Page 131 of One Last Encore

The realization crashed into her mid-pas de deux: she had let herself need him. She had told herself again and again that she didn’t, that she couldn’t afford to. She had built herself to stand alone. But here she was, unraveling over one empty seat.

In that moment, she wasn’t just Odette, the doomed swan queen. She was Ingrid, raw, exposed, undone not by a curse, but by her own heart. By her hope. By the terrifying thought of loving someone who might not love her back nearly as much. And that was enough to nearly break her in two.

Weston's gaze burned into hers. The one-armed lift was seconds away. Her chest tightened with anticipation, dread curling in her stomach like a clenched fist. She darted forward, muscles taut, every breath synchronized with the music.

There was no room for hesitation. She leapt.

Weston’s hand caught her at the waist, just as rehearsed. For a split second, she soared, weightless above him, her body suspended in a fragile, breathless arc.

Then something shifted. His grip slipped. Barely. Just enough. Her stomach dropped. Panic surged like electricity through her veins, sharp and paralyzing. She twisted instinctively, trying to correct her center, to adjust her balance, but the air had already turned against her. The moment was lost. Gravity seized her.

She crashed down hard, the stage rising like a wall to meet her. Her head struck first, the force jarring her entire body. Pain bloomed instantly, bright and blinding, radiating from the back of her skull.

The lights overhead swam and blurred, turning into jagged halos. Everything tilted. Her limbs felt detached, foreign. The world narrowed to a tunnel of sound: her heartbeat crashing like thunder, her breath quick and shallow, like she couldn’t catch enough air no matter how hard she tried.

Troye was beside her in an instant, dropping to his knees, his face etched with panic as he hovered over her.

"Ingrid," Troye said, voice tight and urgent. "Can you hear me?"

She blinked, slow and sluggish. Her lips parted, but no words came. Just the hollow hum of pain and the crushing weight of everything breaking all at once.

"I’m going to make it look like part of the show," he said, calm and composed, a sharp contrast to the panic snapping at her ribs. "We’ll finish the jump together."

She was supposed to leap alone from the platform to the hidden mat below. That had been the plan. But now, the stage spun beneath her, tilting like a sinking ship.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice paper-thin and barely audible.

Troye slid his arms under her and lifted her with care. She collapsed into him, her limbs heavy. Each step toward the platform was a blur. At the edge, he didn’t hesitate, he launched them both into the air.

They landed with a solid thud, the mat softening the blow, Troye’s body absorbing most of it. Ingrid didn’t move right away. Her heart was pounding, breath coming too fast, too loud in her ears.

And in the middle of all of it, she wanted Beck.

His arms around her. His voice—low, steady, familiar—telling her she was okay. But he wasn’t here. He wasn’t in the crowd. Hadn’t watched her fall.

The realization settled on her tongue like metal. Cold. Bitter. He was supposed to be here. Where the hell was he when she needed him most?

Something brushed her cheek. She lifted a trembling hand, fingertips grazing skin. When she pulled them away, they were slick with red.

“Shit,” she whispered, staring at the blood.

Her stomach turned. It wasn’t just proof of the fall, it was a mark of failure. The cut on her temple burned, but it was nothing compared to the shame spreading like fire through her chest.

"Hold on," Troye said quickly. He tore the sleeve from his costume and pressed it to her wound. She flinched at the pressure. Despite the sting, despite the dizziness, she felt a flicker of gratitude. Troye had caught her, in every sense.

“You saved my ass out there,” she whispered, voice raw. The words caught in her throat, thick with emotion. “Thank you.” She forced herself upright, even as the world swayed dangerously around her.

Troye stayed close, crouched beside her, his eyes full of concern. “That was a bad fall. You need a hospital.”

"I’ll go… after curtain call," Ingrid said, her voice mostly steady, but there was a crack underneath she couldn’t quite hide. Fear, adrenaline, pain.It was all right there, clawing at her, but she shoved it down. She wasn’t ready to let it show. Not yet.

Troye shook his head, disbelief plain on his face. "You’re impossible."

"Ingrid!" Aimee’s voice rang out, sharp with panic. Her wide eyes scanned Ingrid’s face, then dropped to the blood-stained fabric at her temple.

“I’m fine,” Ingrid said quickly. The lie tasted bitter, but it was all she had. She couldn’t afford to fall apart, not here, not in front of them. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Aimee said, cutting her off before the words had fully landed. Her voice was calm but firm. “This wasn’t your fault.”

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