Page 11 of Teach Me to Fly

And while dancing is something I’ve mastered out of necessity, expectation, and obligation, music is the only thing that ever felt like mine. Late nights at the piano, alone in the studio, letting the weight of the world bleed out of my fingers—that’s where I come alive. That’s the only place I’m not haunted by the shadows of who I’m supposed to be.

But there’s no space for music in a place built on the bones of ballet. No room for me—not the real me, anyway. Just the version of myself everyone sees on stage. The mask and the myth. And if I stay, if I take it all on, I can’t help but feel like I’ll be carving off the part of myself that matters most. Burying it beneath expectations. Sacrificing it at the altar of duty.

My father glances at me as we round the corner of the hedge-lined path, still talking about bringing in new talent for the spring showcase. Does he notice how quiet I’ve gone? Probably not. Or maybe he does, and he’s just pretending not to—just like I’m pretending not to always feel the weight of all this pressing down on my spine.

“Reign, Imperium can’t stay in stasis. We need toadapt.” I know he’s right. I just don’t think I’m the right person to lead it. “We can build new studios, hire better instructors, bring in more international talent, but without something special—something unforgettable—we’re just another company.”

I stop walking and he does too, sensing the shift in me.

“You want a performance that changes lives,” I say.

He nods. “One that reminds people why they fell in love with ballet in the first place.”

My father keeps talking, but his voice cuts off suddenly at the sound of soft piano notes floating through the open window of the studio. I slow my steps and arch a brow, already turning toward the sound.

“Someone’s in the studio,” I murmur.

He follows me without a word, both of us straining to hear. The music crescendos and I unmistakably recognize it as Tchaikovsky. I step off the path, walking toward the half-closed doors, careful not to make a sound.

Inside, Angelique moves across the floor fluidly. Her long hair is pulled back in a loose, messy bun, dark curls escaping to cling to her damp neck and cheeks. She's in a black leotard and a sheer wrap skirt the colour of ash, the fabric fluttering around her thighs with every movement. She rises effortlessly onto the tips of her pointe shoes, her lines flawless, her control devastating.

Every extension, and every tilt of her head carries a kind of grief that’s almost too intimate to witness. I shouldn’t be watching, not like this. Not when it feels like I’m intruding on a moment she didn’t intend to share. But I can’t look away.

The way she dances has always taken my breath away. Watching her dance was one of the things I missed most after she moved away. It’s what I’ve always envisionedwhen I play the piano, her moving across the floor to my compositions. My way of remembering the girl who left with a piece of my heart.

My father finally joins me at the threshold, his breath catching the moment he sees her, and then he exhales, reverent.

“She’s dancing Swan Lake,” he says quietly, like he needs to say it aloud to believe it.

I don’t take my eyes off her as I nod in agreement. “Odette,” I whisper, confirming what we both already know.

There’s a long silence before he murmurs, more to himself than to me, “I think she might be the answer we’ve been looking for.”

I don't respond, because I know he's right. Watching her dance does something to me—something I can’t quite name. Her dancing is more than technical brilliance, more than physical control or artistry. There’s something raw and honest in the way she moves, like she’s telling a story without saying a single word, and somehow, I understand all of it.

It’s the kind of performance that makes you stop breathing, just so you don’t miss a second. And it’s not even a performance because she’s not trying to impress anyone. She doesn’t know she’s being watched, and that’s what makes it feel even more real.

I feel something shift in me, in what I thought I knew about this career, about this company, and about what dance could be. This—she—makes it feel worth it again. Not the legacy, not the business, not the stage lights or accolades. Just someone dancing like it’s the only way they know how to survive, and suddenly, I want to be a part of that. Not for the company, not for my father, but for myself.

Before I can stop him, my father steps forward and pushes the studio doors open. The loud creak of the hinges breaks the quiet.

“Well done!” he says, clapping his hands with a flourish as he strides forward.

Angelique startles and stumbles to her feet, her cheeks flushed. I follow behind him reluctantly, muttering a curse under my breath as I step inside, dragging my expression back into my neutral and detached mask.

“That was excellent, my dear,” my father beams, stopping a few feet from her, his arms spread wide as if he’s just witnessed a miracle.

Angelique shifts uncomfortably, brushing a loose curl behind her ear. Her eyes skim my face—quick and cautiously—then back to him.

“You are certainly your father’s daughter,” he says, and I see that quick, unmistakable pang of pain that crosses her face at the mention of her dad. Her posture tightens, the line of her shoulders closing inward like a door being quietly shut. “He would’ve been so proud,” my father adds, softer now.

Her father, Elijah Sinclair, was like a second dad to me. He was my father’s best friend, and the reason I was able to see Angelique as often as I did. They would stay in the guesthouse every summer, until he died.

She nods, but the smile she gives him is tight around the edges. “It’s nice to see you again, Charlie.” His face warms at the familiarity of her voice.

“Lando mentioned you were staying in our guesthouse,” he says, folding his arms as if settling in for a proper chat. “I’m sorry I haven’t had a moment to pop by and say hello.”

“No, please,” Angelique says quickly. “You’ve no reason to apologize. I’ve been keeping to myself.”

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