Chapter 2 - Tall, Dark, and Handsome

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"I don't see why we needed new choreographers this season." Nesta stabbed the knife into the cucumber, slicing it into thin wedges on the bamboo cutting board as Elain squeezed past her to get to the white wine chilling in their smeg fridge. "I mean, Miss. Viviane and Amren were perfectly capable."

She huffed an incredulous snort as her hand plunged into the strainer in the sink, brimming with ripe cherry tomatoes. Splashing a handful across the cutting board, she began slicing, her brows knitted as her voice continued to dissolve into hysteria. "I had just gotten used to Amren's style of pas-de-deux, and now I'm going to have to dance around a new choreographer's taste!"

Stabbing into a particularly juicy tomato, Nesta frowned even deeper as the red juice splashed up on her white knit sleeve. Muttering under her breath, she moved her sleeve to the faucet, turning on the water and soaking the stain. "And it's not like those oafs are going to come up with anything that groundbreaking. I'd be surprised if they even knew how to direct a grand battement en cloche!"

"I wouldn't call them oafs." Elain's sweet voice sparkled toward Nesta as she squeezed past again, wine in hand with two glasses hanging off her fingers. "Rhys graduated from the Velaris Ballet Academy with them and," Elain let out a small cough, her throat clearing slightly as she strode into the dining room, turning her back to Nesta as she arranged the glass table. "Uh, Mr. Rose was with the Paris Ballet Opera for fifteen years."

Scrunching her nose, Nesta scowled as she returned to the cutting board, taking it off the counter and using the knife to scrape the vegetables into the garden salad she had been preparing. Sprinkling crushed walnuts and dried craisins on top, she brought it to the table, her mind still wheeling as she frowned.

"Well, even if they're qualified, I still can't believe Rhys ambushed us like that. New dancers? At the start of our first season with the company?" Her arms crossed over her chest, Nesta sauntered into the living room, pacing in front of the walnut coffee table, her eyes scanning over the Sidra. "When we came to Velaris, Rhys promised me that I would be a principal."

"Darling, I think he's just trying to expand and acquire talent. The company is young. And he said there would be two major showcases this season. One choreographed by Cassian and the other one by uh, Mr. Rose." Elain coughed slightly, blinking quickly and uncorking the wine to pour herself a glass. "You'll be principal in one and Morrigan in the other."

Nesta huffed, dropping down onto the ivory velvet sofa, and sinking into the throw pillows and blankets Elain had carefully decorated it with. "I still think he's rude for doing it!"

"And who is rude today my dears?" A happy voice rang out from the front door of the apartment as Feyre stumbled in, shopping bags and art supplies spilling out of her arms as Elain rushed to help her, setting her wine on the table and scooping up the grocery bags to bring them to the kitchen.

"Your BOYFRIEND, that's who!" Nesta called over to her sister as she rose from the sofa, frowning at Feyre as she scooped a couple of totes of art supplies off of her younger sister's shoulders. "Rhysand has just thrown a wrench into my five-year plan."

Feyre cocked her head toward Nesta as she smiled in gratitude for her sister's help with the groceries. Kicking off her boots and shrugging out of her jacket, she swiped a waiting glass of wine and ventured into the kitchen, opening the fridge as Nesta followed her into the tiny room.

"I was supposed to be the star of the Velaris Ballet Company following my expertly timed debut THIS solstice season, catching the eye of suitable young bachelors across the city while also securing my position for the next ten years! But now, I have to compete with some platinum blonde for a spot that should have been MINE. " She completed the speech with a scowl, dropping down into the dining room chair and crossing her long legs as her eyes burrowed into Feyre's skull.

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