Chapter 34Ingrid. End of December, Opening night. Five years ago
INGRID. END OF DECEMBER, OPENING NIGHT. FIVE YEARS AGO
Ingrid’s eyes stayed locked on the stage as dancers moved like quick shadows, flitting back and forth. The wings were a frenzy: stagehands whispered instructions, set pieces slid into place, and dancers rushed past in a blur of sequins, sweat, and nerves.
From the pit, the orchestra’s tuning rose in a dissonant tangle of strings and brass, each sharp note a pinprick of anticipation crawling up her spine. It was almost time.
“Merde,” Aimee said with a grin as she strolled up behind them—French for good luck. She kissed Ingrid on the cheek, then did the same to Troye.
"Break a leg, Ingrid. You’ve got this," Troye said, pulling her into a quick hug.
She smiled, tight-lipped but genuine. The anxiety was still there, coiled like a spring in her chest, but beneath it now was something firmer. Resolve.
"Thanks, Troye. You too," she said, trying to keep her voice steady even as her fingers fussed with her tights.
Ingrid took a deep breath and focused on the floor beneath her pointe shoes. Adrenaline hummed in her bloodstream, electric and alive. Every grueling rehearsal, every tear, bruise, and doubt had led to this moment. And now it was here.
A soft wave of applause came from the audience. The first notes of the overture floated through the air, and the show had officially begun. Dancers moved to their places, whispering encouragement, costumes brushing together as everyone got ready.
Ingrid stole a quick glance through a narrow gap in the curtain, careful to stay hidden. Her eyes swept the crowd. Beck had promised he’d be there, front and center. But all she saw were strangers until she spotted Eden. The seat beside her was empty. Something in Ingrid’s stomach went cold.
He was probably just running late. Maybe stuck in traffic. She tried to believe that, even as a knot tightened in her chest. She turned away, pushing the worry.
The swell of the orchestra rose, and with a collective inhale from the dancers, the velvet curtain glided open to reveal the stage.
When her cue came, she leapt onto the stage in a grand jeté, her body slicing cleanly through the air before landing gracefully.
The audience responded with a swell of applause, and the sound gave her a jolt of confidence.
Every movement poured out of her like second nature, years of training etched into her muscles, automatic and precise.
She let the music wash over her, let it pull her deeper, until the lights, the audience, the world beyond the stage faded, and for a moment, it felt like she was dancing only for herself.
Still, Beck lingered in the back of her mind. A distraction she didn’t want but couldn’t shake. With every pirouette and plié, she tried to lose him in the rhythm, to let the music drown him out.
But as the third act built toward its peak and she rushed offstage for her final costume change, her eyes flicked past the curtain, toward the crowd, hoping that he might be there. That he had come. But there was no sign of him.
Maybe he was farther back, she told herself, clinging to the hope that he’d appear before the final act began.
"Don’t break your neck when you fall from that lift," Anna said as she brushed past, her voice dipped in syrup but edged like a knife.
Weston trailed behind, tall and silent, his eyes flat under the harsh backstage lights. He didn’t even glance at Ingrid as he passed.
Weston had been distant all evening but Ingrid had forced herself to stay focused.
She didn’t have time to unpack whatever tension still lingered after last week’s fight.
Weston hadn’t said a word about it backstage.
Maybe he was pretending it never happened, or maybe he just didn’t care enough to bring it up.
But the bruise was proof that it had. It lingered beneath his stage makeup, a faint shadow along his jaw. A quiet reminder of Beck’s fist.
She drew in a deep breath, letting the orchestra’s swell roll through her, the music vibrated through her bones. This was her place. Her moment. Everything else could wait.
Troye was already onstage as Siegfried, locked in a showdown with Weston’s Rothbart.
Ingrid moved between them, every step tight and controlled, each motion heavy with the weight of her character’s heartbreak. She was Odette, torn, trapped, and drowning in a love that felt like both salvation and ruin. The music surged, pushing her to give it everything.
Then Weston grabbed her. Too tight. Too rough. Her vision swam for a second as he yanked her into a stiff hold. They spun together, his grip unyielding, and just under the swell of the orchestra, she heard him. His voice was low and sharp, cutting right through the noise.
"Where’s your loser boyfriend? Did he already dump you?"
The words landed like a punch to the ribs, stealing her breath. Fury flared, hot and fast, but she swallowed it down, shoving it deep. Her face stayed smooth, her posture perfect, the audience none the wiser. Discipline kept her together. Discipline kept her from falling apart.
But inside, she was crumbling.
Beck not being here burned like an open wound. She had scanned the crowd again and again, hoping, begging, to spot him beside Eden in the second row. The seat was still empty.
And now even Weston could smell the blood. He could use it.
Every step after that felt heavier. Every pirouette was less about soaring and more about surviving.
This wasn’t just any performance. It was her performance. The one she had bled for, trained for, sacrificed years of her life to perfect. She should have been glowing with triumph, basking in the spotlight. But instead, she felt hollow. Like a ghost moving through borrowed choreography.
The realization crashed into her mid-pas de deux: she had let herself need him. She had told herself again and again that she didn’t, that she couldn’t afford to. She had built herself to stand alone. But here she was, unraveling over one empty seat.
In that moment, she wasn’t just Odette, the doomed swan queen. She was Ingrid, raw, exposed, undone not by a curse, but by her own heart. By her hope. By the terrifying thought of loving someone who might not love her back nearly as much. And that was enough to nearly break her in two.
Weston's gaze burned into hers. The one-armed lift was seconds away. Her chest tightened with anticipation, dread curling in her stomach like a clenched fist. She darted forward, muscles taut, every breath synchronized with the music.
There was no room for hesitation. She leapt.
Weston’s hand caught her at the waist, just as rehearsed. For a split second, she soared, weightless above him, her body suspended in a fragile, breathless arc.
Then something shifted. His grip slipped.
Barely. Just enough. Her stomach dropped.
Panic surged like electricity through her veins, sharp and paralyzing.
She twisted instinctively, trying to correct her center, to adjust her balance, but the air had already turned against her.
The moment was lost. Gravity seized her.
She crashed down hard, the stage rising like a wall to meet her. Her head struck first, the force jarring her entire body. Pain bloomed instantly, bright and blinding, radiating from the back of her skull.
The lights overhead swam and blurred, turning into jagged halos. Everything tilted. Her limbs felt detached, foreign. The world narrowed to a tunnel of sound: her heartbeat crashing like thunder, her breath quick and shallow, like she couldn’t catch enough air no matter how hard she tried.
Troye was beside her in an instant, dropping to his knees, his face etched with panic as he hovered over her.
"Ingrid," Troye said, voice tight and urgent. "Can you hear me?"
She blinked, slow and sluggish. Her lips parted, but no words came. Just the hollow hum of pain and the crushing weight of everything breaking all at once.
"I’m going to make it look like part of the show," he said, calm and composed, a sharp contrast to the panic snapping at her ribs. "We’ll finish the jump together."
She was supposed to leap alone from the platform to the hidden mat below. That had been the plan. But now, the stage spun beneath her, tilting like a sinking ship.
"Okay," she whispered, her voice paper-thin and barely audible.
Troye slid his arms under her and lifted her with care. She collapsed into him, her limbs heavy. Each step toward the platform was a blur. At the edge, he didn’t hesitate, he launched them both into the air.
They landed with a solid thud, the mat softening the blow, Troye’s body absorbing most of it. Ingrid didn’t move right away. Her heart was pounding, breath coming too fast, too loud in her ears.
And in the middle of all of it, she wanted Beck.
His arms around her. His voice—low, steady, familiar—telling her she was okay. But he wasn’t here. He wasn’t in the crowd. Hadn’t watched her fall.
The realization settled on her tongue like metal. Cold. Bitter. He was supposed to be here. Where the hell was he when she needed him most?
Something brushed her cheek. She lifted a trembling hand, fingertips grazing skin. When she pulled them away, they were slick with red.
“Shit,” she whispered, staring at the blood.
Her stomach turned. It wasn’t just proof of the fall, it was a mark of failure. The cut on her temple burned, but it was nothing compared to the shame spreading like fire through her chest.
"Hold on," Troye said quickly. He tore the sleeve from his costume and pressed it to her wound. She flinched at the pressure. Despite the sting, despite the dizziness, she felt a flicker of gratitude. Troye had caught her, in every sense.
“You saved my ass out there,” she whispered, voice raw. The words caught in her throat, thick with emotion. “Thank you.” She forced herself upright, even as the world swayed dangerously around her.
Troye stayed close, crouched beside her, his eyes full of concern. “That was a bad fall. You need a hospital.”