4:50 AM.
Mirelle pushed the studio door open with chilled fingers, her duffel bag biting into her shoulder. Studio 7 was quiet, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of rosin, sweat, and worn wood. Her footsteps echoed as she stepped inside, the sound small but sharp in the cavernous space.
The building unsettled her at this hour—like the set of a ghost town no one had bothered to lock up. Coming here at 5 AM? Insanity. But she came anyway.
She dropped her bag by the wall and sat down, pulling her legs into a straddle and folding forward until her chest grazed the floor. Her hands trembled slightly as she pressed deeper, holding the stretch. Breathing through it.
There was no warmth yet. No comfort. Just silence, and her thoughts, biting at her like gnats.
She rolled to her feet. Port de bras. Extension. Arabesque. She moved slowly, checking her lines in the mirror. Her left foot wobbled.
Weak. Sloppy.
She repeated the sequence again. Then again. Then again, until the trembling lessened. Until her reflection didn't make her flinch.
The door clicked.
She didn't have to turn around to know it was him. The air shifted—more alert, more dangerous. His steps were deliberate, slow. Each one rang out across the studio like a countdown.
Rafe Armand.
She stayed facing the mirror, her breath held in her throat. He stopped behind her. Close enough to feel, not enough to touch.
"Continue."
She nodded once.
"Warm. Now."
He walked past her and set down a speaker. Music flooded the room—low strings, a slow tempo. The same piece from the new choreo. She moved into the first phrase as he watched, arms crossed.
And something clicked.
Her body knew the motion now. Knew where to pull, where to resist. The lines she'd failed to hold just days ago looked sharper. Controlled. When she lifted into relevé, her center held strong, unwavering.
She could feel his gaze on her—not approving, but watchful. Scrutinizing.
They didn't speak for the next hour. He would occasionally step in, adjust her hip, push her shoulders down, tilt her chin. Each touch was precise. Unforgiving. His silence was louder than corrections, louder than applause.
She didn't understand it—not fully.
Why her body moved better under him. Why she found clarity in the sharpness of his gaze. Was it fear? Or the strange calm that came from knowing someone else was in control? Maybe it was because he didn't coddle her. He didn't flatter. He demanded.
And her body listened.
Like some part of her—some deep, shameful place—needed the cruelty to cut through the noise. The more he stripped her down, the more her technique rebuilt itself, cleaner, clearer.
What was happening to her?
She moved into the full choreograph again as the music reset. Her arms floated, feet slicing clean across the floor, the turns no longer timid but cutting, aggressive. It was as if something inside her had snapped back into place—or cracked open.
She danced with everything: the shame, the need, the aching want for approval. And somewhere between the fourth count and the sixth, the tears came. Quiet, traitorous, rolling down her cheeks without a sound. She didn't stop. She couldn't.
Rafe didn't react. Not a word. Not a look. Just watched.
Why did it have to be him?
Why was she only ever better—real—when it was him watching?
Why, why, why?
"Again," he said, finally.
And she obeyed, pushing herself into the first count, even as her thighs screamed in protest.
What followed wasn't rehearsal. It was conditioning. Training in the rawest sense. Rafe dissected each phrase, stopping the music mid-bar, snapping his fingers sharply.
"Your weight is off. Again."
She repeated the phrase. Again.
"No tension in the elbow. Again."
She adjusted. Again.
He circled her like a predator, expression unreadable, voice clipped and brutal. He made her repeat sequences until her breath came in harsh gasps. Sweat slicked her back, and her toes cramped in her shoes, but she didn't stop.
At one point, he made her hold an arabesque for a full minute, hands behind his back, just watching.
"If you fall, we start from the beginning."
She didn't fall.
He didn't praise.
He gave her corrections in the form of commands, and when she faltered, he stripped the sequence back to its bones, rebuilt it on the spot.
"This," he said, adjusting her spine with the edge of his hand, "is what it means to be seen. Every gesture tells them who you are. If it's weak, then you're weak. Fix it."
And she did.
It went on like that—hours without kindness. Only the music, his voice, her breath. Until her body stopped fighting him and started becoming what he demanded. She lost count of the repetitions. Lost track of time.
Until she forgot the ache and became the shape he molded.
She was losing herself. And she was better for it.
By the time he called for a break, her legs felt hollow, her limbs buzzing with exhaustion. Mirelle collapsed onto the wooden floor, one arm draped over her eyes, breath stuttering. Her chest heaved like she had run for miles.
She stared up at the ceiling, unfocused. The world blurred at the edges, everything slowing down but somehow too loud.
What was she even doing? Who was she trying to impress—him? Her mother? The company? Herself?
Why did she feel more like a dancer now—sweating, aching, crying beneath his gaze—than she ever had before?
She swallowed, still staring blankly upward. The answer didn't come.
Rafe's footsteps returned.
He didn't crouch beside her. Didn't offer water. Just stood over her, casting his shadow across her body.
"There will be rules," he said.
Her eyes shifted toward him, slow. He was watching her closely now, his gaze sharp and unrelenting—as if daring her to speak, to defy him. A quiet challenge flickered in his eyes, the kind that left no room for misinterpretation.
"You will not speak during training unless I ask you something. You will arrive before me. You will leave after. If I say 'again,' you move. If I say 'stop,' you freeze."
Her mouth parted slightly, but she didn't interrupt.
"I don't want your questions. I want your obedience."
She sat up, spine trembling to hold posture.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Can you follow that?"
She nodded.
"Say it."
"Yes, sir."
Only then did he offer her his hand.
She took it.
Training wasn't over.
Later that morning, she walked into company practice, her limbs still aching, her breath deeper than usual, but her presence quieter, sharper. Something in her carriage had changed. When her turn came for the solo passage, she stepped forward with no hesitation.
She danced it clean—lines tighter, extensions bolder, her center unwavering. Every movement carried precision, intensity, silence behind it. The room watched. No one whispered. No one shifted.
The final note echoed as she landed the last pose.
Silence.
Not because it was awkward.
But because it was better than whispers.
They saw her now.
She walked off to the side, chest rising and falling, face unreadable. She didn't seek their reactions. She didn't need them.
She had already been seen.