Page 140 of One Last Encore

And the hosting ballet company noticed: her unshakable focus, the way she moved like she was chasing something only she could see. They offered her a full-time position and accepting it meant leaving Juilliard. Once, that choice would’ve felt impossible. But now? It didn’t bring regret. It brought relief.

Walking away from a place that had once meant everything felt less like giving up and more like peeling off a version of herself she no longer recognized.

Maybe it made her a coward to run, to put an ocean between herself and the possibility of seeing Beck again.

But bravery hadn’t gotten her far.

She’d been brave when she kissed him in the subway. Brave when she let herself fall headfirst into the chaos of him. Brave when she confessed her feelings. Brave when she let herself believe.

And what had it brought her? Broken promises. A silence that echoed. A heart too battered to beat the same way again.

So she didn’t just walk away from him. She slammed the door. Without hesitation. Without looking back. Not because it didn’t hurt but because she decided it wouldn’t. Because it had to stop hurting.

She stepped into her mother’s apartment and was immediately hit by the scent of cigarettes and expensive perfume. It was a cocktail of memories she had spent years trying to outrun.

On the narrow balcony, her mother stood poised like always, cigarette nestled between two long, manicured fingers. Her blonde hair, swept into a perfect chignon, hadn’t moved an inch despite the breeze.

Ingrid closed the door behind her, the soft click echoing in the stillness.

Her mother turned her head slowly, smile curving like a blade. The kind of smile meant for cocktail parties and press junkets. Not daughters.

"Ma chère," her mother purred in her put-on Parisian accent, shifting slightly. Smoke curled lazily from the cigarette between her fingers. "How was practice?"

Ingrid’s movements were mechanical as she dropped her bag by the door. Her shoulders ached, her feet were raw. "I was offered a full-time position at the company."

"Good," she said briskly, stubbing out her cigarette in the porcelain tray beside her. "Finally, you can stop wasting time on that ridiculous dance program and focus on something real."

The words sliced clean through Ingrid, but she didn’t flinch.

There had been a time when a comment like that would have gutted her. When she would twist herself into impossible shapes, starving for approval that never came. When she would replay every conversation for days, wondering how she could have been better, quieter, more perfect. But not anymore.

Now, her mother’s praise, if it could even be called that, rang hollow. And the strangest part was that Ingrid didn’t care. Not in the way she used to. She was tired of the games. Of the criticism packaged as concern. Of chasing after someone who only loved the version of her that was easy, polished, convenient.

"Yes, Mother," she said flatly, her voice devoid of warmth. "You finally got your way."

Her mother’s brow twitched, just a flicker, the only crack in her otherwise polished veneer. "Watch your tone," she warned,straightening her spine like she could still command obedience through posture alone.

"Or what?" Ingrid shot back, her voice low and tight, sharpened by years of swallowed resentment. "You’ll walk away?"

A charged silence dropped between. Her mother blinked, lips parting, then pressing back together in a thin, controlled line. Without another word, she stepped back inside from the balcony, tightening the belt of her silk robe.

"You’re being dramatic," her mother said, her tone cool and clipped as she turned her back and walked toward the kitchen, dismissing the moment like it was nothing more than a smudge on her immaculate countertop.

Something inside Ingrid fractured.

She stared after her, numbness giving way to heat. She didn’t have the energy anymore, not for pretense, not for her mother’s evasions.

Her voice, when it came, was cold steel. "Were you planning to move to Paris before you found out I was cutting, or did that just make the decision easier?"

The words sliced through the air. Her mother froze, one hand still gripping the doorframe. But she didn’t turn around. Of course she didn’t.

And for once, Ingrid didn’t drop her eyes.

"Ingrid," her mother said sharply, like the name itself was an offense. "We are not dredging that up again."

"No. We never did in the first place," Ingrid said, the bitterness rising like bile. "You didn’t want to ‘dredge’ anything. You just left. You ignored it. You ignored me. You pretended it wasn’t happening because it made you uncomfortable."

Her voice cracked, sharp and trembling, but she didn’t stop.

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