Page 1 of One Last Encore

CHAPTER 1

INGRID, PRESENT

"That stage is your canvas. The way you move is paint, stroke by stroke you create a masterpiece. I was powerless to look away. You are an artist and I am unworthy."

Letter dated October 13th, 4 years ago from the present

"Have you been eating carbs?"

Aimee’s voice was light, almost sing-song, but her eyes were hawk-sharp, zeroed in on Ingrid’s legs as she held a plié so deep it might have qualified as an Olympic squat. Her form was flawless. Her patience, less so.

"Of course not," Ingrid said, too fast, too tight, her grip on the barre bordering on violent.

Liar, liar, elastic waistband on fire.

Because yes, she had been eating carbs. All the carbs. If it grew underground and came in golden, greasy forms, she’d devoured it. French fries at midnight. Mashed potatoes eaten straight from the container. A love affair with tater tots so intense it bordered on scandal. She was one bad rehearsal away from snorting powdered cheddar off a Pringle.

Aimee made a low, thoughtful noise, still staring like Ingrid’s thighs were concealing smuggled pastries.

Oh, bite me.

Once, that comment would’ve gutted her. Sent her spiraling into a week-long juice cleanse that left her hallucinating. But that was eight years and several mental breakdowns ago.

Now, she had bigger things to worry about like the mutant rat she’d had to hurdle over in the subway this morning, or the scalding coffee that had baptized her leotard in front of an entire car of MTA witnesses. New York City, where dreams go to suffer mildly humiliating deaths.

"I think your legs look incredible, actually," a voice offered from across the room–low, confident, and unmistakably French.

Ingrid didn’t even have to turn. Louis was leaning against the wall, all smug smirk and resting flirt face, like a man born to be insufferable. His gaze slid down her body with the ease of someone who knew he was hot and thought that made him interesting.

She turned just enough to glare, eyes narrowed. "Don’t you have a mirror to go make love to?"

He grinned. "Why bother, when I have you to look at?"

Her eye-roll was so aggressive it could’ve thrown out her neck.

God, men were exhausting. Especially lately.

There was Trent, who invited her to join his competitive frisbee league as a date activity.Frisbee. Because nothingscreams "soulmate" like chasing flying plastic across a patchy field and dodging sunburn.

Then there was Pierre. Tortured artist, permanent cigarette breath, and a poetry boner so aggressive it probably had its own journal. He called himself an "intellectual nomad," like that was a flex and not just code for "chronically unemployed."

Riley was the closest thing to promising. Polite. Gainfully employed. But his laugh? Yeah, it was definitely not made for human ears; it was somewhere between a dying hyena and a squeaky door hinge.

And that was the current state of the dating pool. She wasn’t the problem. They were.

Her phone buzzed under the barre, mercifully dragging her away from Louis the Lech and her internal scream.

The screen flashed Eden. Thank God. Ingrid grabbed the phone, already smiling. If anyone could pull her out of the morning’s spiral, it was her best friend.

"What’s up, Eden?" Ingrid answered, already bracing herself. Conversations with her best friend were rarely uneventful.

“Did you know you’re not supposed to pet police horses?” Eden blurted. No greeting. No context. Just immediate chaos.

“Yes,” came Ronan’s voice in the background, equal parts exasperated and emotionally defeated. “That’s why I tried to stop her.”

“Okay, but how was I supposed to know that?” Eden huffed. “It was just standing there being majestic! Next thing I know, the cop’s yelling at me and some elderly man at the crosswalk actually clutched his chest.”

Ingrid snorted, already visualizing Eden causing a minor civic disturbance in real time.

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