Chapter 7Ingrid. Mid-September, Five years ago
INGRID. MID-SEPTEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO
Ingrid meticulously pressed the front of her pointe shoe into the cube of rosin, carefully coating it for a better grip. She couldn’t afford any slips during practice, not as the lead. If she ate it mid-pirouette, she might as well tattoo "fraud" on her forehead.
Just as she switched to her other foot, a pointe shoe suddenly appeared and sent the rosin cube flying. It skidded across the floor, spinning like a hockey puck, before coming to a tragic halt against the mirror on the other side of the studio.
The offending foot belonged to none other than Anna, the program’s resident mean girl and walking Black Swan cliché. Ever since learning Ingrid had snagged the lead, Anna had doubled down on her usual venom, now operating at full Disney-villain capacity.
"Whoops," Anna murmured, her faux-innocent tone as thinly veiled as a cheap Halloween costume.
Anna had trained at the Bolshoi Ballet Academy in Moscow, and she never let anyone forget it. As if the rest of them hadn’t also clawed their way into Juilliard. As if she were the anointed queen and they were her lowly peasant subjects, dancing only by her benevolent grace.
"Ignore her," Sylvia muttered beside Ingrid, rolling her eyes. She was the only person Ingrid truly trusted in the program, their friendship cemented on day one when Sylvia Bennett discreetly informed her that her leotard was inside out. In a cutthroat environment where most would’ve let Ingrid parade around like an oblivious disaster, Sylvia had chosen kindness instead.
The music shifted, snapping Ingrid back to focus. No distractions. She took her place, her mind a flurry of corrections : drop the shoulder, elbow to the right, chin up, light fingers, extend the arms. Attack, quick, quick turn.
She moved seamlessly into an arabesque, her toes delicately balancing her weight forward as her other leg lifted high behind her.
And then, of course, Anna’s voice slithered through the air like an unwelcome draft.
"You’re going for swan? You look more like a pigeon."
Ingrid refused to let Anna get in her head. If anything, it only strengthened her resolve. She lifted her chin higher, her back straighter, pouring every ounce of grace and determination into her movement. If Anna wanted to play petty mind games, fine. Ingrid would simply outdance her.
With the brightest, most dazzling stage smile she could muster, she shot back sweetly, "I’d rather be a pigeon than a vulture, Anna."
A small, indignant huff escaped Anna. Victory .
Troye, Ingrid’s dance partner and co-lead as Prince Siegfried, sighed dramatically as he stepped into place beside them.
"Play nice, ladies," he said in a breezy, amused tone, as if they were arguing over brunch reservations and not engaged in high-stakes psychological ballet warfare.
Ingrid sighed, relieved for the save. Dancing with him was easily the best part of rehearsal. He was strong, precise, and most importantly, not a total nightmare. He lifted her into the next sequence like it was nothing, making it look way too easy.
As Troye gently set her down, Ingrid shot him a mischievous look. "Can I give her ego a swift kick with my foot?"
Troye chuckled softly. "Unfortunately, no. But I’m sure even Aimee wouldn’t mind giving her a little nudge," he added, nodding toward their instructor, who was watching from the front of the room. Anna’s attitude was infamous even among the faculty.
"Don’t be so hormonal, Ingrid. Anna’s just jealous of your amazing..." Weston’s eyes skimmed over Ingrid’s body in a way that made her skin crawl. "Body control," he finished with a smarmy grin.
It took every ounce of self-restraint not to flip him off right then and there.
Weston, or "Weasel," as everyone called him behind his back, had built his entire personality around being the worst. His comments always hovered just on the edge of inappropriate, and his version of flirting was less "charming suitor" and more "HR violation waiting to happen."
So it was deeply fitting that he’d been cast as Baron Von Rothbart, the manipulative villain who tricks Prince Siegfried into betraying Odette. Frankly, Weston probably considered it typecasting.
As the music swelled, Ingrid barely tolerated Weston’s hands gripping her waist as they moved through the sequence. When she landed, she accidentally stomped her heel onto the top of his foot. Weston grunted, a sharp, barely contained sound of pain.
Ingrid’s smile widened. "So sorry, Weston," she cooed, voice dripping with sugar and absolutely no sincerity.
Aimee clapped her hands once, stepping forward with her usual no-nonsense expression. "Lackluster." There was a pause. "Do it again. But better."
The music resumed, and Ingrid swore she saw a flicker of amusement in Aimee’s eyes.
"I can't lie. Watching Anna foam at the mouth over you getting the lead is my new favorite pastime," Sylvia remarked, her voice dripping with wicked amusement as she sipped her hot chocolate, pinky raised like an aristocrat reveling in someone else's downfall.
Never mind that they were in the campus cafeteria, surrounded by the distinct aroma of stale coffee and questionable pizza.
"She's like a woman possessed. Do you think holy water would work, or are we looking at a full exorcism?" Ingrid mused, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against the lid of her to-go cup.
"Doubtful. That demon’s in deep. The only thing that could save us now is shipping her off to a remote island with no WiFi and only a mirror for company."
"Please, she'd end up falling in love with her own reflection and start a one-woman reality show."
Sylvia snorted into her drink. "A love story for the ages."
"Speaking of disappearing acts, any news from your mom lately?" Sylvia asked, her tone gentle yet probing.
Sylvia knew better than anyone the tangled mess that was Ingrid’s relationship with her mother.
After the divorce, her mom hadn’t just left when things got tough; she had practically fled across the Atlantic, chasing some Eat, Pray, Love fantasy in Paris, all funded by Ingrid’s father’s generous alimony checks.
Ingrid had been fourteen, left behind like an old pair of pointe shoes that had worn out their usefulness.
"Nope," Ingrid said breezily. "She’s probably somewhere on the Amalfi Coast, sipping an Aperol spritz with her latest boyfriend-slash-accessory. He’s thirty, has a man bun, and definitely refers to himself as an entrepreneur, even though his entire career is ‘between projects.’"
She had actually tried to reach her mom a few times recently, but, as always, romance came first. Ingrid had wanted to ask if she could stay with her during the winter break for a ballet intensive at the Paris Opera Ballet School, but once again, her mother was about as reachable as the Pope’s private cell number.
Not wanting to dwell, Ingrid redirected. "And how’s everything with Jessica?"
The shift worked. Sylvia’s whole face lit up like a stage spotlight. "Oh, so good," she sighed dreamily, practically melting into her chair.
Sylvia and Jessica had been dating for a year, and Ingrid was genuinely happy for her.
She admired how Sylvia managed to juggle love and an obsessive dedication to dance, something their instructors warned against like it was an airborne disease.
Romance, they preached, was a distraction. A career-killer.
In the ballet world, love was basically Bigfoot: rumored to exist, but if you actually caught it, you were probably doomed. The few dancers who dared to fall in love usually ended up sidelined by marriage or, worse, surprise babies.
Ingrid took a sip of her hot chocolate. "Have you ever thought about how in ballet, ‘falling in love’ is basically a horror story?"
Sylvia chuckled. "Please. It’s not just ballet.
That’s dating in your twenties. Except for my love story.
We’re heading to Rhode Island for the superior kind of romance, a weekend of lobster rolls and pretending we can afford waterfront property.
" Her grin was smug, and honestly, Ingrid respected it.
"Keep talking, and I might start foaming at the mouth with jealousy," Ingrid said, narrowing her eyes playfully.
Then, that feeling crept up her spine, the one that meant either someone was watching her or a ghost was about to ruin her day. She whipped her head around and–oh. Great.
Beck was heading straight toward her. Well, toward the cafeteria exit.
Without her permission, her heart spun a full triple pirouette in her chest. She snapped her eyes away, but it was too late, she was aware. Too aware. His tattoos, his sharp jawline, the way he moved like gravity was more of a suggestion than a rule.
As he passed, his dark tattoos blurred in her peripheral vision, and then she felt a light tug on her ponytail.
Her head whipped around, her ponytail slicing through the air, only to find Beck flashing a full-blown smile. The unfair, soul-snatching kind. It was so dazzling it could probably power a small village. So stunning it almost hurt.
The way his eyes sparkled, all cocky and playful, had her frozen on the spot like a deer in the headlights of a very attractive oncoming disaster. She had to remind herself that she didn’t like him, no matter how stupidly pretty he was.
She sat frozen, watching him stroll toward the exit like he hadn’t just casually reprogrammed her brain.
"What the hell was that?" Sylvia demanded, eyes wide. "You’ve been holding out on me!"
"He's my partner in the collaborative class," Ingrid replied in her most neutral, this is not a thing tone, trying to suppress the entirely unwelcome tingling sensation running rampant in her system.
Sylvia’s jaw practically hit the floor. "Wait. You’re partners with him ?
You’ve been avoiding your dance partner this whole time, and it’s been him?
" She clutched her chest like she’d been personally betrayed.
"I cannot believe you’ve been working in close quarters with Drum Daddy and said nothing. "
Ingrid choked so violently she saw the afterlife. " Drum what?! Sylvia, absolutely not. Erase that. Wipe it from history."
"What? That’s his nickname. Everyone calls him that."
"Everyone?!" Ingrid sputtered, horrified. "Who is everyone? I demand a list!"
Sylvia ignored her completely. "You do realize he’s the obsession of, like, half the school, right? He’s hot. Not to mention very flirty with you."
Her grin turned downright predatory.
"Is he?" She aimed for indifference but missed so hard she landed somewhere in delusional fantasyland.
"Now I know you’re full of shit. I’m pretty sure they had to move him to the shadow realm of the orchestra pit because he was too distracting to the general population."
"He’s bad news," Ingrid said. "I told you I caught him trying to sabotage Eden’s equipment at Battle of the Bands this summer."
Instead of reacting with appropriate concern, Sylvia fanned herself like a woman in a period drama about to faint onto a chaise lounge. "And he’s in a band? Oh, this just keeps getting better."
"You're missing the point! He’s trouble."
"I’d like to get into some trouble with him," Sylvia mused, waggling her eyebrows so aggressively they practically did the cha-cha.
"Sylvia!" Ingrid gasped. "I’m telling Jessica!"
"Go ahead, she’ll agree with me," Sylvia said, utterly unfazed. "I might not be interested sexually, but I can appreciate. And I am appreciating hard right now." She leaned back, arms crossed. "But back to the sabotage thing. Explain."
"I found him holding the cut cable of her amplifier, but when I went back to show Eden, it was mysteriously fixed."
"So… it sounds like he fixed it, not destroyed it?" Sylvia remarked, her dark skin pinching between her eyebrows in confusion.
"I don’t know," Ingrid admitted, chewing her lip. "Eden's amp was tampered with last year, and guess who won?"
Sylvia smirked. "Wild guess... it was the band that tall glass of bad decisions is in?"
"Exactly."
"Or, and stay with me here, you could just ask him. I know, wild concept."
Ingrid could just ask him. But that would be far too easy, and if there was one thing she excelled at, besides ballet and repressing emotions, it was making her own life unnecessarily difficult.
Because deep down, she wanted a reason to dislike him. She needed a reason. Because if she didn’t… well. That left her with something far more dangerous: the horrifying, nauseating, and frankly unacceptable possibility that she might actually be attracted to him.
Her love life had always been blissfully drama-free, by choice. She brushed off crushes like lint on a black sweater. A quick flick, a little roll of tape, and gone. Ballet was her focus. Romance was just a subplot in other people’s lives.
But ignoring this man? This problematic, infuriating, smugly talented man? It was getting harder by the day. And this ridiculous tug-of-war between loathing and lust was starting to feel less like a battle and more like foreplay, which was deeply, deeply concerning.