Page 130 of One Last Encore

From the pit, the orchestra’s tuning rose in a dissonant tangle of strings and brass, each sharp note a pinprick of anticipation crawling up her spine. It was almost time.

“Merde,” Aimee said with a grin as she strolled up behind them—French for good luck. She kissed Ingrid on the cheek, then did the same to Troye.

"Break a leg, Ingrid. You’ve got this," Troye said, pulling her into a quick hug.

She smiled, tight-lipped but genuine. The anxiety was still there, coiled like a spring in her chest, but beneath it now was something firmer. Resolve.

"Thanks, Troye. You too," she said, trying to keep her voice steady even as her fingers fussed with her tights.

Ingrid took a deep breath and focused on the floor beneath her pointe shoes. Adrenaline hummed in her bloodstream, electric and alive. Every grueling rehearsal, every tear, bruise, and doubt had led to this moment. And now it was here.

A soft wave of applause came from the audience. The first notes of the overture floated through the air, and the show had officially begun. Dancers moved to their places, whispering encouragement, costumes brushing together as everyone got ready.

Ingrid stole a quick glance through a narrow gap in the curtain, careful to stay hidden. Her eyes swept the crowd. Beck had promised he’d be there, front and center. But all she saw were strangers until she spotted Eden. The seat beside her was empty. Something in Ingrid’s stomach went cold.

He was probably just running late. Maybe stuck in traffic. She tried to believe that, even as a knot tightened in her chest. She turned away, pushing the worry.

The swell of the orchestra rose, and with a collective inhale from the dancers, the velvet curtain glided open to reveal the stage.

When her cue came, she leapt onto the stage in a grand jeté, her body slicing cleanly through the air before landing gracefully. The audience responded with a swell of applause, and the sound gave her a jolt of confidence. Every movement poured out of her like second nature, years of training etched into her muscles, automatic and precise.

She let the music wash over her, let it pull her deeper, until the lights, the audience, the world beyond the stage faded, and for a moment, it felt like she was dancing only for herself.

Still, Beck lingered in the back of her mind. A distraction she didn’t want but couldn’t shake. With every pirouette and plié, she tried to lose him in the rhythm, to let the music drown him out.

But as the third act built toward its peak and she rushed offstage for her final costume change, her eyes flicked past the curtain, toward the crowd, hoping that he might be there. That he had come. But there was no sign of him.

Maybe he was farther back, she told herself, clinging to the hope that he’d appear before the final act began.

"Don’t break your neck when you fall from that lift," Anna said as she brushed past, her voice dipped in syrup but edged like a knife.

Weston trailed behind, tall and silent, his eyes flat under the harsh backstage lights. He didn’t even glance at Ingrid as he passed.

Weston had been distant all evening but Ingrid had forced herself to stay focused. She didn’t have time to unpack whatever tension still lingered after last week’s fight. Weston hadn’t said a word about it backstage. Maybe he was pretending it never happened, or maybe he just didn’t care enough to bring it up.

But the bruise was proof that it had. It lingered beneath his stage makeup, a faint shadow along his jaw. A quiet reminder of Beck’s fist.

She drew in a deep breath, letting the orchestra’s swell roll through her, the music vibrated through her bones. This was her place. Her moment. Everything else could wait.

Troye was already onstage as Siegfried, locked in a showdown with Weston’s Rothbart.

Ingrid moved between them, every step tight and controlled, each motion heavy with the weight of her character’s heartbreak. She was Odette, torn, trapped, and drowning in a love that felt like both salvation and ruin. The music surged, pushing her to give it everything.

Then Weston grabbed her. Too tight. Too rough. Her vision swam for a second as he yanked her into a stiff hold. They spun together, his grip unyielding, and just under the swell of theorchestra, she heard him. His voice was low and sharp, cutting right through the noise.

"Where’s your loser boyfriend? Did he already dump you?"

The words landed like a punch to the ribs, stealing her breath. Fury flared, hot and fast, but she swallowed it down, shoving it deep. Her face stayed smooth, her posture perfect, the audience none the wiser. Discipline kept her together. Discipline kept her from falling apart.

But inside, she was crumbling.

Beck not being here burned like an open wound. She had scanned the crowd again and again, hoping, begging, to spot him beside Eden in the second row. The seat was still empty.

And now even Weston could smell the blood. He could use it.

Every step after that felt heavier. Every pirouette was less about soaring and more about surviving.

This wasn’t just any performance. It washerperformance. The one she had bled for, trained for, sacrificed years of her life to perfect. She should have been glowing with triumph, basking in the spotlight. But instead, she felt hollow. Like a ghost moving through borrowed choreography.

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