Only the toughest, most graceful dancers performing in New York City made it to the rank of principal ballerina before their minds or bodies cracked under the pressure.
After years of sacrifice and waiting to get promoted, I'd finally become one of those dancers. And nothing–not even the throat-clenching anxiety of everyone in the company scrutinizing me–could bring me down.
It was Monday morning, just before rehearsals started, and I was on the way to Celeste's office to sign my new contract. Celeste was the ballet mistress at Liberty Ballet, the company I'd been dancing with since I was six, and nothing happened inside these walls without her approval.
Dressed in a black leotard with nude tights and patterned leg warmers, I passed a group of friends who danced in the corps de ballet.
Kennedy, my roommate, wrapped me up in a hug. "I'm so darn excited for you!" she said in her North Carolina twang. Breathless as she held me even tighter. "I need all the details when you come out with that fancy new principal contract!"
"You know I will," I said reassuringly. It was crazy to think that all my hard work and years of waiting were finally paying off. "I'll see you soon!" I told the girls, giving them one last hug before spinning around and dancing on the balls of my feet toward the ballet mistress's office.
When I turned down her hallway, I stopped abruptly at the sight of a gorgeous man I'd never seen before. He was lounging on a folding chair outside Celeste's door, reading a book. My eyes went wide, and I couldn't help the excited little jolt that raced through my body.
Hello Hot Stranger.
I knew right away this man was not a dancer. No one who valued their job lounged outside Celeste's office. In fact, no one lounged at Liberty Ballet, period.
My gaze roamed over his long, outstretched legs, which were crossed at the ankle and blocking foot traffic. I'd have to hop over him if I wanted to get past him.
Not that I was opposed to the idea of hopping over him. Or on him. I bit my lip, then pushed the thought away. Now that I was a principal dancer, I was on a self-imposed man hiatus. No more sleeping with company dancers for fun, and no more dating until after Nutcracker season.
I needed to be laser-focused on my new position because everyone was watching when you stood at the top.
Despite my man hiatus, I could still appreciate how attractive this particular man was. His dark blonde hair was artfully falling around black-framed glasses, and he clearly wasn't missing a day at the gym. Thick muscled arms sat beneath a navy blue suit jacket. And then there was the intent way he was reading his book. Like, an actual book. Not just scrolling through his phone.
Between the glasses and the book, this man was so my type. Smart, hot, and uninterested in me, which seemed to be an unfortunate trend. I shook off the momentary sting that came with that realization but told myself it didn't matter. If this man was uninterested, all the better. I didn't need any distractions.
I stopped short of where he sat, and he didn't so much as glance up at me. All his attention remained fixed on the book he was reading.
Okay.
I cleared my throat. "Hi! I'm Tanushree, but you can just call me Tan. I'm one of the ballerinas here at Liberty." I looked down at my leg warmers, grinning, hoping he would do the same, but nope. No reaction from the Hot Stranger. I didn't let his silence deter me. "It seems like you've been waiting for a while. Is there something I can help you with?"
Without looking up, he replied, "Are you Celeste?"
I sputtered out a laugh. His outsider status was confirmed. Everyone in the ballet world knew Celeste. She was also white and in her sixties. I was neither of those things.
"No, I'm not," I replied, humoring him with a girly laugh.
Hot Stranger thumbed a page. "Then I don't want your help, twinkle toes."
Twinkle toes? I blinked. Wow, okay. I tried not to take that as an insult because I was a ballerina, but I couldn't understand why he wouldn't want my help. Everyone appreciated my help.
"Do you need any help, twinkle toes?" the man asked, still refusing to look at me.
My mouth fell open. Did I need help? What a crazy question. I worked here. I didn't need his help. I didn't need anyone's help. I helped other people.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Krish's special ringtone filling the echoey hallway. Instinct had me reaching inside my purse to find my phone before it went to voicemail. My little brother was studying at Columbia, and I was on call to help him when he needed it. Not that I minded. Krish was my responsibility.
At the same time I started digging for my phone, Hot Stranger reached inside his back pocket, causing his book to fall to the floor with a thud.
I stopped looking for my phone when I realized it was his phone ringing.
"What's wrong, Mimi?" he asked in such a tender, urgent way I thought it must be a call from his girlfriend. "Is everything okay?"
Had anyone ever rushed to answer my calls like that, I wondered. Probably not. It didn't matter, I told myself. I was at the top of my game, and I'd been called up to principal.
He listened quietly, standing out of his chair before casting me a look. When our eyes met, a flash of heat filled every corner of my body. Sweet hell. Behind those thick glasses, he had the greenest eyes I'd ever seen. I didn't usually get nervous around fuckable men like Hot Stranger. Antonio, the dancer who I usually partnered with, was very fuckable.
But right now, I couldn't stop the butterflies from flapping inside my stomach.
It was official. This man was devastatingly handsome. His gaze was penetrating and steady as it held mine.
A second later, he turned away, and the flash of intensity between us went cold. I swallowed hard, ignoring my body's reaction to him and the disappointment that followed.
Man hiatus, I reminded myself. This random stranger was nobody. Well, he was clearly someone to somebody, but he wasn't a dancer. I stood my ground and breathed into my power.
"If he has a problem, he can talk to me about it," Hot Stranger gritted out, shoving a hand through blond hair. "Not showing up two nights in a row means he's off the schedule."
Hmm, that didn't sound like a conversation with his girlfriend. That sounded like a business conversation. One I probably shouldn't be listening in on, but we were literally two feet away from each other in a cramped hallway. Close enough that I could smell whatever delicious, manly cologne he was wearing. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of business this stranger was in, and why he was sitting outside a ballet mistress's office.
Thankfully, the door to Celeste's office swung open, and I smiled brightly at the woman who had chosen me to dance the Sugarplum Fairy in the next performance of The Nutcracker.
"Good morning, Celeste!" I said, bouncing on the balls of my feet with excitement.
This was it. All my hard work and years of sacrifice finally meant something.
Celeste looked from me to Hot Stranger, who had just hung up his phone call and was bending down to pick up his discarded book.
I tried really, really hard not to check out his ass when he bent over. I swear. I tried. But I was weak, so I snuck a look just out of the corner of my eye, and holy crap, this man had a back porch I could walk all over. Another jolt of excitement tore through my stomach.
"You're still here, I see," Celeste drawled, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe.
Yikes, that wasn't a good sign for Hot Stranger. Celeste always looked annoyed, but right now, she was downright irritated, and no one wanted to be around the ballet mistress when she was irritated.
But Hot Stranger didn't seem to pick up on her not-so-subtle body language. Whatever he wanted from her, he wasn't getting. It made me want to spell things out for him, partly to hurry this exchange along and partly because I felt kinda bad for him.
Hot Stranger reached for his wallet and fished out a business card. Passing it to Celeste with his big hand. "Dominick DuBois from The Hope Foundation. I'm here to discuss Liberty Ballet fulfilling the wish request I emailed you last week."
Wait, what? Hot Stranger was from The Hope Foundation, a charity I was very familiar with. They gifted wishes to sick children. I internally groaned. As if this man could've gotten any more attractive, he had to go and be charitable too.
The ballet mistress waved Hot Stranger inside her office. "I remember who you are. You've got five minutes, Mr. DuBois." Then she turned to me. "Wait here."
"Of course!" I said brightly, but my smile flattened as soon as the door was closed. There was no way Celeste could deny a wish from a sick child. Could she?
I stared at the door, crossing my fingers for luck. I knew better than most people just how much these wishes meant to kids, but I'd also known the ballet mistress long enough to predict when she was ready to say yes, and when she would say no.
Carefully, I stepped forward, hoping to hear a word or two from their conversation, but I stopped myself. I really shouldn't snoop. This was a private conversation. And besides, if I got caught, Celeste would be annoyed with me, which I also didn't want.
I wrung my hands together, glancing down the hallway to see if anyone was coming, but it was empty. I spent the next minute trying to talk myself out of listening in, but in the end, curiosity got the best of me, and I tiptoed closer to the door until I could hear what was being said.
"I don't understand why this would be an unnecessary inconvenience to your dancers," Hot Stranger was saying in his deep, rough voice. "You're telling me ballet dancers can't say hi to a six-year-old girl and take a few pictures with her before they go on stage?"
Of course it wouldn't be an inconvenience. All the dancers I knew would be more than happy to take pictures with an adorable little girl. Celeste couldn't say no to that. I held my breath, waiting.
"That's exactly what I'm saying, Mr. DuBois. We have enough children running around backstage during Nutcracker season, and I'd have to make sure they wouldn't bump into your sick child and get our company sued."
I covered my mouth to hide a gasp. That was a bald-faced lie. The kids who danced in the ballet with us were incredibly well-behaved.
The sound of a chair screeching against tile came. "Well, I won't take any more of your precious time."
I barely had time to leap away from the door before it was wrenched open by Hot Stranger, who glared at me like I was his enemy. Like I had denied his wish request. I wanted to tell him that I wasn't a stuck-up ballerina. That I would gladly stand beside this little girl as the newest Sugarplum Fairy and take as many pictures as she wanted. I'd even let her wear my tiara. But, I couldn't do all that without admitting that I disagreed with Celeste's decision.
My lips twitched with unexpressed words, but I kept them behind my teeth, even though I was disgusted with this situation. There was no room for missteps now that I had floated to the top.
Hot Stranger bristled past me and stormed down the hallway, disappearing in a few quick strides. I watched him leave with an odd mix of emotions pirouetting inside me.
"Come in!" called Celeste from inside her office.
I rolled my shoulders back and fixed a neutral look on my face as I walked inside her cluttered office and stood in front of her desk. Her office was tiled with framed pictures of every ballerina that had ever danced a principal role at Liberty, and I knew I was next.
Celeste didn't bother looking at me. She was sorting through file folders and making notes. I waited for her to talk first, knowing her mood.
Finally, the ballet mistress looked up at me with a bored expression. "Maria will be moving up to principal ballerina," Celeste said matter-of-factly, reaching for her mug of coffee.
I let that information sink in before replying. Maria was a fellow soloist who was three years younger than me. She was an amazingly technical dancer who absolutely deserved the promotion. Someone else must've quit or dropped out at principal, and I wondered who it could be.
"That–that's great news," I replied.
The ballet mistress took a sip of her coffee, pretending like she hadn't just heard me. "Which means you will remain a soloist."
The words echoed around inside my head, not making any sense. Was she saying that I hadn't been promoted after all? No, that couldn't be possible. On Friday she'd said I was being moved up. I must be misunderstanding this situation.
But the look on Celeste's face confirmed I wasn't. No one else had dropped out. Maria was being moved up to prinicipal instead of me.
Hold up. I was getting passed over again? Why? This was supposed to be my moment. I'd already told my family and friends about the promotion, and we'd all celebrated this weekend. Now it was being ripped away?
"That's all," Celeste added. Snapping the file folder with my name on it shut. "You are dismissed."
Dismissed?
I opened my mouth to demand a reason for her last-minute change of heart, but I only got out one garbled word before I caught myself and pressed my lips together. Even though I deserved an explanation for her decision, I knew Celeste would never give it to me. And if I pressed for it, I could lose my spot as a soloist and be back dancing three ballets a night in the corps.
Or worse–let go entirely. Which could not happen.
So instead, I nodded and even managed to smile. "Thank you so much for the consideration."
Tears sprang to my eyes as I pulled Celeste's office door closed, but I held them back.
"Get it together, Tan," I whispered. "Ballerinas do not cry."
At least, they didn't cry here, at the company. They waited until there were home alone. Crying through injuries and breakups with fellow dancers and getting passed over for promotion.
Ballet was a full contact sport. One played under bright lights and on the tips of your toes. One misstep and a lifetime of hard work was ruined. One hit and you were out. But this disappointment was worse than snapping a tendon or not being good enough to advance. It felt like having it all and then getting it ripped away without explanation.
What the hell was I going to do?