Page 24 of One Last Encore

Troye chuckled softly. "Unfortunately, no. But I’m sure even Aimee wouldn’t mind giving her a little nudge," he added, nodding toward their instructor, who was watching from the front of the room. Anna’s attitude was infamous even among the faculty.

"Don’t be so hormonal, Ingrid. Anna’s just jealous of your amazing..." Weston’s eyes skimmed over Ingrid’s body in a way that made her skin crawl. "Body control," he finished with a smarmy grin.

It took every ounce of self-restraint not to flip him off right then and there.

Weston, or "Weasel," as everyone called him behind his back, had built his entire personality around being the worst. His comments always hovered just on the edge of inappropriate, and his version of flirting was less "charming suitor" and more "HR violation waiting to happen."

So it was deeply fitting that he’d been cast as Baron Von Rothbart, the manipulative villain who tricks Prince Siegfried into betraying Odette. Frankly, Weston probably considered it typecasting.

As the music swelled, Ingrid barely tolerated Weston’s hands gripping her waist as they moved through the sequence. When she landed, she accidentally stomped her heel onto the top of his foot. Weston grunted, a sharp, barely contained sound of pain.

Ingrid’s smile widened. "So sorry, Weston," she cooed, voice dripping with sugar and absolutely no sincerity.

Aimee clapped her hands once, stepping forward with her usual no-nonsense expression. "Lackluster." There was a pause. "Do it again. But better."

The music resumed, and Ingrid swore she saw a flicker of amusement in Aimee’s eyes.

"I can't lie. Watching Anna foam at the mouth over you getting the lead is my new favorite pastime," Sylvia remarked, her voice dripping with wicked amusement as she sipped her hot chocolate, pinky raised like an aristocrat reveling in someone else's downfall. Never mind that they were in the campus cafeteria, surrounded by the distinct aroma of stale coffee and questionable pizza.

"She's like a woman possessed. Do you think holy water would work, or are we looking at a full exorcism?" Ingrid mused, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against the lid of her to-go cup.

"Doubtful. That demon’s in deep. The only thing that could save us now is shipping her off to a remote island with no WiFi and only a mirror for company."

"Please, she'd end up falling in love with her own reflection and start a one-woman reality show."

Sylvia snorted into her drink. "A love story for the ages."

"Speaking of disappearing acts, any news from your mom lately?" Sylvia asked, her tone gentle yet probing.

Sylvia knew better than anyone the tangled mess that was Ingrid’s relationship with her mother. After the divorce, her mom hadn’t just left when things got tough; she had practically fled across the Atlantic, chasing some Eat, Pray, Love fantasy in Paris, all funded by Ingrid’s father’s generous alimony checks.Ingrid had been fourteen, left behind like an old pair of pointe shoes that had worn out their usefulness.

"Nope," Ingrid said breezily. "She’s probably somewhere on the Amalfi Coast, sipping an Aperol spritz with her latest boyfriend-slash-accessory. He’s thirty, has a man bun, and definitely refers to himself as an entrepreneur, even though his entire career is ‘between projects.’"

She had actually tried to reach her mom a few times recently, but, as always, romance came first. Ingrid had wanted to ask if she could stay with her during the winter break for a ballet intensive at the Paris Opera Ballet School, but once again, her mother was about as reachable as the Pope’s private cell number.

Not wanting to dwell, Ingrid redirected. "And how’s everything with Jessica?"

The shift worked. Sylvia’s whole face lit up like a stage spotlight. "Oh, so good," she sighed dreamily, practically melting into her chair.

Sylvia and Jessica had been dating for a year, and Ingrid was genuinely happy for her. She admired how Sylvia managed to juggle love and an obsessive dedication to dance, something their instructors warned against like it was an airborne disease. Romance, they preached, was a distraction. A career-killer.

In the ballet world, love was basically Bigfoot: rumored to exist, but if you actually caught it, you were probably doomed. The few dancers who dared to fall in love usually ended up sidelined by marriage or, worse, surprise babies.

Ingrid took a sip of her hot chocolate. "Have you ever thought about how in ballet, ‘falling in love’ is basically a horror story?"

Sylvia chuckled. "Please. It’s not just ballet. That’s dating in your twenties. Except formylove story. We’re heading to Rhode Island for the superior kind of romance, a weekend of lobsterrolls and pretending we can afford waterfront property." Her grin was smug, and honestly, Ingrid respected it.

"Keep talking, andImight start foaming at the mouth with jealousy," Ingrid said, narrowing her eyes playfully.

Then, that feeling crept up her spine, the one that meant either someone was watching her or a ghost was about to ruin her day. She whipped her head around and–oh. Great.

Beck was heading straight toward her. Well, toward the cafeteria exit.

Without her permission, her heart spun a full triple pirouette in her chest. She snapped her eyes away, but it was too late, she was aware. Too aware. His tattoos, his sharp jawline, the way he moved like gravity was more of a suggestion than a rule.

As he passed, his dark tattoos blurred in her peripheral vision, and then she felt a light tug on her ponytail.

Her head whipped around, her ponytail slicing through the air, only to find Beck flashing a full-blown smile. The unfair, soul-snatching kind. It was so dazzling it could probably power a small village. So stunning it almost hurt.

---