Page 130 of The Alpha's Pen Pal

I hit the final pose and held it, panting in the otherwise silent studio. My eyes squeezed shut as I held back the tears threatening to fall.

Applause from behind me forced my eyes back open and pulled me out of my pose as I looked to see who had intruded on my studio time.

Pale blonde hair and blue eyes met mine, and I held back an eye roll.

Imogen.

Just when I’d thought my week couldn’t get any worse. I should have kept that thought to myself.

“I’m almost done, and then you can have the studio,” I told her, moving towards the mirror to get my water bottle.

“That piece is really beautiful,” she said, stepping into the room and dropping her bag on the floor. “Did you choreograph it yourself?”

I nodded as I sipped my water. “For my Dad,” I whispered. “Not my adoptive dad, but—never mind.”

I shook my head and closed my water, then moved to the stereo to unplug my phone from the system.

I didn’t need to explain anything to her, least of all my complicated childhood and family life. I didn’t need to explain I choreographed the piece at fifteen to deal with the trauma from my childhood. That I created it so I would have a way to tell my story, even if no one but me knew that’s what the piece was about.

“You need to let go,” she said from behind me.

“Excuse me?” I asked, whipping my head around. The ends of my two French braids whipped around my neck as I turned. “What are you talking about?” I added, furrowing my brow.

“Of your center,” she clarified, walking closer, hesitantly. “At the end, when you do the attitude? If you let go, it will be more fluid and natural.”

I stared at her, not moving from my spot by the stereo.

“You have the technique. The foundation. All of that is second nature to you, and it’s lovely, but sometimes you have to let yourself let go of that strict technique. When the style or choreography calls for it. Then your dancing will really move to the next level.”

“Are you… giving me advice?” I asked.

She ignored my question. “Try it,” she said, nodding towards the center of the studio.

I turned on my music, starting it just before the spot she’d referred to. Then I walked to the center and ran through the ending section, letting go of my strict hold on my center like Imogen had suggested on the attitude.

When the music ended, I dropped the pose and turned, finding Imogen with her phone out, recording me.

“Come over here! Watch!” she said, waving me over with a smile.

I trudged over to her, trying to hide my displeasure and annoyance at having to stand near her. I wasn’t sure what game she was playing with me. She never gave me the time of day during classes or rehearsals, had all but insulted me at the gala, and now, she wanted to act like we were best friends? I was wary, for sure.

She handed her phone to me, and I watched the video, not seeing anything different from every other video I had of myself doing this piece.

“Okay?” I asked, raising my brow.

“Watch the next one,” she said, swiping it to the left and pressing play.

I blinked, flicking my eyes to her and back to the phone. I hadn’t even realized she’d been there long enough to record me when I was dancing the first time. But I didn’t question her or say anything. I just watched.

“See? Right there,” she exclaimed, pointing at the screen.

I frowned and rewound it, pushing her finger away so I could see better.

“There!” she cried again. “See the difference? See how it just takes that entire section to the next level?”

I nodded and handed her back her phone. I could see the difference. And I felt it, too, when I was dancing. But her sudden friendliness still befuddled me.

“Thanks,” I said, turning back to grab my phone.

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