14. Star Expectations
long chapter ahead! 3
Being the Star of Ballet means that you are not just expected to shine, but also burn.
There was no room for falter, no margin for pain. You don't just perform, you become the performance.
Eyes watched. Judged. Expected.
Always.
The showcase had gone perfect. Every movement, every breath, every note had landed with precision. Weeks—no, months—of rehearsals, blistered toes, sore backs, it had all built up to those few minutes on stage.
We actually won.
And in the middle of it, there she was. Sloane.
"We wouldn't have won without me." she had announced to the room like she was the one who carried the show on her back. Her tone filled with sugar and superiority, just loud enough for everyone to hear.
I nearly laughed. But instead, I smiled. Nodded. Bit down on the ache rising. Because that's what stars do.
Shine even when it hurts.
And of course, after I stepped out, there was a swarm of reporters asking questions, agencies, cameras, lights flashing – and also people asking for photoshoots.
I tightened my grip around the star-shaped trophy resting in my lap as the cab hummed through the streets of Manhattan. Streetlights blurred past the window, glowing like halos through the glass. My legs throbbed with every bump in the road
The cab's engine hummed softly, and for a moment, the city lights blurred together like a flicker of distant stars.
I closed my eyes, letting the exhaustion wash over me, but even in the dark of my mind, I couldn't escape the ache. The trophy in my hands felt like a weight, heavy with the hollow ache of being seen but never truly known.
I didn't know when the tears fell — maybe it was when the trophy slipped from my grip and landed softly on my lap. My shoulders shook with a quiet sob.
Stars weren't supposed to crack.
I wiped my tears away quickly, taking a deep breath to steady myself.
Apparently, we have a two week break now cause Madame Dubois flew back to Troyes, France. Her home.
Home.
That word landed heavily in my chest.
They live in Paris. The city of lights, of love... of everything I left behind.
My parents run one of the most prestigious fashion houses in France — Fontaine Couture. Their names are stitched onto red carpet gowns, whispered in fashion weeks, and printed in the glossiest of magazines. They live in a world of silk and spotlights.
But at home? They were just Maman et Papa.
(Mom and dad)
She made the best croissants on Sundays— buttery ones, not the ones you find here in Manhattan cafés. While papa played classical music in the mornings while reading the newspaper.
And Adrien, my elder brother. God, I miss him the most.
He used to walk me home from rehearsals even when he had meetings, scolding me for not wearing a scarf in the cold. He was my safe place. My best friend. He still sends me stupid memes and voice notes with ridiculous French impressions just to make me laugh.
It's been five months since I moved to New York City. Five months since I moved from the warm gold of Paris to the cold silver of skyscrapers.
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"Amie!" Noah shouts and runs into me with a big hug. "You came!"
I laugh and hold him. "Of course I came, my superstar."
"You're late!" Chloe says, standing behind him with her hands on her hips.
"It's only twenty minutes," I smile as I step inside. "And I brought cookies."
That changes everything.
They rush around me, excited voices mixing—"What kind?" "Did you bring the heart ones?" "I get the chocolate chip first!" They lead me toward the living room, pulling me along.
Just as I turn the corner, I feel it.
A stare. Calm but intense.
I look up.
Xavier is leaning against the hallway wall. His arms are crossed, hoodie loose on his shoulders, jaw tight.
His eyes lock on mine. I hold up the box. "I brought cookies," I say, because somehow, that's the only thing that makes sense.
He didn't reply. Just nods once.
Ms. Whitaker spots me just as I step further in, her hands dusted with flour and her smile doing that knowing-mom thing that makes me want to shrink and smile back all at once.
She glances between me and her son—who was now very conveniently looking anywhere but at us.
"Ah," she says, wiping her hands on her apron. "Is that why my son has suddenly taken a keen interest in visiting his dear mother more often?"
My eyes widen a little, and I let out a nervous laugh. "I don't think I have that kind of power."
She chuckles and turns her gaze to Xavier, who still hasn't said a word. Until finally he sighs, a quiet one—annoyed, maybe. "Don't start, Mom."
But Ms. Whitaker only raises a brow, entirely unfazed. "I'm not starting anything. Just noticing patterns. Like how he never liked cookies—until someone started baking them."
I bite my lip to hide a smile. "They're just cookies..."
"Sure they are," she says sweetly, and then adds, "You'll stay for dinner, won't you, Amara?"
Before I can answer, four small voices shout from behind me: "YES, PLEASE STAY!"
"Yes, I'll stay." I smile and then nod at her.
"Alright, so I'm cooking dinner, but I need some veggies," she says, glancing over at me. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she adds, "Amara, Xavi, mind heading to the grocery store and picking them up for me?"
Xavier's head snaps up at the sound of his name, but he doesn't respond right away. His eyes narrow just slightly.
I look at Ms. Whitaker, surprised by her request. "Sure, but... I can go by myself. You don't have to trouble Xavier with it." I try to keep my voice light.
But Ms. Whitaker just gives me a knowing smile. "Nonsense. You two will be fine. Just make sure you don't take too long. Dinner won't cook itself."
And with that, she's back in the kitchen, her back to us as if the decision had already been made.
Xavier exhales sharply, standing up from where he'd been leaning against the wall. His expression is unreadable, but there's no escaping the fact that Ms. Whitaker had just made this a thing.
I shrug, as nonchalant as I can manage. "Guess we're going to the store together."
He doesn't say anything. Just moves clearly already annoyed by the idea. We stepped out into the cool evening, the sidewalk lit by the soft glow of streetlamps.
Until he spoke.
"So, how was your final showcase?" I blink, surprised. His tone was casual, but not disinterested. Still rough around the edges, but not entirely detached.
"It was great," I replied, a smile tugging at my lips despite myself. "Our group came first."
The corners of his mouth twitched, just barely.
I never told him. I told Noah—gushed about rehearsals and nerves and costumes like I always did with the kids. But he must've been listening.
Xavier Hayes. The man who doesn't care about anything, apparently remembered my showcase.
"I didn't think you'd eavesdrop." I say lightly, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye.
"I don't," he mutters, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. "I just heard you babbling about it to the kids. Loudly."
"Wow," I scoff, "Babbling?"
"Yeah," he mutters. "Didn't trip or cry on stage or anything?"
I laugh, nudging him with my elbow. "Nope. Managed to stay upright the entire time, thank you very much."
"Shame. I was kind of hoping for a fall," he says dryly. "Would've made it more entertaining."
Hoping for a fall.
Ugh. I pause reliving that moment again– me on the floor, while he was looking down at me. And my stupid ass even thought that he'd actually help me. His words echoed in my mind.
"Well be a gentleman and help this lady down here."
I could still hear it.
He must have noticed me pause, the shift in my expression, because his lips twitch into a smirk.
"Oh," he says, voice low, teasing. "You remember that, don't you?"
I could feel my cheeks warm slightly, but I refused to look at him. "It's hard to forget when someone made it so memorable."
His eyes flicker toward me, but there's no judgment in them—just that same unreadable amusement. "Wasn't my fault you fell."
"Yeah, well," I mutter, pushing forward a little faster, "I didn't ask for your help either."
He lets out a low chuckle, keeping pace with me as we head to the store. "Right. Sure you didn't."
"I didn't" I say firmly.
We push through the sliding doors of the grocery store, the cool air-conditioned breeze a welcome relief from the evening warmth. The aisles stretch out in front of us
I glance at Xavier, who's still walking ahead.
"So, what exactly do we have to get?" I ask, my voice louder than I'd meant, cutting through the hum of the store.
He pauses and pulls his phone out of his pocket, squinting at the screen. The list from Ms. Whitaker flickers across his screen. his eyes flick over the text quickly.
I take a few steps closer, curiosity getting the better of me. I peek over his shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of the list. "What's on there?" I ask, trying to make my voice casual.
He shifts slightly, the heat from his body brushing against mine as I peek over. I catch a faint whiff of his cologne—a mixture of leather and woodsy. Not that I'm paying attention to that or anything.
He seems to notice, though. He stiffens, just enough that I feel it, like he's aware of how close we are.
"It's just veggies," he mutters, as if that's all he's seeing. "Carrots. Broccoli. Spinach... that kind of thing."
I try to raise an eyebrow. "That's it?"
He glances at me for the briefest moment, eyes sharp. "You want me to add more to the list?"
"Hm. Why not?" I ask with a playful smile tugging at my lips, "Maybe snacks? Chips? Crackers? Popcorn?" I add.
"Mom will not be pleased by that idea." He replies, shaking his head
"Owh come on, is the Ring Lord afraid of snacks?" I tease him, pushing his buttons. "Or wait, is he afraid of his mom?" I smirk.
Xavier's eyebrows furrow, but there's a definite flicker of something—annoyance? Or maybe he's just trying to hide a laugh. Either way, he shakes his head in exasperation.
"I'm not afraid of anything," he mutters, but I can already see the slight, almost imperceptible way his shoulders drop, like he's about to give in.
"Then what's the problem?" I push, smiling wider now. "Afraid of a little popcorn?"
He doesn't answer right away, just staring at the list on his phone, as though he's trying to work out whether to concede to my relentless teasing. But when I glance up, I can see the gears turning in his mind.
Finally, he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine," he says, voice low but resigned. "Fine. We'll get the stupid snacks."
I smile brightly, triumphant. "What was that? I couldn't hear you over the sound of victory."
"I'll make you regret this." he mutters, his tone serious.
He heads toward the snack aisle without another word, pulling me along with him.
A few minutes later, he begrudgingly tosses a couple bags of chips, some popcorn, and a box of crackers into the cart.
"She's going to love you." I tease him, but inside, I'm enjoying the victory.
He glances at me from the corner of his eye as he pushes the cart. "I don't need your sarcasm right now."
We make our way to the checkout lane, the cart heavy with groceries—and, of course, the snacks. I can't help but glance at the bags of chips and popcorn, a smug sense of satisfaction building inside me.
Xavier's got that 'I'm-doing-this-for-the-kids' look on his face, though. Like he's already pretending he's not enjoying this ridiculous moment.
The cashier scans the items one by one, her eyes flicking between Xavier and me. I raise my brows and try to suppress a smile, because the way Xavier's glaring at the items is just hilarious.
"You know," I say lightly, "If you had just said yes to the snacks from the start, we wouldn't have had to go through this torture."
Xavier doesn't even look at me. He's too busy staring down at the total, his jaw set.
"That's the price of snacks," he mutters, like it's a personal betrayal. "I'll never understand why people need this much junk."
"Because it makes life fun." I reply, already imagining the chaos the kids are going to create with their new stash of treats.
When the total comes up, Xavier pulls out his wallet, grimaces, and hands over his card without hesitation.
"You really are a softie, aren't you?" I tease, glancing at him while he pays. "How many cookies do you really want to eat?"
He shoots me a glare as if he's daring me to say anything else. "Shut up."
I grin, leaning on the counter as the cashier finishes up.
"Thank you," she says, handing over the receipt. "You guys have a great evening."
Xavier grabs the bags from the counter, his movements deliberate as he holds the bag with snacks on one side and the bag with vegetables on the other.
"Gimme the snack bag," I say, my voice light but firm. "I'll carry it. You know, so you don't have to strain those muscles of yours." My voice was teasing.
"It's fine." he says, glancing at the bags and then at me
"Aww, is the Ring Lord finally doing something out of kindness?" I nudge him with my shoulder, my smirk growing. "Carrying snacks for a ballerina? Someone call the press. This is history."
He exhales slowly, clearly unimpressed. "Keep talking, and I'll drop the bag right here."
"Oh no," I gasp, feigning shock. "Not the snacks!"
He shoots me a glare that could probably kill a lesser person, but I just laugh and keep walking.
Instead, he adjusts it in his hand, completely unbothered. "You talk too much."
"I know."
By the time we reach the orphanage, the sky has deepened into a rich indigo, with stars just starting to peek through the twilight. The building glows softly, its warm yellow lights spilling onto the sidewalk like an open-armed welcome.
Xavier carries the bag of vegetables in one hand and snacks in the other. I walk beside him, the quiet between us easy now.
We step inside.
And there he is— Noah —right in the middle of the hallway, eyes wide, face lighting up like he's been waiting all day.
"You brought them!" he yells, already trying to peek inside the snack bag.
"Snacks and all," I say proudly, lifting the bag just out of his reach. "But only if you promise not to eat everything before dinner."
Xavier steps past us into the entryway, brushing snow off his shoulder like he can't wait to be done with all this. But the second we walk in, it's like someone rang a bell.
Kids swarm us.
Ms. Whitaker pokes her head out from the kitchen. "There you are! Took your sweet time. Did you two get lost?"
"No," Xavier mutters, hauling the veggie bag into the kitchen like a soldier with a mission. "She just wouldn't stop talking."
I gasp. "Excuse me? You enjoyed the talking."
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The dining area is buzzing—clinking forks, kids chattering over each other, Ms. Whitaker moving around like a calm storm, refilling plates, her apron smudged with flour and something suspiciously green.
I slide into the chair beside Xavier, grinning as I glance over the table. "What's there for dinner?"
"Steak, roasted broccoli, and rice," he says flatly.
"Ooh, fancy," I beam, already reaching for the broccoli. "This is definitely worth sticking around for."
He arches a brow at me. "Don't make this a daily habit—sticking around for dinner at my place."
I scoff, stabbing my broccoli with dramatic offense. "Excuse me? You don't even live here."
"Also," I continue, tossing him a look, "I was invited by your mother. Personally. Looks like she loves me more."
"She loves anything that bakes cookies." he mutters. "and a soft spot for ballerinas.." he adds the last part with a soft sigh.
"Then maybe you should try it sometime," I say sweetly. "Might improve your personality."
He gives me a side glance. "I fight grown men in a ring. I don't bake."
"Maybe that's your problem" I say, taking a bite of rice.
Across the table, Noah whispers something to the kid beside him, and suddenly they're both giggling while staring at Xavier and me. I squint at them suspiciously.
"What's going on over there?"
"Nothing." Noah sings, too innocently.
Xavier groans softly and mutters under his breath, "This is what I get for showing up."
"Correction," I grin, leaning closer, "this is what you get for showing up and sitting next to me."
"You sat next to me." He corrects me, but I just wave off by replying. "Meh, same thing."
He sighs, looks at his plate like he's praying for rescue.
And I decide I'm absolutely sitting next to him again tomorrow
To annoy him obviously.
The kitchen hums with the last echoes of dinner. distant laughter, clinking glasses, and the warm scent of roasted garlic still hanging in the air.
The dining table was finally clear, and the kitchen smelled faintly of steak, dish soap, and sugar.
I stood beside Ms. Whitaker at the sink, drying the last of the bowls she washed. The quiet was nice—peaceful, grounding. Until she spoke.
"Amara, darling," she said, her voice soft, thoughtful, as she picked up another plate. "Xavier never really listened to the kids when they asked for snacks... but when you did, he got them."
I blinked, cloth pausing mid-swipe. "Oh."
I wasn't sure what to make of that. My first instinct was to downplay it, because that's what I always did when things got soft.
"I'm sure he had his reason to do so," I said lightly, offering a shrug. "Maybe he just didn't want to argue with me. Cause he knows I'd win." I add the last part with a nervous chuckle.
She chuckled, setting the plate into the drying rack. "Maybe. Or maybe he's not as unaffected as he likes to pretend."
I didn't say anything. Instead, I cleared my throat and said, "Actually, I have a two week break from ballet." I glanced over at her, "I'll be all alone at home and... if you don't mind, I'd love to come by every evening."
Ms. Whitaker's eyes brighten instantly.
"Maybe run little workshops for the kids?" I continue. "Crafting. Story time. Baking. Whatever you need."
She places the plate in the drying rack and reaches out to gently pat my cheek, "Darling, you don't even have to ask. This place already adores you—and so do I."
I smile, cheeks warming.
After washing the dishes and saying goodbye to Ms. Whitaker, I walk out into the quiet hallway, rubbing my slightly damp hands on the sides of my jeans.
And then I feel it—his presence.
I don't have to turn around to know it's him. The way the air shifts. The silence stretching. The heat prickling at the back of my neck like a sixth sense on overdrive.
I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough—Xavier Hayes, leaning against the wall like he's been carved into it, arms crossed, unreadable expression locked onto me.
"You need a ride?" he asks, like it's nothing. Like it's casual. Like he offers to drive people home every day of the week.
I blink, caught a little off guard. "You're offering to drive me?"
He shrugs one shoulder, eyes still unreadable. "Mom said to."
I smile, "It's a seven-minute walk."
"I know it's a goddamn seven-minute walk," he mutters, and there's something dry and clipped in his voice—but also something else.
My heart stutters.
My smile grows, a bit smug this time. "Aw. Were you worried I'd get lost?"
"No," he responds too quickly, and I give him a look. "I was worried you'd babble at some poor stranger and get kidnapped." he adds.
"You're so sweet, Hayes." I say with a mock smile.
He glares, the corner of his mouth twitching like it's caught between a smirk and a smile "So?" he asks.
"I want to walk," I say. "The air feels nice tonight."
He doesn't argue. Just falls into step beside me as I push open the front door
The cool evening breeze nips at my skin as we walk side by side, the rhythm of our footsteps matching in the quiet street.
"Soo," I begin, breaking the silence, "I have two weeks of holiday from ballet."
"Yeah?" he asks, his voice casual, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. "What are you planning to do?"
I glance at him, trying to keep my voice light. "Well, visit the kids every day, obviously. Craft. Bake cookies or maybe macaroons."
He glances over at me with a dry smirk. "Macaroons, huh? You're getting fancy now, huh?"
I lift my chin, pretending to look offended. "What's wrong with macaroons?"
"Nothing," he says, his tone a little too flat, but his eyes still gleam with that challenging spark. "Just didn't picture you as the macaroon type."
"Excuse me?" I give him an exaggerated side-eye. "I am French, of course macaroons are my type"
He scoffs. "Just because you're French doesn't mean you automatically come with a whisk and a tray of pastel pastries."
"I do, actually." I nod my head. "It's in our DNA. We come out of the womb knowing how to pronounce ganache."
"God, you're ridiculous." He sighs, shaking his head.
"Ridiculously cultured, you mean," I say sweetly. "I bet you don't even know the difference between a macaroon and a macaron."
"I know one sounds annoying when you say it," he mutters under his breath.
We reach my apartment building, and just as we approach the entrance, I glance up at the tall, familiar structure.
"Well," I say, looking over at Xavier, "I guess this is where I leave you."
He nods, but there's a slight pause before he speaks. "You said something about rehearsing, right? I mean, you've got that two-week break."
I nod, tugging at the strap of my bag. "Yeah, Madame Dubois is gone, but the studio's open. I'll probably go there later. I don't really need anyone else there to rehearse. The space is... calming, you know?"
Xavier raises an eyebrow, looking slightly perplexed. "And your group?"
"Wouldn't be surprised if they don't show up," I say with a shrug. "But I'm sure they're all busy with their own stuff. I don't mind. I find peace in ballet, even when it's just me."
He looks at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You really love it, huh?"
"More than anything," I reply softly, almost absentmindedly. "It's where I feel the most like myself."
He doesn't respond immediately, just watching me with that intensity I've started to recognize in him. Then, as if deciding on something, he says, "Well, don't overdo it. You deserve a break."
I smile at him, the warmth in my chest fluttering a little. "i know."
And before I can stop myself, I add, "Maybe you should come by sometime, you know, if you ever get tired of punching people in the face."
His lips curve upward, a brief, almost teasing smirk. "I'll consider it."
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Dear Diary,
27th July, 2024
I am hella tired today, well bye.
Also Xavier Hayes was insufferable today, as always.
- Amara 3
P.S. I am the macaroon type. Obviously.
soo, lemme know your thoughts so far. i'm done with ch 15, but will post it as soon as i'm done with ch 16, so i can give a double update 3.
(which is mostly by sunday.)