Page 23 of One Last Encore

The way he said it, so casual, like it was obvious, sent a pulse of heat through her. His tone was smooth. Her face heated, her limbs suddenly felt heavier.

"But," he added, his smirk sharpening like a knife, "you’re also a pain in the ass, so I guess it evens out."

Ingrid refused to let him have the upper hand. "That’s rich, coming from a guy whose entire personality is just… drums."

"And you’ve got the personality of a declawed kitten," he countered smoothly, his smirk widening. "All sizzle, no steak."

Her mouth fell open for a split second before she snapped it shut, shooting him a glare that only seemed to delight him.

"And yet, I still have fangs," Ingrid said coolly. "Just waiting for the right moment to use them."

He chuckled, unfazed, and leaned in a bit. "Oh, I know. You give these tiny hisses, all puffed up like a kitten.Soterrifying."

She had just received some of the best news of her life, and she was not about to let him ruin it. With an exasperated huff, she tossed her phone into her bag and spun on her heel, heading for the door with sharp, determined strides.

"See you next week, Freak," she called over her shoulder, flipping him off for good measure.

Beck’s laughter followed her out the door–low, rich, and maddeningly amused.

And yet, as Ingrid made her way back to her apartment, she could not shake the ridiculous warmth lingering in her chest.

CHAPTER 7

INGRID. MID-SEPTEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO

Ingrid meticulously pressed the front of her pointe shoe into the cube of rosin, carefully coating it for a better grip. She couldn’t afford any slips during practice, not as the lead. If she ate it mid-pirouette, she might as well tattoo "fraud" on her forehead.

Just as she switched to her other foot, a pointe shoe suddenly appeared and sent the rosin cube flying. It skidded across the floor, spinning like a hockey puck, before coming to a tragic halt against the mirror on the other side of the studio.

The offending foot belonged to none other than Anna, the program’s resident mean girl and walking Black Swan cliché. Ever since learning Ingrid had snagged the lead, Anna had doubled down on her usual venom, now operating at full Disney-villain capacity.

"Whoops," Anna murmured, her faux-innocent tone as thinly veiled as a cheap Halloween costume.

Anna had trained at the Bolshoi Ballet Academy in Moscow, and she never let anyone forget it. As if the rest of them hadn’t also clawed their way into Juilliard. As if she were the anointedqueen and they were her lowly peasant subjects, dancing only by her benevolent grace.

"Ignore her," Sylvia muttered beside Ingrid, rolling her eyes. She was the only person Ingrid truly trusted in the program, their friendship cemented on day one when Sylvia Bennett discreetly informed her that her leotard was inside out. In a cutthroat environment where most would’ve let Ingrid parade around like an oblivious disaster, Sylvia had chosen kindness instead.

The music shifted, snapping Ingrid back to focus. No distractions. She took her place, her mind a flurry of corrections: drop the shoulder, elbow to the right, chin up, light fingers, extend the arms. Attack, quick, quick turn.

She moved seamlessly into an arabesque, her toes delicately balancing her weight forward as her other leg lifted high behind her.

And then, of course, Anna’s voice slithered through the air like an unwelcome draft.

"You’re going for swan? You look more like a pigeon."

Ingrid refused to let Anna get in her head. If anything, it only strengthened her resolve. She lifted her chin higher, her back straighter, pouring every ounce of grace and determination into her movement. If Anna wanted to play petty mind games, fine. Ingrid would simply outdance her.

With the brightest, most dazzling stage smile she could muster, she shot back sweetly, "I’d rather be a pigeon than a vulture, Anna."

A small, indignant huff escaped Anna.Victory.

Troye, Ingrid’s dance partner and co-lead as Prince Siegfried, sighed dramatically as he stepped into place beside them.

"Play nice, ladies," he said in a breezy, amused tone, as if they were arguing over brunch reservations and not engaged in high-stakes psychological ballet warfare.

Ingrid sighed, relieved for the save. Dancing with him was easily the best part of rehearsal. He was strong, precise, and most importantly, not a total nightmare. He lifted her into the next sequence like it was nothing, making it look way too easy.

As Troye gently set her down, Ingrid shot him a mischievous look. "Can I give her ego a swift kick with my foot?"

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