Page 111 of Teach Me to Fly

“I think you’re the heart of this place,” I say. “The one person who never gave up on it, or on me.”

He lets out a shaky breath. Then he lunges forward and wraps his arms around me.

“Let’s rebuild it,” He murmurs. “The right way. Together.”

For the first time since we were boys, it feels like we’re on the same side again.

I hear the faintest sound of a throat clearing behind us and when I turn around, I find my father standing there. He’s no longer the looming figure behind his desk. Just a man in a dark wool coat, his hands buried in the pockets of his slacks, his silver hair slightly tousled like he’s run his fingers through it one too many times.

“Reign,” he says, voice lower than usual, almost… tentative. “May I have a word?”

Lando’s shoulders tense, but he gives mine a quick squeeze before stepping away. I nod silently and wait as my father walks toward me. He stops in front of me but says nothing at first—studying my face instead. Then he looks past me, down the hallway, like he’s gathering his words from somewhere far off.

“I overheard what you just said to Lando,” he says finally. “And I think I was too hard on you.”

I blink, surprised into silence, because of all the things I expected, that wasn’t one of them.

“I thought… after your mother left, if I gave you a goal—something tangible, something with discipline and focus—you wouldn’t fall apart the way I did.”

He exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh. “You were always so damn still when you were little. Observantand easy to overlook, but hard to forget, and I didn’t know what else to do with all that quiet hurt in you. Lando had therapy, and he flourished in it. But you…” His eyes slide to mine. “You didn’t want help. You just wanted answers I couldn’t give you. So, I gave you Imperium instead.”

I’m stunned into silence. I don’t know what to do with this man—this version of my father. One who admits regret, and who sees me. He nods toward the corridor behind us and starts walking and I fall into step beside him, hands in my coat pockets.

“Tell me about your compositions,” he says.

I glance over at him. “What?”

“I heard the piece you composed for the gala,” he says. “During the pas de deux you and Angelique danced to. I was shocked,” he continues. “It was… beautiful…layered, and sophisticated. Alive, even.”

I slow a little. “You actually liked it?”

“I didn’t just like it. I was… proud.” He stops walking, and I do too. He looks at me. “I know I haven’t said that much over the years, but I am. And not just for the dancing. For the way you see things and the way you’re able to translate emotion into sound. That’s rare, Reign.”

My chest tightens, but I nod once, too caught off guard to say anything more.

He looks down, clears his throat again, like emotion sits awkward in his throat. “If composing is where your heart is now, then it’s where you should be.”

It’s not everything. It doesn’t erase the years of pressure, of silence, of trying to shape myself into something worthy. But it’s a beginning.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice quiet but real.

He gives me a small nod. “I still think you’re insane for stepping away from the stage.” A flash of his oldfire glints in his eyes. “But then again, maybe you’re just braver than I was.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, maybe.”

He bumps his shoulder against mine. “I think it’s time I apologize to Lando now.”

He starts walking again, towards the direction that Lando ran off to, leaving me standing there in the middle of Imperium’s halls feeling, for the first time, like my choices don’t have to be acts of rebellion.

They can just be mine.

Chapter 41

Angelique

The dressing room light buzzes with electricity, my nerves twisting my stomach into knots. It’s opening night and somehow, I made it. I sit at my mirror, dabbing a soft peach blush onto my cheeks, watching the colour bloom across my skin. I’ve already done my base and liner, but my lips feel dry, so I reach for my balm and press it on with trembling fingers.

Everyone around me is in a state of chaos—laughing too loud, adjusting leotards, fixing buns, spraying hair—but I stay quiet, cocooned in my little corner, trying to block out the noise and steady my breathing.

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