The next company rehearsal was heavier than usual.
The tension in the air was like a taut string pulled to its limit. Mirelle stood among the dancers, back straight, arms carefully at her sides, already burning from the stares before the music even began. Every eye felt like a spotlight, dissecting her form, judging her presence. The choreographers had little patience left. Their corrections were sharp, merciless, each word a dagger.
"That line is supposed to soar, not drag like your feet are made of stone," one snapped with a clap.
"That was a shitty jete." another muttered under her breath. Another one chuckled in the background.
She nodded wordlessly, throat tight, even as her chest constricted and her legs moved with tension instead of grace. Her joints felt stiff, every transition stiff and overly cautious. She knew it. They knew it.
Whispers floated behind her like smoke through a cracked window. Stifled laughter. Eyebrows raised. A snort. Someone coughed the word "viral" under their breath like it was a punchline.
God. She just wanted this to be over. She looked to the corner Rafe was always sitting down.
Empty again.
Rafe hadn't shown up in two days.
She messed everything up. Her dance, her life, and now the only coach who had brought out something in her.
After a third failed pass through her solo, the music was abruptly cut off. The studio was left hanging in silence, tension buzzing beneath the surface.
Director Havel stood from the bench and gestured sharply. "Mirelle. Come with me."
The studio buzzed once more and she knew what was on everybody's mind. Like on hers. Are they getting rid of her?
She followed him, every step feeling like it might shatter her resolve. They walked into the side corridor where the walls felt narrower, the air colder.
He turned to face her with a deep frown etched into his aging face. "Whatever spark you had in that viral clip? I haven't seen it since. If this is what you're going to give, then forget about your part."
Her stomach dropped. Her mouth opened slightly, searching for words that wouldn't make it worse. But before she could speak, he was already pulling out his phone.
"Get Rafe Armand here. Now."
Minutes passed in silence. Havel sat back down and opened his documents and Mirelle stood against the wall, her arms folded tightly around herself, trying not to tremble.
Then footsteps. His.
Rafe appeared at the far end of the hallway, dressed in black, expression unreadable. His jaw was tight, his eyes colder than she remembered. He didn't speak as he approached. Didn't look at her. Just waited.
Havel gave him a once-over. "You were supposed to coach her," he said flatly. "This is what she is now."
Still, Rafe said nothing.
The silence twisted inside her like a screw turning.
"Fix it. Or I'll find someone else," Havel said simply, then turned and walked away, his shoes echoing against the tile.
Rafe didn't move at first. He exhaled slowly, turned on his heel, and walked down the corridor.
Mirelle followed him silently, heart in her throat.
He led her into his office.
The door shut behind them with a bang that felt like judgment. The lights were dim. His figure stalked the space like a caged animal, his anger simmering just below the surface.
He didn't yell. He didn't need to.
The weight of his fury was in every controlled step, every flick of his gaze.
She tried to open her mouth, but his voice cut through the air before she could.
"Don't."
It was a command, not a request.
And for the first time, she was scared. Not because he shouted, but because he didn't have to. His restraint, his silence—it was sharper than a scream. She had never seen him like this before, so close to losing control and yet perfectly calm on the outside. It made her insides twist.
He dragged his hand through his hair, jaw ticking. "My god," he muttered. "You are trying me."
Her spine stiffened. The way he said it was different. Tighter. Almost personal.
She stepped forward, cautiously. "Rafe, please... I'm sorry I didn't show up in the practice. I want to keep training with you. I want to fix this."
He let out a bitter laugh—cold, hollow. "Oh, now you want me again? I thought you didn't need me?" He looked at her with something like disgust. "That little viral stunt inflated your head, didn't it? You liked the attention. You soaked it in. Thought you meant something."
His words weren't just cruel. They were surgical. Meant to break her down, piece by piece.
And they did.
"News flash you don't."
She flinched yet still let him speak. Let him cut her down. His words hurt, yes—but so did everyone's.
She could still hear the choreographers' insults ringing in her ears. The snickering dancers. The looks. All of it layered into a chorus of shame.
Every breath she took lately was filled with someone's disappointment, someone's mockery. Maybe it didn't even matter who was delivering the blow anymore. It all felt the same.
Pathetic.
Flat.
Dead.
Her cheeks flamed. Her fingers trembled at her sides.
Her voice cracked, but she pushed through it. "I realized... I made a mistake thinking I could do this on my own. I can't. I need you, Rafe. Please."
He paused, his steps slowing.
"How desperate are you?" he asked flatly. Like he doesn't care about the solo, about her. Doesn't care if they go back to practice.
She swallowed. "I'll do anything."
Rafe prowled around her slowly, a low, simmering presence radiating off him like heat from a furnace. There was a flicker in his eyes—not just irritation, but something sharper, something laced with the threat of restraint worn too thin.
"I've always had trouble holding in my anger, you know," he murmured, voice pitched low with menace. "And today... today I feel like you're doing it on purpose. Like you're begging to see what happens when I stop holding back."
There was a long silence.
What if he won't accept her anymore? What can she do to make him forgive her. Anything. Anything. She racked her brains out and then...
Mirelle lifted her eyes looking at him. "You can hit me if you want."
Rafe stopped. His lips twitched. "I only hit women when they beg for it."
Her voice was a whisper, but she didn't flinch. "I'll beg."
I'll do anything.
He smirked. "Then do your best."
Then he reached behind her and turned the lock on the door.
Her breath caught in her throat. The sound of the lock echoed like thunder in the small office, louder than it had any right to be. A single moment of pause—she could stand up, walk out, refuse this. But she didn't. She stayed. Her knees didn't budge.
Because deep down, some twisted part of her believed she deserved this.
And just like that, the silence between them thickened into something else.
Something much more dangerous.
He sat down slowly, dragging the chair with a deliberate scrape against the floor. His gaze was sharp, appraising, like she was nothing more than a broken tool.
"Show me just how sorry you are. Because you've got a lot to answer for."
"Please Rafe take me back as you're student."
Rafe didn't move from the chair. He leaned back slightly, arms resting on the sides, watching her like a judge waiting for a sentence to be carried out. "Begging doesn't mean much when your voice doesn't tremble," he said. "Crawl, if you mean it."
Mirelle stiffened, her knees trembling beneath her. Her muscles ached from the earlier rehearsal, every joint sore, her palms damp with sweat. But her body moved before her mind could catch up, driven by something heavier than pride—need. Shame. Desperation. Her knees hit the floor with a soft thud, palms on the cold hardwood.
She wasn't forced. She chose this. That was the worst part. She lowered her head. Feeling shame on how low she fell. To be kneeling to someone she didn't like but needed.
"Please... please let me stay. Let me train. I was wrong. I should have listened. I should have worked harder. I need you to make me better."
He stood up.
The chair groaned slightly as he pushed it back. His shoes moved across the floor until he stood just inches away from her.
"Look at you," he muttered. "You break a little, and now you're begging like a dog."
Her eyes flicked up to him. His expression didn't soften. It hardened.
"Don't mistake this for mercy," he said. "This isn't about helping you. This is about reminding you who put you on that stage in the first place. You think you shine because you're special? You shine because I put you in the light."
She swallowed hard.
He leaned down slightly. "And I can take it away. Just like that."
Her heart was thundering in her chest, but she didn't move. Didn't argue. Didn't break.
Because deep down, she knew—he was right.
She had begged.
And he would use that.
Rafe straightened and walked past her, unlocking the door with a sharp click. "Rehearsal. 5 AM. If you're even a second late, don't bother showing up."
Then he left her kneeling there.
Alone in the quiet.
Still trembling but finally relieved.
She have him now.