Page 18 of One Last Encore

And yet, she’d still partnered with him.

The stakes in this class were simply too high. Ingrid was a stickler for perfection. Some might even call her obsessive. Though she preferred the term intensely dedicated. She wasn’t about to sabotage her grades, her reputation, or her future by pairing with someone who couldn’t keep up. Beck’s skills, unfortunately, were not in question.

She’d seen him perform. And despite every fiber of her being desperately wanting to find a flaw, something to justify dismissing him, she had been reluctantly, painfully impressed.

If she wanted to ace this course, he was the best option. Annoyingly. But this wasn’t just about grades. Oh no. This was personal.

She wanted to savor the sweet, glorious taste of victory while rubbing it directly in Anna Wexler’s perfectly contoured face.

Anna, her self-declared rival, had been a thorn in her side since day one of freshman year. She was the kind of dancer who didn’t just want to shine, she wanted to eclipse everyone else. Stealing choreography ideas? Check. Over-the-top, show-stealing flourishes? Like clockwork. Not-so-subtly sucking up to instructors? Might as well have been her job.

Ingrid could already picture it. Anna’s expression cracking, her too-perfect smile faltering, as Ingrid’s choreography, her collaboration, earned the highest praise. God, it would be wondrous. Still, that victory would come at a cost. And the price was being paired with the human migraine.

As she sat cross-legged on the studio floor, waiting for Beck to arrive so they could plan their piece, a familiar sense of dread settled deep in her gut. Because Beck wasn’t just talented. He was cocky, unpredictable, and possessed the deeply irritating ability to make her want to both punch him and begrudgingly admit he was very good at what he did.

She could already see it–him turning their collaboration into another excuse to rile her up, to flash that stupid smirk, to act like this was fun for him.

Maybe she could collaborate her fist into his face. Now that was a performance she’dactuallyenjoy. Smirking at the thought, she pulled a length of darning thread through her pointe shoe, knotting it.

After days of relentless rehearsals, her ballet shoes were barely holding on. The satin was frayed, the box softened to the point of absolute collapse. Every unforgiving bump and groove in the studio floor pressed into her toes, a cruel reminder thatballet was as much about pain tolerance as it was about grace. If she got four days out of a pair, it was a miracle. But brutal training was non-negotiable.

She’d auditioned for the lead in Swan Lake a week ago and hadn’t heard back yet, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t already preparing like she had the role. She was nothing if not diligent. Or, possibly, delusional. Either way, if she didn’t get the role, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.

Finishing the knot, she folded the shoe in half, cracking the insole with an audible snap. It was how she broke in her pointe shoes, brutal but necessary. Then, with more force than needed, she slammed it against the floor.

A sharp thwack echoed through the studio.

"Whoa."

The smooth, amused voice sent a jolt of anger down her spine.

She pointedly ignored Beck, instead continuing to smack her shoe against the floor with renewed vigor, each hit a cathartic outlet for the absolute nonsense she was about to endure.

"That shoe piss you off, or is this your version of CPR?"

She whacked it harder.

"Deep-seated rage, huh? What’s got your panties in a bunch? Daddy won’t fly you to Paris this weekend?"

Ingrid’s grip tightened around the shoe. Oh, he did not just–

Her glare was as sharp as a pirouette en dehors, but Beck, simply grinned, looming over her like the human version of a pop-up ad with no exit button.

"This rage is only seated because of you," she snapped, punctuating the words with another whack against the floor.

He had no idea what her life was actually like, and his assumptions only poured gasoline on the fire. He didn’t know that her father, despite trying his best, was barely in her life. He didn’t know that all his free time went to his new family. Beckwas poking at wounds he couldn’t even see, and the worst part? He was enjoying it.

"I have a great way for you to get out all that pent-up frustration," he mused.

"You’re a pig," she scoffed.

"I was talking about a vigorous walk in Central Park." He placed a hand on his chest, feigning innocence. "But now I know what’s on your mind, prim."

Her jaw clenched. "I think I hate you."

"There’s a thin line between love and hate," Beck said, voice low, teasing. "Tread carefully." His smirk deepened, and God help her, it really was an attractive smirk. Annoyingly so.

Ingrid exhaled sharply through her nose, squeezing her pointe shoe so tightly the fabric bunched beneath her nails.Do not react. Do not let him win.

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