Page 10 of Teach Me to Fly

“Angelique Sinclair,” he mumbles into the countertop, pointing in my direction with all the gravitas of a hungover oracle. “I swear to God, if you’re still pining after my emotionally lacking brother, I’m staging an intervention. You could do better blindfolded.”

I roll my eyes. “Relax, I only brought him up because he seemed surprised to see me. You didn’t tell him I was coming?”

Lando waves a lazy hand without lifting his head. “I barely see the guy. If my father didn’t tell him you were coming, then yeah, he probably was surprised.”

“He’s still avoiding you?”

“Like the plague,” he mutters, finally peelinghis cheek off the counter. “But I’m not special. He barely talks to anyone these days.”

I trace the rim of my coffee cup with a fingertip, quiet for a moment. “That sounds lonely.”

“Oh no. Don’t even go there,” he says, glaring at me.

“Go where?”

He points at me accusingly. “You’ve always had a savior complex. But he’s not some sad, abandoned puppy you can rescue. He’s a fully grown man with a brooding problem and a perfectly functioning phone. He can deal with his own damn loneliness.”

I know Lando has a point, but there was a time when Reign was different. He used to laugh more, and let people in. But ever since their mom walked out, something in him changed. Almost like he decided it was safer not to need anyone at all. And I guess I’ve always wondered if anyone’s ever tried to pull him out of it.

“Please,” I scoff, weakly. “I’ve got more than enough of my own mess to fix.”

Lando arches a brow, unconvinced.

“I’m serious,” I insist.

“Sure,” he mutters, before letting his head fall back to the counter with a dramatic thud.

I let the silence linger for a few minutes, my fingers curling around the warmth of my coffee cup. The words sit heavy on my tongue before I force them out. “Can you show me the way to the studio? I can’t remember how to get there.”

Lando peers up at me, brow arched like he’s trying to read between the lines. “Thinking about coming out of retirement already?” he asks slowly.

I shake my head instantly, the thought alone too loadedto entertain. “No,” I say, too quickly. “I was thinking maybe it’d be nice to dance again. Just for me.”

I keep my eyes on the rim of my cup, tracing it with the tip of my finger. “No rehearsals, and no corrections. Just movement, without expectation and no one telling me what it’s supposed to mean or look like.”

There’s a pause, and I finally look up to find Lando watching me with that same look he gets when he’s about to say something profound and inappropriate in equal measure. But instead, he nods and slides off the stool with a groan, rubbing a hand down his face as if remembering the hangover all over again. He crosses the kitchen and nudges my shoulder gently with his own.

“Come on then,” he murmurs. “I’ll show you.”

I follow him, heart already fluttering at the thought of stepping back into a space I swore I’d never return to. But this time, it’ll be different. This time, I’m not dancing for anyone but myself.

Chapter 4

Reign

TWO WEEKS LATER

The leaves crunch beneath our shoes noisily as my father and I walk the winding path through the west gardens. The estate is quiet this morning, still damp from last night’s rain. Sunlight filters through the heavy clouds, forming a pale glow over the clipped hedges and wild roses that climb the stone walls.

He’s talking about renovations again—budgets, community outreach, expansion plans for the Fall. His voice, once a guiding force in my life, now drifts somewhere just above my thoughts, grazing the surface but never quite sinking in.

“We need new flooring in Studio B,” he says. “And the east wing’s heating is still unreliable. If we want guest artists to stay through winter, we can’t have them dancing in scarves.”

I nod absently, scanning the tangled rows of roses. “Noted.” But my mind is elsewhere.

For the last few years, he’s been slowly passing the torch—handing me control of the family ballet company, Imperium, piece by piece, like I’m being trained forsomething I never agreed to want. It’s all written in his will, of course. When he’s gone, the company is mine, and I’m not blind to what Imperium means—not just to him, but to our family, to the dancers that work there, to the art. It’s the company that built our family name. The legacy he’s spent a lifetime perfecting. The crown jewel of British ballet.

And sure, I could do it. I could lead the company, help choreograph productions and manage the board. I know how things work. I’ve danced every principal role, endured the politics, learned how to make a room bend without ever raising my voice. But the truth is, I don’t know if this is what I want, because this company exists for one thing, and one thing only. Dance.

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