Page 18 of Teach Me to Fly

Me:

Do you always go around ‘secretly’ collectingnumbers?

Reign of Terror:

Just yours.

I fall back onto my bed, holding my phone above my face with the world's goofiest smile. Reign Harrington, texting like a menace and somehow making it... cute? Who knew he still had this side to him.

Reign of Terror:

Agreement is on the way.

Check your inbox.

I switch to my inbox and find his email at the top.

Offer – Imperium Ballet

I click the email, scrolling through the attached agreement, and when I see the pay, I drop my phone straight onto my face.

“Ow,” I groan, clutching my nose as the sting radiates between my eyes.

I blindly fumble around the bed, feeling for my phone and pulling the screen back up again to make sure I’m not seeing things. There are so many zeros. I reread the contract header. Then scroll. And scroll again.

Me:

Is this amount of compensation even legal?

Reign of Terror:

Sweet dreams.

Chapter 6

Angelique

The weekend slips by faster than I expect, and I spend most of the time doing barre work in the studio and stretching at the guesthouse, while Lando flits around the living room in silk robes and sunglasses, offering iced coffee like it's holy water. But no amount of prep could've made today easier, because the day I've been dreading has finally arrived.

Imperium Ballet stands like a fortress in front of me with its tall columns, vast windows, and a grand set of stairs that sweep toward the entrance. The building is made up of white stone, weathered with time but still pristine, and the Harrington crest is etched into the stone above the double doors. It looks more like an elite art museum than a dance company, but maybe that's what Charlie was going for when he built the place.

Lando parks out front, sunglasses sliding down his nose as he shoots me a grin. “Ready for your first day?”

“Not even remotely,” I mutter, but I still follow him up the stairs.

Inside, Imperium feels like a different world. Coolmarble underfoot, high ceilings that echo with laughter and the rustle of warmups, pointe shoes tapping softly against tile. The halls are already busy with dancers spilling out of studios, chatting, stretching, and sipping from steel water bottles.

Lando leads the way, practically gliding, his dance bag slung effortlessly over one shoulder. He cuts through the crowd like a celebrity, which, to be fair, he sort of is here. We reach a small circle of familiar faces by the lockers.

Alfie is halfway through an aggressive hamstring stretch and moaning like he’s dying, Max leans against the wall, sipping cold brew and watching Alfie, unimpressed, and Willow’s sitting on the floor in a split, arms propped on her knee like it’s effortless. They all light up when they see me.

“Look who finally came to play,” Alfie grins.

“Took you long enough,” Willow adds, reaching up for a quick hand squeeze.

I smile, my nerves easing just a bit as I crouch down beside them.

“She’s back,” Lando declares, dropping his bag dramatically. “And I come bearing new introductions.”

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