3. Principal at a Price
Principal at a Price
Eleanor
Morning light leaks through the slats of my blinds, painting gold stripes across the ceiling. For a moment, I just lie there, staring at the cream paint peeling above me. My limbs are heavy, and my mind is more chaotic than the city outside.
I can’t stop thinking about dinner with Mom and Scarlett last night. I tossed and turned all night, overthinking every possible moment. ‘Why didn’t I just stand up for myself?’ or ‘Was I being rude? Is that why I wasn’t included in the conversation? Should I have tried harder to connect with them?’
I know the answer to at least one of those questions, and it’s no, I couldn’t have tried harder. I always come last to them. My successes—or lack thereof—is usually overshadowed by whatever Edward and Scarlett are doing. Until I become a principal dancer, I’m not worthy of Mom’s praises.
Moments later, I rise and get ready for the day. I repack my dance bag with all the usual necessities: extra tights, rosin, blister tape, and a snack. Once I’m ready, I slip on my shoes and coat, grab my breakfast sandwich, and head toward the studio.
The walk to the Metropolitan Theatre of Ballet is a blur of horns, heels, and that thin film of early spring fog that clings to everything.
The city is chaotically peaceful this early in the morning.
Sunlight glistens off brownstones and glass towers.
Dog walkers tug on leashes, trying not to spill the coffee in their other hand.
Street vendors begin rolling out their carts, the scent of fresh bagels lingering in the air.
I put my earbuds in, cutting off the world around me.
The music from Giselle fills my ears, and my thoughts settle on tonight’s performance.
When I step inside the theater, the air shifts, raising goosebumps on my arms. The familiar scent of rosin and worn marley floors ground me as I make my way down the corridor toward the studio for warm-ups. I pull the headphones from my ears and tuck them away into the side pocket of my dance bag.
Inside the studio, Sofia’s already at the barre, her leg extended in a perfect développé, her body moving with the ease of someone who has spent years mastering the language of muscle and breath. Her curls are in a tight, neat bun, not a single strand of her dark hair out of place.
I toss my bag next to hers and bend down to gather my pointe shoes. “Hey, Sofia,” I say, as I begin to tie the ribbons. “Ready for night two?”
She stands straighter, a wide smile spreading across her face. “Absolutely.” She grabs a towel and runs it behind her neck. “Performing Myrtha gives me a reason to lure men to their deaths.” She laughs. “What’s better than that?”
I giggle, moving toward the barre. “You know, it was nice watching Julian dance himself to death,” I say, standing in first position. “Too bad I had to make him stop.”
Sofia stands to join me. “I know, right? At least we get to watch it for a few more weeks until he’s promoted,” She scoffs.
I whip around to face her. “He got the promotion?” I ask, devastated.
I deserved that promotion.
She shrugs. “I heard a few of the other girls talking about it. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s true.”
My stomach sinks. Another season just as a soloist. Proving myself to Mom feels more out of reach than ever. How can I show her my worth if I’m never given a real shot? I’m already dancing a principal role, for goodness’ sake—I should’ve had a chance.
The studio door creaks open, and the sight of polished Capezios silences the room. Every head subtly faces the mirror, their postures snapping into perfect alignment, ready for instruction.
Soren.
His fitted black tank top outlines lean, defined muscle.
Ash-blond hair swoops away from his face in soft waves, the longer strands falling just beneath his ears.
A pair of black glasses sit perched on his nose like they haven’t shifted since he put them on.
Fine lines crease the corners of his eyes, but they do nothing to diminish the authority of a man who’s spent decades coaching dancers.
He scans the room with the unnerving precision of someone who demands excellence and doesn't hesitate to cut down anyone who falls short.
“Good morning,” he says promptly. “Tonight marks our second run of Giselle, and I expect nothing less than perfection. We’ll run Act I in full.
Leads, be sharp. Corps, find your spacing.
No dragging your feet. We already lost one reviewer’s praise last night, and I have no intention of losing another. ”
He lets the silence stretch for a minute before clapping his hands once.
“Barre, five minutes. Center after. Oh—Eleanor,” he adds, scanning the dancers until his gaze lands on me. “My office. Now.”
Heads swivel toward me, and I swallow, catching Sofia’s eye for a split second before grabbing my towel from my bag and slipping out after him.
The hallway is quiet compared to the rehearsal studio. My pulse thuds like a rocket getting ready for takeoff.
What could this possibly be about?
Dread creeps up my spine with every step. He slips through the open door and makes his way to the front of his desk, leaning on it with casual authority, arms folded across his chest. The dull gray light filtering through the half-drawn blinds cast long shadows across the floor, like prison bars.
“Close the door,” he says, barely glancing at me. “Then take a seat.”
I hesitate before reaching back and pushing it shut. This feels off. I take a seat in one of the plush chairs that face him.
He lifts his gaze to me, catching my eye. “You were a bit better last night,” he praises. “Especially after that disaster of a rehearsal.”
I draw my hands to my lap, fidgeting with my fingers, nerves prickling. “Thank you.”
He takes a slow, deliberate step toward me.
“You showed real emotion,” he continues. “Moments of true unpredictability. Giselle’s madness came alive in your eyes. You looked like someone who wanted that promotion.” His voice drops. “But there’s just one little problem.”
My lungs seize. “What problem?”
“Your weight.” He sighs. “I’d love nothing more than to promote you, Eleanor, truly.” A sly smile spreads across his face. “Though there are other ways you can earn it.”
A whirlwind of emotions hit me square in the chest. My weight?
I maintain it just like every other girl in this company.
My meals are perfectly weighed and portioned, thanks to my mother.
“What do you mean by my weight? And how exactly can I earn it? Haven’t I proven myself enough? You cast me as Giselle, after all.”
His gaze drifts downward and lands on my chest. “You’re one of our shorter girls, Eleanor, and you weigh as much as the taller ones.
” A laugh slips out of him. “It was almost like watching a whale up there.” He pauses, his eyes scanning me and sending a chill down my spine.
“But… you do have nice curves, I’ll admit.
Which is where my other offer comes into play. ”
My body goes rigid. “Wh…what offer?”
His eyes meet mine again. “You’ve been with the company five years now,” he says, scratching his jaw. “Most dancers don’t last half that long without either rising… or burning out.”
He steps closer, planting his hands on either side of the chair, caging me in.
“I can make you principal, Eleanor. This fall.” His voice drops to a whisper as his breath brushes my cheek. “All you have to do is come to my office after rehearsals. No clothes. No pretense. And I’ll make you a real dancer.”
He straightens slightly, running a finger along my jaw before tilting my chin toward him.
Principal. My dream. My goal. The thing I’ve trained and bled for. But at what cost?
Sheer panic crashes through me. I try to speak, but my voice is lost somewhere deep in my throat. “I… I’m not sure I—”
“You don’t have to be sure,” he interrupts smoothly. “You just have to show up.” He wipes a stray tear from my cheek.
When did I start crying?
Then, as if everything’s decided, he rises to his full height and walks back to his desk.
“Now,” he adds without looking at me, “get back to rehearsal. And Eleanor—don’t let your nerves ruin tonight’s performance.” His voice darkens. “And don’t tell anyone about our little… meeting. You won’t like the consequences if you do.”
I nod, though he’s not looking at me, and slip out the door, my heart racing as I all but flee the room.
The hallway tilts the moment I step into it. The overhead lights are too bright, searing spots into my vision. Music and counts echo faintly from the studio, but the sound feels far away, muffled, as if I’m trapped underground.
Then a voice cuts through the haze.
“Eleanor?”
I turn sharply.
Sofia stands by the water fountain, her hand loosely gripping her bottle. Her expression is… unreadable.
“I didn’t mean to overhear anything,” she says quickly, stepping forward. “I just needed some air before center…” Her voice drops. “But what I heard…”
My stomach plummets. “What did you hear?”
“Enough,” she says simply, eyes fixed on me.
I try to swallow, but my throat turns to sandpaper. “He… he offered me a promotion.”
Her brows lift slightly. “Yeah. I know.”
“I honestly have no idea what to do.” I search her face, desperate to read her tone.
Her gaze darts down the hall, then settles back on me. “Honestly, I don’t either.” Then she adds, softer, “I don’t think you should make any decisions right now. Let’s just get back to rehearsal, okay? We’ll figure this out later.”
I nod, desperate for reassurance. Her voice is calming, but something in her eyes says otherwise, though I decide to ignore it for now.
We turn back toward the studio, but my mind remains in that dim hallway. The floor beneath me is less like solid ground and more like a tightrope with no net to catch me if I fall.
Bile creeps up the back of my throat. I force myself to breathe, to look composed. But Soren’s words keep looping in my head, over and over. My weight. The promotion. His offer.