Page 1 of Teach Me to Fly

Chapter1

Angelique

The New York sun melts against the horizon as long, golden orange rays beam through the tall windows of Studio Three at the Big Apple Ballet Company. Dust motes dance in the light while I stand at the centre of the floor, sweat clinging to my spine under my black leotard.

We should've called it hours ago but my dance partner, Alec, insisted we stay after hours. He said we needed to run the lifts again, and he's not wrong. We fucked up almost every single one during group rehearsal today. We were out of sync and clashing every chance we got, which is highly unusual for us. And with opening night just around the corner, it’s not something we can afford to ignore.

Alec is attractive—dark, tousled hair, light brown eyes, and a jawline sculpted for Hollywood. But he's arrogant, and distastefully cocky. He’s the type of guy who thinks talent and his parents’ money make him untouchable, and I've never liked him for it.

"Okay, Alec," I say breathlessly, hands braced on myhips. "Let's get our shit together and hit this one clean. I want to go home."

He nods, just as winded, but I notice something flicker in his eyes as he stares at me. A shift, or more like a crack in his mask, but I brush off the wariness that creeps into my subconscious, and that's my first mistake.

We move into position again and he lifts me—hands finding my waist as I rise, arching backward across his shoulder, my arms extended in perfect swanlike form. I prepare for the descent, the controlled slide down his body to the ground, but his hand moves. Sliding down, fast and firm, over the curve of my ass and slipping between my thighs. He cups me through my tights, bold and obscene.

I gasp, startled, as my body locks in midair. My spine jerks in on itself, trying to recoil until Alec finally releases me and I fall, the impact knocking the wind from my lungs as I hit the floor hard, my hip slamming against the wood, pain exploding from the impact.

"What the fuck was that?" I scream, looking up at him, pissed and humiliated.

He stalks toward me in two quick strides before he's on top of me, shoving me flat on my stomach and forcing my face against the floor. The wood is cold against my cheek and the pressure of his palm on my skull is almost unbearable. My limbs scramble, flailing for leverage, but he's too strong.

"Alec, stop. What are you doing?" I ask, my voice shaking and desperate sounding.

"Shut up," he spits. "I'm sick of you always calling out orders in front of everyone as if you run shit.”

His hand trails down my back, fingers grazing the arch of my spine before goinglower.

"No," I beg as my voice cracks and tears blur my vision. "Please don't do this."

But he's already pulling at my leotard, fingers curling into the seam between the fabric and my tights. He yanks hard, ripping it down, and the sound of the tear echoes in the studio.

"You think just because your mom’s the director that makes you untouchable?" he sneers, dragging his fingers through the torn gap in my leotard. "You're just a spoiled little brat who needs to be put in her place."

A scream tears from my throat, jagged and strangled, but it doesn't even sound like me anymore. He rips through my tights and underwear next with a vicious yank, the sound of tearing fabric drowned only by the shuffle of his own clothes. A second later, I hear the unmistakable crinkle of a plastic wrapper and instantly know it’s a condom.

My heart hammers in my chest as I try to crawl away from him, but he’s too strong as he pins my wrists, and his knee digs into my thigh as he presses the head of his cock against my entrance.

“No—please—” I gasp, but the word barely escapes my lips before he shoves himself inside me.

A white-hot pain rips through me, like fire, like being split in two. I scream again, but it’s swallowed by his palm as it clamps over my mouth. My eyes lock on the mirror in front of us, unable to breathe, as I see my face twisted in horror.

Is this real? Is this actually happening to me?

He thrusts, hard and fast, each time worse than the last, like he’s trying to destroy something inside me. The friction is unbearable and my vision swims as I clench my teeth, trying to anchor myself, my fingers clawing at the wooden floor as I try not to fall apart. I want to disappear, to vanishinto the air, into the mirror, into the light outside of the windows. I want to be anywhere but here.

It doesn’t last long and when he finishes, he pulls out and yanks the condom off quickly, holding it up like some twisted trophy.

“You’ll never be able to prove it was me if you try to tell anyone.” He sneers, breathless, tucking himself back into his tights with that same sickening ease.

He glances down at me, spent and shattered. “See you tomorrow, pigeon,” he mutters, a smug little smirk curling his lips.

Then he turns, the condom still dangling from his hand, and walks out of the studio, leaving the door wide open behind him.

I don't move for several minutes. I can't. So, I stay on my stomach, exposed and shaking, my cheek still pressed to the same floor I danced on only moments ago. My body aches in places I didn't even know could hurt and when I reach down and touch between my legs, I'm not at all surprised to find that my fingers come away stained red.

I stare at the blood, gutted. I didn’t thinkthiswould be how I lost my virginity—violated on a cold studio floor, with no choice, no love, no tenderness. Only fear, and pain. I'd always thought my first time would be… something else. Maybe not perfect, but real. Chosen. Something I’d remember because I wanted to. Instead, this is what I get. Blood and silence and shame.

Slowly, I curl into myself, my arms wrapped tight around my body, trying to hold in the pieces of who I used to be. And I cry until there's nothing left inside me except numb, hollow silence.

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