Page 99 of One Last Encore

And just like that, the line went dead.

Beck exhaled slowly, lowering the phone, his hand falling limply to his side.

He knew, more than ever, that if he wanted to be worthy of Ingrid, if he wanted to build something real with her, he needed to get his shit together. But it wasn’t just about quitting the drinking or making better choices. It was about healing. About becoming the kind of man who could hold love without breaking it.

The problem was, he had no clue where to start. Or if he was even ready to face all of it.

Dragging himself out of bed, Beck armed himself with a green smoothie, dark sunglasses, and a determination to fix things with Ingrid. Whatever it took, he’d make it right.

By the time he slipped into the theater, rehearsal was already in full swing. Moving quietly, he scanned the small group gathered onstage. Then, he saw Ingrid.

She moved through the choreography with that same effortless grace, her focus razor-sharp. The music swelled in the final scene of Swan Lake, the prince locked in battle with the enchanter, Ingrid caught in the storm of it all.

Beck ducked between rows, staying low, not wanting to interrupt. He finally sank into a seat near the front, his eyes fixed on her.

Beck’s breath caught as Ingrid was lifted into the air, her body arching in a perfect line above her partner’s head. It looked effortless, but Beck knew better. His stomach tightened. Her partner had a slight tremble in his arm. Just enough to make Beck sit up straighter.

"Hold her steady, Weston!" the instructor barked, all sharp consonants and judgment.

As if sheer panic snapped him into shape, Weston’s arm steadied.

Then, from a few rows ahead, someone muttered, "Don’t fall, little pigeon," followed by a mean little laugh.

Beck’s jaw clenched. His grip tightened on the smoothie like he was seconds from hurling it at the back of the girl's head. He didn’t, obviously. But he glared hard enough to imagine it landed. Jealousy, he thought, narrowing his eyes at the back of her bun. Classic mean-girl energy. Probably sabotages pointe shoes for fun.

Onstage, Weston lowered Ingrid back to the floor. The instructor clapped once.

"Good, good. Take a few minutes."

As the dancers dispersed, Ingrid walked toward her bag, towel slung over one shoulder. Beck’s eyes trailed after her. He couldn’t stop staring and he wouldn’t even try to lie about it. Thesweat, the flushed cheeks, the way she moved like she was made of music. It was mind-blowing how gorgeous she was.

Her eyes caught his and widened. Then she was moving— fast, like she had a bone to pick or a kiss to deliver. Beck wasn’t sure which, but he sat up straighter just in case it was both.

"What are you doing here? Aimee’s going to kill you if she sees you at a closed rehearsal," Ingrid whispered, sliding into the seat beside him. Her head turned toward the instructor as she sank lower in her chair, staying out of sight.

Beck mirrored her, slouching down until he was hidden behind the seat in front of him. When he turned to face her, their faces were suddenly close, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. The noise in Beck’s head went quiet.

"I wanted to apologize for last night," Beck said softly, his voice low and sincere. "I’m sorry."

Ingrid’s expression softened, but her tone remained firm. "I get it, Beck. I really do. Messy family stuff, I understand that. But the drinking? The way you handled it? It’s too much."

"I know," Beck admitted, his gaze steady. "If you want, I’ll stop. I won’t touch alcohol again."

"I don’t want you to stop for me," Ingrid said, her voice gentler now. "I want you to stop for you."

She wasn’t asking for promises he couldn’t keep or ultimatums he’d resent. She just wanted him to want better for himself. And God, he wanted to be better. For her. For himself.

"I will," he said earnestly. "I promise I’ll work on it."

"Okay," Ingrid whispered back, relief softening the lines of her face.

Before either of them could overthink it, Beck leaned in and kissed her. Soft. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that made every bad decision in his life momentarily irrelevant.

"You were incredible up there," he murmured when they pulled apart. "I can’t wait to see it on opening night."

Ingrid’s eyes lit up, her excitement returning. "Just two weeks," she said, practically buzzing. "Aimee just added that lift you saw today. She’s convinced it’ll add more drama." Ingrid rolled her eyes, grinning. "She wants people gasping in the cheap seats."

"A one-arm lift?" Beck raised an eyebrow. "That’s not choreography. That’s a dare."

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