10. Rosalie
TEN
Rosalie
“ A ll right, everyone, gather ’round,” Madame Céline calls in her scratchy voice.
We move into position, all twenty-four of us lined up at the barre. Black leotards, pink tights. Our uniform a constant reminder of both how far we’ve come and how much further we have to go. Ballet Level 5 at Juilliard isn’t just a class. It’s the top, the final test, where every move counts.
The studio is vast, with polished wooden floors gleaming under the natural light pouring through the tall windows. The brass barre gleams like a challenge, positioned along the side walls, while mirrors stretch along the opposite side, reflecting our every movement. No room for error. No place to hide.
I would be lying if I’d said I’m at my best today. I’m not. And it’s my own stupid fault.
Madame Laurent moves down the line with the grace of someone who’s spent all her life in pointe shoes. Her sharp blue eyes are hawk-like, catching every imperfect turnout and every drooping wrist. She taps her slender cane lightly against the floor, the sound slicing through the air as she commands, “Extend, don’t place. Feel your movement.”
The pianist in the corner, a freshman, plays a steady adagio, its rhythm grounding us as we shift through pliés and tendus . Every move is deliberate, precise, our bodies pushed to their limits but never quite breaking. Not here. Not today.
With a tap of her slender cane, she commands me into fifth position and says, “Arms en haut !”
The cane reminds me of Jay, which is completely inappropriate right now. I should be focused on my ballet lesson, not reminiscing about the absolutely incredible sex we had. But it’s hard not to think about it. Hell, it’s been all I was thinking about since I basically ran from his apartment yesterday morning.
Madame stops in front of Leah, my barre partner.
She’s a petite redhead with a determined set to her jaw. She slides her left foot into position and lifts her arms overhead, fingers softly rounded. Madame nods, and it feels like a silent medal of approval. I can’t help but grin at Leah, who’s been struggling lately after not landing a lead role for our winter show. She’s been training harder than ever since, and I have a feeling all her effort will finally pay off for the summer show.
Then Madame gives another instruction, and we all adjust instantly our movements.
Beside Leah, there’s Julian, a tall but lean, blond man. He adjusts his turnout with a slight grimace. He’s struggling with pedagogy this year and has trouble with sleeping lately.
Ballet requires your full physical and mental presence, or else the positions won’t look as precise as they should. We all experience pain at some point, but we must push through it. However, when something troubles our minds, it becomes more difficult to continue, and it shows in our performance. I know I’m not at my best today as well. How could I be after that fucking weekend?
“Plié. Slow and deep. Feel the floor beneath you, Julian,” Madame instructs, her voice like a whip crack.
We bend our knees in unison, our spines long and regal, as though invisible strings are pulling us upward. Leah glances through the mirror at me, and once Madame is past us, I grimace at her. She grins, but then Julian exhales sharply, beads of sweat forming at his temples as Madame watches him struggle with the basics.
“Come on, Julian, focus. You’re not a freshman anymore.” Madame tsks.
“Yes, ma’am,” he responds, and I see Leah’s expression soften as she watches him.
They’ve been together since our first year, and they’re the closest thing I have to friends here. We all have a great class connection since we’re nonstop together, also dancing together and partnering. We trust each other, but still, I don’t usually hang out with my classmates—most of my friends are outside of this place. And I know it’s been my fault. Something I came to regret when my last year started. It’s my last year. After this, I will never be a part of Julliard again. But if I had to pick someone, Leah would be the one I’d call my best friend here, even though we haven’t done much together since those early days.
Jay’s words echo in my head, the ones about needing new friends, people who are actually interested in my life, not only the party nights. I think Leah could be that person.
“Good. Now tendu. Right leg, devant ,” Madame continues.
One by one, we extend our legs forward, our toes brushing the floor with the precision of a painter’s brushstroke.
“Julian, point your foot. Rosie, don’t collapse in the hips. C’est incroyable !” Madame Laurent snaps without breaking her stride.
Her cane taps Julian’s calf now, and he adjusts immediately. Madame Laurent is definitely on a roll today, huh?
But we all know better than to test her patience.
I need to keep it together, too, but the weight of the weekend is like a stone lodged in my chest. Everything about it clings to me. I spent Sunday locked in a spiral of conversations with Dad, Ethan, and Riley, trying to piece together the mess that’s hanging over me like some damn Damocles sword. I tried to call Charlotte ten times and she didn’t pick up, didn’t even text or Snap or anything, and I’m starting to worry about her. She usually texts me nonstop, so where the heck is she? She was with me that night, and I bet she has her fifty cents to share too.
But no matter how many times I replay it all, every clue, every memory, it leads straight back to me. Opening the door. The pictures of me partying with Kix Lyle. The blood on my dress. The car crash. His key.
The knots in my stomach tighten and I almost fall.
I press my heels into the floor, grounding myself as best I can.
I seriously regret giving in to Charlotte’s persuasion and going out that night. I just hope it wasn’t the worst decision I’ve ever made.
“Across the floor! Jeté , assemblé , pirouette —show me your fire, your hunger,” Madame Laurent calls, clapping her hands, and I’m forced to snap out of my daydream as we all move to the center of the room, the piano music shifting to a lively allegro.
It’s time for our combinations.
Julian steps forward first, the line of his body fluid as he leaps into the air. Leah follows, her expression intense, every turn and leap executed with precision.
Madame Laurent’s voice cuts through the music. “Breathe! Dance is not just technique—it is life, it is passion!”
I bend into a plié and in one smooth motion, I push off the ground, soaring into the air. As I spin into the pirouette en dehors , the world blurs around me. The moment I land, I sink into a demi-plié , the impact soft but steady. Without missing a beat, I kick my leg into an arabesque, my back straight, arms poised, holding the perfect line like I own the room.
Madame gives a nod, and I step back into line, watching as another classmate takes their turn. We push ourselves harder, again and again, until everyone has had their chance to perform their combination.
“ Très bien ,” Madame Laurent says softly, a rare smile gracing her lips. “You are artists. Remember that. Class dismissed.”
We exchange nods and exhausted smiles and gather our things. I pull on my sweatshirt and my muscles are trembling. God, that was exhausting. Julian comes to a halt next to me and wipes his face with a towel, catching Leah’s eye in the mirror and giving her a subtle thumbs-up.
“God, she was on fire today.”
“Don’t tell me, I think she hated us today.”
“Hundred percent.” Julian rolls his eyes.
“Rosalie,” Madame says and stops in front of me with her bag over her shoulder. “You’re excellent and you know it. But you need to push harder, girl. Today wasn’t it. You know, not everyone can be part of the ABT. I don’t want to risk my name. You know important people are coming to The Nutcracker premiere and I told them good things about you. Don’t disappoint me.”
“I know, and no, Madame. I won’t.” I grin politely, and once she turns around, I catch my reflection in the mirror.
My black hair is plastered to my forehead with sweat. My weekend is showing. I wouldn’t be so weak if I’d stayed clean. I may be reckless and wild in other areas of my life, but when it comes to ballet, I have to be all in. And I won’t stop until I’ve reached the top. I can do it. I just have to stop with these parties. The ABT, the American Ballet Theatre in NY, is one of the greatest dance companies in the world and I always dreamed of becoming a part of it.
“She’ll love you next class again,” Leah says, her red hair pinned up, breathing hard as she comes up between us. “She always does, that’s why she’s extra hard on you. We just have to work hard and keep going.”
“Speaking of which,” Julian says and turns to me. “Do you want to grab some lunch with us and chat about our senior project before class with Grant?”
Normally I would say no, tend to myself instead, but today, I say, “Sure. I’d love that.”
Both of them look funny, as if they didn’t think I’d say yes. But they smile and so do I. Maybe Jay is right. Maybe letting Leah and Julian in would be good for me.
“Great work, everyone!” Mr. Grant calls out, his voice carrying across the studio as his hands clap together with a sharp snap. He’s our instructor for Repertory, Collaborations I can see the paparazzi still snapping photos from every angle. Panic sets in as I realize the dean will be furious about this. Juilliard is a prestigious school. There’s almost never anything negative about it.
I’m frozen in shock as we speed away. I’ve never experienced anything like this before—the constant flashing lights and clamor of voices. They wouldn’t let me breathe—just swarmed around me like vultures.
I try to relax my facial expression as one of my bodyguards speaks up in broken English, reassuring me that they will protect me from now on.
“How did you know they were after me?” I ask nervously.
“Your father was informed by your publicists that there could be a threat,” the bodyguard replies calmly.
My manager. That must be Ethan.
As we reach the car, the bodyguard opens the door for me, and I get inside. “Thank you. What’s your name?” I inquire.
“Ivan,” he responds with a small smile before closing the door behind me.
I reach for my phone to call Dad, but I notice that I have hundreds of messages. Ethan called three times. Once I open Instagram, I know why.
Someone has leaked photos of me with Kix. I must admit, it looks sketchy as hell. It’s me in his apartment, hugging him . I sink deeper into the leather seat and grab my forehead. Why were we hugging? It feels so insufferable. Different photos keep coming. It feels like I’m in this void and I can’t crawl up, no matter what I do.
My phone vibrates and there’s another news article my Instagram account was tagged in.
Shit. All the tabloids are jumping on the story, spinning their own wild theories. And to make matters worse, Kix Lyle is in the hospital . I click on the story and read it.
Kix Lyle in the hospital after attack.
The 26-year-old Ghost-In-Town singer was spotted heading into hospital after allegedly being drugged during a wild night out at a club near his Hamptons beach house. Adding fuel to the fire? He was seen partying with New York’s mogul daughter and ballerina, Rosalie Huntington. Huntington, who has yet to respond to our reporters, is rumored to be dating singer Jett Vaughn—none other than Kix Lyle’s biggest rival. Drama, anyone? The real question is: Who trashed Lyle’s house and assaulted him? Stay tuned—this story is getting very juicy!
I sigh at the article, cringing at the line Huntington, who has yet to respond to our reporters. I don’t have to do shit. What are they even thinking?
I’m so happy I handed all my social media and email accounts over to Ethan and Nina. Ethan probably didn’t even reply, and that’s fine by me. No way am I addressing this garbage. A love triangle? Seriously? I can’t wait for the “sources” to make up something even wilder. Why can’t people mind their own business?
Note to self: never date a singer again.
And if I do, he better only perform at weddings or in the shower.
My phone rings and it’s Jay.
Without hesitation, I pick up.
“Have you seen the photos?” he asks immediately.
“So, this is you not ignoring me anymore?” I shoot back.
“I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“We fucked, and then you disappeared.”
“Well, technically, you disappeared,” he counters. “I just…I didn’t know what to say, Rosie. I’m sorry. Your brother showed up right after you left and…hell, I’ve been thinking about you all day, and then I saw these articles…I would have texted you, but…fuck. Are you okay?”
I sigh. How could I be? But hearing his voice…it’s like a warm hug on a cold day. If only I could physically feel his arms around me at this moment, everything would be so much better. But, well, I can’t.
“People are losing their minds, Jay. Paparazzi almost trampled me five minutes ago trying to get more pictures. I feel like…I feel so shit.”
“What? Where are you? Did anyone hurt you? I will kill them if—”
“No. No, all good. Stanley’s driving me home,” I reply, my voice cracking. “B-but…I don’t know what to do. Charlotte’s not answering my calls, and all these things popping up…I just want to know what happened, but no one’s replying to my texts. Vaughn is in LA, not giving a damn, fuck—”
“Okay, hang on,” he interrupts, the sound of rustling fabric in the background. “I have an idea. I’ll be at the Whitmore in thirty minutes. We’ll sort it out.”
But when I make it back to the hotel, the chaos hasn’t let up. Paparazzi are camped outside in a swarm, their cameras flashing like fireflies on steroids, and I have to slip in through the back door to avoid them. Ivan and his boys flank the entrances and I start to worry about Dad’s business. I hope this won’t tear us all down.
Fuck. What did I do?
Dad’s already waiting in the lobby when I step inside.
He’s instructing the staff, and as soon as he spots me, he dismisses them with a wave of his hand.
It always strikes me how much Riley looks like Dad. They’re tall, broad-shouldered, with that same shock of black hair and a face built for charm. But where Riley’s face is quick to smile, Dad’s carved in stone. He’s all sharp edges, his lips rarely curving up unless it’s for a photo or a deal or well, me. Growing up, it was the hardest thing in the world to watch the two of them—father and son, mirrors of each other—lock horns so hard they nearly shattered.
They’ve always struggled to get along. Or maybe struggled is too soft a word. They hated each other. As a kid, I couldn’t understand why Dad’s love flowed so freely toward me but stopped cold at Riley. How could he be so lovely to me but so nasty to my brother? When Dad took me to playgrounds or horseback riding, I felt like shit each time we came home to find Riley all alone at home with our stone-cold mother.
With Dad, I could do no wrong.
And believe me, I’ve tried.
Over the years, I’ve done everything short of setting myself on fire just to prove I’m not the perfect little girl he imagines. I had my fair share of therapy sessions to realize that it was me trying to be fair, because it always felt so unfair how differently he treated me and Riley. But no matter how much I mess up, he doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see me and it hurts, because even though he says I’m the most important person in his world, I don’t know if I would be if he truly knew me.
And yet, I know without a doubt that nothing I do could ever make him stop loving me. It’s a love so immovable, it feels suffocating.
“Hi, darling.” Dad’s face softens into a welcoming smile as soon as he’s with me, his stern demeanor melting away. He leans in, kissing my cheek, and his cologne—a blend of cedarwood and power—fills my nose. “How are you holding up? You must be exhausted.”
“I’m okay, I guess.” I’m shit and want to cry like a little baby, but Huntingtons don’t do that.
He looks me over again and puts a strand of hair behind my ear. “You need to rest.”
“I will,” I say, trying to give him the smile he loves so much but I struggle halfway. The paparazzi creeped me the hell out and I couldn’t stop the shivering just yet.
“I just had a long conversation with the NYPD.”
My stomach twists. “They called you ?”
Why would they call my father? It’s my situation. My mess. But, of course, Dad has to be at the center of it. I don’t know why it still surprises me.
He waves a hand, brushing off my question. “That doesn’t matter. I’m handling it, darling. You don’t need to worry about it. How was school? I can’t wait to see you as the Sugar Plum Fairy and—”
“Dad,” I say firmly, my hands balling into fists. “I want to talk to the police myself, you couldn’t possibly tell them what I—”
He scoffs, cutting me off. “Rosie, darling, what could you have possibly done? Nothing. These allegations are just desperate attempts to grab your money. We’ve dealt with this sort of nonsense before. Don’t worry. They are just jealous because you’re a Huntington.”
I stand there, my words stuck in my throat. “What allegations?”
“That you’re caught up in this singer’s nonsense now. You really shouldn’t have gone to his party, but I know how it is, everyone wants a Huntington in their home. We’ll handle it. No worries.”
This is what he does.
He spins a version of reality that suits him and refuses to let anyone, even me, challenge it. I could collapse at his feet, high out of my mind, and he’d tell himself it was because I’d been working too hard.
And Riley? Riley could move mountains and still be nothing in Dad’s eyes. Meanwhile, all I have to do is show up and smile, and he acts like I’ve saved the world. It’s so unfair, and I’ve spent years trying to fix it—trying to make him see Riley and see me. But he won’t.
My teenage rebellion knew no bounds as I constantly goaded Dad into unleashing his anger, just like he used to do with Riley. He was so quick to break things, to scream and yell, all because of something as trivial as missing a family event. But I slept with one of my high school teachers, took drugs, and drank from an early age, and yet, Dad acts as if I’m an angel. Despite my efforts to change, it seems like I always end up screwing things up in the end.
“Listen,” Dad says, his tone softening as he takes my hand. “They don’t have proof of anything. Just some photos of you with that singer. You’re friends. That’s all.”
I flinch. Friends? Not even close. But there’s no point correcting him. He won’t hear it.
“As long as there’s no incriminating evidence, there’s nothing to worry about,” he continues. “And even if there is, Ethan and I have the best lawyers in the country. They can’t touch you, honey.”
I nod mechanically, but inside, I’m coiled tight, every nerve screaming.
This is Dad’s way. Throwing privilege at a problem until it goes away. But I don’t want it to go away—not like this. I need to know the truth. Whatever happened that night, I have to face it head-on. If I’m guilty, so be it. I’ll own it. But deep down, I know there’s more to this, and I won’t let him sweep it under the rug.
That’s when I see Jay.
He’s leaning against the back door, half in shadow, watching me with those sharp eyes that see far more than they should. From the looks of it, Ivan isn’t letting him into the hotel. And in that moment, I realize—I’m not doing this alone. Whatever the truth is, I’ll uncover it with him.
“Dad, I have to head out,” I say, touching his arm. “It’s this group project, and we really need to keep going.”
“You just got home,” he says, his disappointment clear. “Don’t you want to grab dinner with me?”
“Maybe breakfast tomorrow?” I offer, hoping it softens the blow.
His expression eases and his eyes soften. “Fine. But take Stanley and Ivan with you. I don’t want you going out alone anymore, all right?”
“Okay, thanks, Dad,” I say.