through her. His tone was smooth. Her face heated, her limbs suddenly felt heavier.
"But," he added, his smirk sharpening like a knife, "you’re also a pain in the ass, so I guess it evens out."
Ingrid refused to let him have the upper hand. "That’s rich, coming from a guy whose entire personality is just… drums."
"And you’ve got the personality of a declawed kitten," he countered smoothly, his smirk widening. "All sizzle, no steak."
Her mouth fell open for a split second before she snapped it shut, shooting him a glare that only seemed to delight him.
"And yet, I still have fangs," Ingrid said coolly. "Just waiting for the right moment to use them."
He chuckled, unfazed, and leaned in a bit. "Oh, I know. You give these tiny hisses, all puffed up like a kitten. So terrifying."
She had just received some of the best news of her life, and she was not about to let him ruin it. With an exasperated huff, she tossed her phone into her bag and spun on her heel, heading for the door with sharp, determined strides.
"See you next week, Freak," she called over her shoulder, flipping him off for good measure.
Beck’s laughter followed her out the door–low, rich, and maddeningly amused.
And yet, as Ingrid made her way back to her apartment, she could not shake the ridiculous warmth lingering in her chest.