1. Rosalie
ONE
Rosalie
“ F ix your arms in your arabesque,” my classic technique teacher, Madame Céline, cries out from the corner where she’s been watching me for my entire rehearsal class.
I stride across the studio floor like I own it, the music from The Nutcracker pumping through the speakers. It’s not just music. It’s a freaking dare. A challenge to keep up, to rise above, to make it flawless. And I will, because I’m the Sugar Plum Fairy, and sugar plum fairies don’t miss. Not at Juilliard, where perfection isn’t just expected—it’s the bare minimum.
“Yes. Glide, Rosalie. Push. Push! Show your legs off.”
My pink tutu flares as I spin, the soft brush of fabric against my legs barely registering. My reflection in the mirror is sharp, clean, just like it needs to be.
But honestly? I’m running on fumes. Weeks of nonstop rehearsals and a constant stream of critiques from Madame Céline and my mother will do that. My body aches in places I didn’t even know existed, but, well, stopping isn’t an option. There’s no room for complaints here. No, I’m tired or my legs feel like lead . It’s Juilliard. The dream. You suck it up and keep moving or leave.
Madame Céline stands in the corner, arms folded like she’s auditioning to be some villain. Her eyes laser through me and catch every wobble, every imperfection. She doesn’t even have to say anything. The weight of her judgment is enough to make my stomach flip. But I’m not here to please her. I’m here because this is who I am.
Yeah, I’ve got a temper, and yeah, the whole “polished ballerina” thing isn’t exactly my vibe. But when I dance, none of it matters. I’ll give it everything I’ve got, sweat and all, because if Juilliard has taught me anything, it’s that perfection isn’t pretty—it’s brutal. And fuck, I’m here for it.
“Perfect, Rosalie,” she calls out, her voice clipped with approval. “The arabesque was flawless. Your lines are as clean as ever.”
I breathe out, feeling the tension in my shoulders start to release. It’s almost a compliment, but with Madame Céline, you never know. Her standards are impossible to meet, and she’s a master at making you feel like you could be better. Always. She and my mom are basically the same person.
“Thank you, Madame,” I say softly, lowering my arms and sinking into a deep curtsy, letting my legs stretch with the effort it takes to hold the position.
The ache in my thighs has been a constant companion since middle school, but I push through it, as always. I’ll push through anything.
“Again,” Madame Céline says, her voice firm, almost impatient. “From the beginning, with more energy. The Sugar Plum Fairy is grace personified. Don’t forget that.”
I nod quickly and begin again.
“You need to show everyone that you’re the best of your class. That’s why you were granted to dance this role!”
When the casting for the Sugar Plum Fairy was announced, everyone was on edge. It’s one of those roles that feels impossible unless you’ve poured your soul into training—and even then, it’s a beast. Act II is famous for its duet, where the Fairy has to showcase her solo performance before ending in a lightning-speed finale.
Madame Céline told me she expects at least twelve pirouettes—those fast spins where you turn on one foot without falling over. I’m aiming for fourteen because, well, go big or go home, right? But to be honest…it’s exhausting. Even for someone like me, who’s used to pushing my body to the limit. Your legs burn, your head spins, and you’re fighting to keep everything looking perfect while every muscle screams at you to stop.
But I don’t. I can’t.
I got my first principal role and I won’t mess up.
When the music finally comes to an end and Madame Céline gives her usual, almost imperceptible nod, I know the training is over and I finally get to rest. Thank God. My body trembles and I quickly tell her goodbye and rush into the locker room. Like everything in Juilliard, it’s clean, modern, and efficient. It’s well lit, with white walls, accented with sleek, metal lockers, and dark wooden benches. The design is practical, reflecting Juilliard’s focus on discipline and hard work.
I slump on the bench and try to push through my ragged breath. We learn to block out pain at a very young age. There’s good pain and bad pain. It’s bad when you have a real injury; that’s when you need to be smart and not overdo it, because making it worse could end your career. The good pain is from muscle gain. It’s when our feet or calves hurt. Today is a good pain day.
Once my breath is normal again. I ignore the hurt.
But then, the door to the locker room bursts open, and Charlotte’s unmistakable voice fills the room.
“Rosie!” she calls, her tone louder than the ringing in my ears.
I glance over at her as she enters, a wide grin on her face and a spark in her green eyes that I know all too well. She’s wearing one of her trademark short skirts and a top that’s too tight with lots of cutouts, the kind of outfit that gets attention wherever she goes. Her blonde waves always look effortlessly, as if she doesn’t try—but she always does. Always.
She’s holding up a sleek, black dress, the fabric glittering under the harsh fluorescent lights.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask, trying to hide my exhaustion with a smile. I grab my phone from out of my training bag and notice several missed calls and texts from Charlotte and Vaughn.
Charlotte tosses the dress at me with a dramatic flair. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” she says. “I’m not taking no for an answer. It’s Friday. You’re coming with me tonight.”
I stare at her, confused for a moment. “What’s tonight?” I ask, trying to keep the dread out of my voice. Those pirouettes are killing me.
“A party, duh,” she replies, her tone practically bouncing with excitement. “Vaughn’s waiting.”
I feel a pang in my chest. Of course he is. I told him I wanted to take things slow, and ever since, he’s been clingy.
“I don’t know, Charlie…” I trail off, the exhaustion in my bones making me hesitant. “I’ve got another rehearsal on Monday. I should rest.” And stay away from drugs and alcohol. And to be honest? With Vaughn and Charlotte. There’s always drugs and alcohol.
Charlotte doesn’t give me the chance to think. She wraps her arm around my shoulders, pulling me toward the locker room. “Come on, Rosie. You need to relax. You deserve it. It’s been nonstop work for you. You’ve been avoiding us for weeks!”
I almost laugh at the word us. Charlotte’s been one of my best friends since we met at our fancy Upper East Side high school, but we’ve only known Vaughn for about a year. So that us hasn’t been around for all that long. But I get it. Vaughn is famous—a singer who gets us into every exclusive party in the city, packed with A-list stars. And damn, we’ve partied. Before Vaughn, with Vaughn…but I just can’t keep up anymore.
I need to be sharp. I need to be disciplined.
I need to be ready for The Nutcracker.
And then there’s Jay—my brother’s best friend, the one I’ve spent way too much time thinking about. The one I’ve been crushing on for as long as I can remember.
But I’ll never forget the way he looked at me at the sports gala my parents hosted earlier this year. It wasn’t just a glance—it was the kind of look that knocked the air from my lungs, that made my heart stutter and my world tilt. Like he was seeing me for the first time. Like I was something to be seen. But that look died quickly when he realized how wasted I was again—that he had to save me again.
And in that moment, something inside me shattered.
Or maybe, something woke up.
Since then, I’ve been trying—really trying—to keep my life together, to stay away from the things that pull me under. But when I’m with my friends, or when the world feels too loud, too heavy…it’s harder.
Each time I try to ease things up again, he’s there. And the guilt only deepens—because I wanted to be there for him. I wanted to sit by his side, to tell him he wasn’t alone, that he’d get through it. But he shut us all out. Shut me out.
That accident months ago nearly took everything from him, and he wouldn’t let anyone in. And now, all I have left is that last look he gave me—one filled with disappointment, with something that felt an awful lot like regret. It haunts me, follows me into the quiet moments when the noise fades.
And for the first time in a long time, I want to be better. Not just for him, not just to chase something I might never get—but for myself.
I throw everything into my goal. After graduation, I want a spot in the New York City Ballet—I’m this close. If I stay focused, if I don’t mess this up, maybe I can make it.
And maybe, just maybe, when I finally become someone who’s worth looking at, I’ll get another chance. Another admiring look from Jay—not one filled with disappointment, but something more. Something I’ve been waiting for my whole life.
That is…if I don’t mess it all up first.
“Come on, Rosie. We miss you.” Her voice softens. Charlotte’s always been the girl who can’t take no for an answer. She’s a spoiled babe, but again, most of my friends are. I guess I am too.
I slip out of my shoes and tutu, carefully packing them away into my training bag. It’s already stuffed with pink pointe shoes—one pair every other day, sometimes more, depending on how many hours I’ve danced. Lately, it’s been a lot of dancing. My bag’s practically bursting.
“Charlotte, the variations are exhausting. I can’t keep partying like I used to if I want to—”
“I know, I know. But it’s Friday, girl. You’ve got the whole weekend to recover. You really want to stay home like some granny? You’ve always managed before.”
Managed . Yeah, well, I used to juggle it all. The rehearsals, the performances, and then the parties after, where I could let go. Where the drinks would numb the pressure, where the drugs would help me forget everything I was trying to escape. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t seem to shake the craving. The second she mentioned going out, my body tensed with anticipation. It’s that feeling—the rush, the high. It’s hard to resist.
Maybe just one night. One night wouldn’t hurt, right?
I could stick to just a little alcohol. Nothing heavy. No drugs this time. I can control it…at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
I don’t know…
“Come on!” Charlotte’s voice brings me back, urgency in her words.
I think of my cold apartment with no one but myself.
Charlotte pouts in front of me and points to the dress that’s drop-dead gorgeous and probably handpicked by Vaughn. It’s his style. Short and flashy.
I turn it and notice it’s Valentino.
Damn it. Damn it. I shouldn’t.
“Come on, you can ignore us again after, okay? There’s this big party at Rayner’s.”
Another hot DJ in town, famous for throwing the kind of parties people talk about for weeks. It could be fun. A different kind of dancing—something wild, something freeing. Something to let go for a night.
“Okay, fine,” I say, rolling my eyes at Charlotte. “But just for a little while. I can’t be out all night.”
Charlotte’s pink grin widens, like she just hit the jackpot. “That’s the spirit!”
“But you’ll have to wait ten minutes. I need a shower, and I’m not going anywhere looking like this. Can you handle that?”
She pouts, throwing me a dramatic look. “Uh, no? Make it five. I’m not waiting around forever.”
I’m barely zipped into the dress before Charlotte is pulling me outside.
The chilly evening air bites at my skin, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s practically dragging me down the sidewalk, our heels clicking with a rhythm I can barely keep up with.
Vaughn’s limo is waiting at the curb, its sleek black body reflecting the streetlights as we climb in. Inside, it smells like perfume and expensive leather. Vaughn’s sitting across from us, grinning like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. And oh, he is. That’s what got me when I met him at a club last year.
He exudes an aura of danger. The kind that draws you in and ignites a fire within. You know you should resist, but the temptation is too strong to deny.
His fake platinum blond hair is messy in that I don’t care way, and his eyes are sharp, dark, and calculating. He’s dressed in his usual crazy attire, fitted black jeans, a pink shirt, and an oversized jacket with lots of words on it. His dress code always screams rockstar .
He leans back in his seat, exuding an effortless kind of arrogance.
“You’re looking fine tonight, babe,” he says and hands me a glass of champagne, the bubbles fizzing as they swirl in the glass. “You’re gonna have a good time tonight, I promise. You’re always working so hard.”
He kisses me as I take the glass from him. The champagne’s cold, burning as it slides down my throat, but it’s kind of nice—easy. Just a sip from it calms my nerves.
The past few weeks have been a total blur, and honestly, I’ve barely had time to eat properly. As an athlete, I know how important it is to fuel my body—not just for performance but for my mental clarity too. Still, my mind loves to sabotage me, dragging up memories of my messy family. Those thoughts reach for things I shouldn’t, leaning into habits I know aren’t healthy.
I try to keep my voice steady as I say, “But I can’t get too drunk.”
Vaughn’s loud laughter fills the car. “What nonsense is that, Rosie? You gotta keep up. Let’s have fun. Don’t be a party pooper.” He pops open another bottle of champagne, careless as some of it spills onto the leather seats.
Charlotte’s grin is maniacal as she hands me a small, see-through plastic bag with white powder in it. “Look what we’ve got,” she says in a singsongy voice.
Coke.
Vaughn raises an eyebrow challengingly, daring me. “Treat yourself.”
“It’s good stuff this time,” Charlotte tries once more.
“No thanks,” I say firmly, but my resolve wavers when Vaughn starts kissing my neck.
“I missed you,” he whispers against my skin, and I can’t resist smiling at him.
“I told you I’m busy,” I remind him. “New York’s mayor will be at our premiere, and it’s my best shot at securing an audition for the company. I told you.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Charlotte taking a silver plate from somewhere, preparing a line on it. Vaughn hands her his credit card and she smooths out the powder before she snorts it.
As I watch her, a flash of unease washes over me.
I know the feeling and I want it.
I look away and ball my fingers into fists. I can’t be this weak. It’s been, what? Five minutes in the car and I’m already considering throwing it all away?
When Charlotte finishes, she offers me the plate with the prepared line on top. And I look at it.
The problem with coke is, it feels like an intense wave of happiness followed by a long wave of sorrow. I know it. I hate the aftereffect because what coke does is, it makes you feel like Superman, only to show you that you’re fucking not, and usually I can’t cope with it and just take more and more until I can’t anymore and finally go to sleep.
But that high.
I want it each time, even though I’ll feel like shit all week afterward.
And then there’s this teeny tiny thought: I would feel good for at least some hours.
God. I know it’s wrong. I know I shouldn’t do it.
The music blasting from the speakers makes everything feel distant and hazy. I notice the responsible part of me fading away again. Who am I kidding? I’ve never been responsible. I’ve been drinking and partying since high school. What harm could one line do? It’ll wear off in a couple hours anyway, and I’ve never struggled to get back on the dance floor before.
“Come on,” Vaughn calls out, his lips still pressed against my neck as he wiggles the plate in front of me.
I still hesitate.
I may be able to handle partying and dancing while under the influence, but being the Sugar Plum Fairy is a whole other challenge. This year is different because I’m in my final year of college, with a load of senior projects weighing me down. I need my stamina for that role. I need to be fit. Plus, partying like we do is like playing with fire. Juilliard strictly forbids drug use. If anyone finds out, I’ll be expelled from the program, regardless of my family’s wealth, and no company will want to hire me, ever.
“Rosalie,” Vaughn says, dragging out the syllables of my name. “We’re invited to a very secret party tonight. It’s fine. Only our people, I promise.”
I roll my eyes, but inwardly I’m relieved. I know what secret parties mean. There won’t be any photos taken or phones allowed. We’re heading to an A-list party. After all, no one wants a video of them snorting or dancing while high to surface on social media.
And that’s when my resolve crumbles.
“Fuck it,” I mutter and take the plate.
Just one line.
I snort the powder, feeling the instant rush, my body going light as if I were floating. As if all the pressure vanishes. As if my parents would actually give a fuck what I’m doing all day long. As if my friends would care that I cry myself to sleep. As if I had a boyfriend who would truly love me. As if Jay would answer my calls. As if everything would be okay.
Vaughn laughs again and I drop the plate, kissing him.
We’re on our way to his friend’s villa, tucked near the Hamptons—a long drive, just right for downing more champagne and turning the car ride into a pre-party of its own.
By the time we arrive at Rayner’s, the energy is electric.
I slip into the crowd, filling the living room, where Rayner has set up a DJ booth, his newest tracks pulsing through the space. Laughter, dancing, voices rising over the music. It’s chaos, but the kind that swallows you whole. They’re all strangers, but right now, that doesn’t matter. Nothing does. I’m just dancing for fun, and it’s so nice not to care about the way I’m moving, or follow instructions. And we dance all night. We take more lines in the bathroom, more alcohol, and just forget what’s going on in our real lives.
Vaughn stays close, always a step ahead, always watching.
His gaze is intense, and I feel his presence like a weight on my shoulders, even when he’s not speaking. He told me once that I’m his dream girl. That no one is as perfect as I am. He even wrote a song about me and it’s coming out next week.
I don’t feel honored, though. I know I should be. Many girls would kill to be his so-called muse. I like Vaughn, but he’s never made my heart jump. Not like it used to with a certain hockey player I shouldn’t think of.
Charlotte’s by my side, dragging me from one group of people to the next, laughing too loudly, her fingers tight around my wrist. She introduces me to so many people, but I can barely catch their names. Everything feels distant—like I’m watching it all from the outside.
As the night drags on, I’m already feeling drained. The lights blur, the music a faint hum in the background.
Charlotte’s voice cuts through the fog in my brain, I think she’s sitting next to me. “Are you okay?”
I nod, my eyelids heavy, exhaustion settling deep in my legs as I sink into the couch. I curl up against Vaughn, his voice a low hum as he chats with some industry friends. The conversation drifts around me, it’s blurred and distant.
I notice them talking about Kix Lyle . My ears prick at the name.
He’s something like Vaughn’s rival.
“He’s gonna go down for what he did,” someone says, their voice hushed, full of venom. “Still can’t believe he dissed you like that on his track.”
“Well, you reap what you sow, right?” I hear Vaughn.
“Exactly,” a guy says, and I try to open my eyelids but they feel so heavy.
“I think I’m not feeling well,” I say to Vaughn. I think?
“It’s okay, babe. You’ll be fine soon. It’s just the mix you got.”
My eyelids grow heavier by the minute.
“Fucking Kix,” another voice says. “That dumbass will shit his pants soon.”
I strain to hear more, but the words blur in my mind, until the room starts spinning. I try to focus, to catch the conversation. Then, my eyelids flutter and everything goes dark.