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He’s a legendary dancer. A man of unmatched skill. And he won’t stop staring at me.
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“Paige.”
All around the studio, reflections of me jerk in the mirror. Madame stands at my elbow, watching me run through the warm-up exercises with her mouth pursed.
“Yes, Madame?” I murmur, trying not to move my lips. Monsieur Dupont watches us from the front of the room, his arms folded over his broad chest. Even under his long-sleeved black t-shirt, the shift and rise of his sculpted muscles is clear.
Madame starts to say something, then gusts out a sigh. It’s not like her to hold back criticism, and I risk glancing in her direction.
Her eyes darken.
“Face forward,” she snaps. “Did I tell you to break form?”
“No, Madame.”
Monsieur Dupont watches us, his expression tight. Am I messing up so badly? All around us, legs bend and raise. Limbs float through the air, the movement made to look effortless while we sweat and ache and tremble.
“You are wooden.” Her harsh words cut through the music. The tips of my ears burn, but I keep dancing. It’s so much harder when she is watching me, when Monsieur Dupont is watching me, but I try to make my movements fluid. Lyrical.
Perfect.
“Better,” she growls, like I’ve wasted her precious breaths. I don’t relax, even when she turns away. She strides across the studio, her heels drumming on the floor, but with the mirrors everywhere, it is never safe to slack.
I can never ease off, not even for a moment.
And especially not with a legend in our midst.
I steal another glance at Monsieur Dupont, and flush hot when I find him still watching me. His dark eyes are narrowed, his jaw tensed, and he stares at me with such intensity that my knees tremble.
I rescue my posture at the last moment, strengthening my limbs. I cannot mess this up. Not more than I already have.
By the time we leave the barre and step into the center, I feel one thousand years older. Every fumbled step, every wobble of my ankle, and misery churns worse in my gut. The worst part is Monsieur Dupont’s heavy gaze, settled like iron weights on my shoulders.
I idolize this man.
The clips of his performances have stolen my breath; have brought moisture brimming in my eyes.
And now he’s playing witness to what is quickly becoming the worst moment in my career. Why won’t he show mercy and look away?
“Enough.”
We freeze as the first bars of music stutter to a halt. Spaced in three lines in the center of the studio, we hold our breath as one. Even Madame, with her hardened eyes and pursed lips, seems to falter at Monsieur Dupont’s tone.
“A moment, please.” The way he says it, it’s not a request. It’s a command wrapped up in manners.
“Of course, Monsieur.” Madame’s hand flutters at the base of her throat. She marches to the piano, her palm slapping down on the wood. “Listen, class. Give Monsieur Dupont every scrap of your attention.”
As if we would not. What a nonsensical command. Monsieur Dupont’s eyebrow twitches, like he too finds the notion insulting, but he spares her further embarrassment.
No. All the humiliation is saved for me.
“Girl.” His eyes fasten on me. “With the ladder in her tights.”
Shame floods hot over my cheeks. I nod slightly to show I’m listening.
“Come here.” He points to the front row. “In the center.”
I dart a nervous glance at Madame, flinching at her scowl. The front row is reserved for her favorites. For the dancers she’s ear-marked for greatness. But even she does not dare to contradict Raphael Dupont, so I inch forward, my heart pounding against my breastbone.
Monsieur Dupont strides forward to meet me. He takes me by the arm, placing me in the center of the row. His grip is warm and firm, his face unreadable as I gaze up at him, lips parted.
A hiss echoes through the studio as he lowers his head. Murmurs in my ear, just for me.
“Your nerves are terrible, pretty dancer. Torn to pieces, just like your tights.”
The reminder of my threadbare clothes makes my cheeks burn. I duck my head, so ashamed, but the warm pad of his thumb draws light circles on my forearm.
“Ah, no. No tears, sweet girl. Only deep breaths and beautiful dancing. Yes?”
I draw in a shuddering inhale and nod. He smiles, faint and brief, then steps back. Glares around the class like their stares offend him.
“Well?” He claps twice, hard. “Get to work.”
