Sophia

"Five, six, seven, eight," I murmured under my breath, beginning the routine once more. The steps were simple, but the tempo was nearly too fast and I kept missing the mark on the fourth bourrée.

I couldn't miss the mark with this. I just couldn't. None of the instructors would select me to join the corps de ballet at the Précis Pointe Dance Company if I was screwing up something as simple as a bourrée.

There were plenty of things in my life that I was screwing up already. At least this was something I could fix. I just had to try.

The music swelled just before the tempo change and I tensed my muscles, preparing to shift my weight the way that Madame Olliphant had demonstrated for us this afternoon.

The music changed and I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. The bourrée performed perfectly once, twice, three times, and-

Off beat. Again.

"Damnit!" I shrieked, dropping my pose entirely. I gestured to Emma and she hit the pause button, a single eyebrow arched in my direction. I shook my head, running my hands through my sweat-damp hair, breathing sharply through my nose as I tried to calm down. "Just give me a minute and we'll go again."

"It's two minutes to six," Emma warned me, glancing down at the clock on her phone. "We were supposed to go get dinner half an hour ago."

"And I was supposed to get this perfected two hours ago. I'm not leaving until I get it right," I snapped at her. She raised an eyebrow again, looking unimpressed with my temper. Of course, she wasn't the one struggling to hit her bourrée on the correct tempo. She wasn't the one fighting tooth and nail to get into the corps, either. Not like I was.

"You do this every time," she said, moving to pick up her duffle bag. "I'm hungry, Sophie, and I'm not waiting anymore."

With those words she was out the door and I was alone in the studio, the last dancer left practicing yet again. I grimaced, a part of me knowing that Emma was right. Rest and nutrition were just as important as practice. Still, I knew I could do this if I tried hard enough, and I wasn't ready to let it go.

Picking up my own phone, I set a timer for 8pm.

If I didn't have it figured out by then, I would stop for the night. I had to, considering the studio closed at 8:30. Pushing away the memory of Emma's annoyed expression, I reached down at hit the play button on the CD player and moved back into position.

"Five, six, seven, eight," I whispered again, starting in first position before moving to fifth. The dévelopé, the arabesque, back down to fifth, and one, two, three -

Off tempo yet again, leaving me behind the beat as I moved to the changement. I paused the music, skipped back to the start of the track, and started again.

Over and over, I pushed myself past my limits. My legs ached and I could feel the blisters along the inner edge of my flats. They were new, not broken in enough. That would change soon enough.

Despite my aches and pains, I could not - would not - stop.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Two hours later my alarm cut through the music just as I'd moved to the fourth bourrée. It was impossible to tell if I'd gotten it right that time. I must have, I told myself. That was the only way that I could justify shutting off the music and methodically moving through my cool-down routine before leaving the room without driving myself insane. Four and a half extra hours of practice and I still wasn't certain I'd gotten it right.

My phone in one hand and my duffle bag in the other, I made my way to the changing rooms. There were two other dancers lingering near the lockers. Both of them were dressed in street clothes and looked well put-together. They were leaning in towards each other, whispering between the two of them, and neither of them gave me a second glance as I passed by.

Heading into the showers, I turned the water on to let it heat up before I began carefully peeling off my flats. There was a blister on my inner arch that had opened at some point during practice, leaving droplets of red seeping into the pink silk and splattered on the gray stone floor.

I made a noise of disapproval and stripped down to nothing before stepping into the welcoming heat of the shower. The water slid over that open blister, and I welcomed the stinging pain as a penance for taking so long to perfect the routine.

It didn't take long for that sting to dull into a throb, becoming background noise as it mixed together with the other aches and pains that came with testing my body against its limits, pushing and stretching in ways that most people didn't bother to attempt, all in the name of art.

I didn't have much time to enjoy the shower. The janitors would be along soon, and no matter how much I tried to befriend them they still refused to let me linger after hours. Still, I soaked in the heat and steam, the relative safety of this room where no one would -

I shook my head, scattering the thoughts that threatened to consume me. I wouldn't let them - wouldn't let him - invade this place. Not even in my mind.

When I did finally leave the changing rooms I was freshly bandaged and free from the sweat and grime that had built up over the day.

Hoisting my duffle bag onto my shoulder, I headed down the main hall towards the exit. On either side of me I passed darkened doors that led to each empty studio and I yearned to slip back into one of them and hide until the building was empty and it was only me here, safe and sound.

One of the doors near the end of the hall caught my eye as I left. It glowed with life, light pouring out from the glass barrier. I slipped towards it on silent feet, half expecting to find an empty room that some absentminded dancer had forgotten to shut down.

Stepping in front of the door, my eyes widened at the sight of two people standing in the center of the room. I recognized the long brown braid and upturned nose of the dancer. Lily Cartwright, principal dancer for the Précis Pointe Dance Company and the woman who had everything I ever wanted.

She stood with her left leg stretched out, toe pointed behind her and the curves of her body as delicate and perfect as one might expect from the lead dancer at a premier company. I'd watched her perform the nutcracker last winter and I'd been transfixed.

And yet, she wasn't the reason for my surprised inhale and wide eyed wonder. It was the man standing behind her, his hand sliding from her thigh to her knee as he corrected her stance. His dark eyes focused critically on the shift of her right leg as she moved en pointe.

Victor Cantrell was even more unmistakable than Lily Cartwright, his heavy eyebrows and patrician nose causing my heart to beat faster at the sight of him. His brown hair was longer than most male dancers kept theirs these days, stopping just above his collar and hanging in an artfully messy way. Despite being twice my age he was gorgeous. 

Every dancer I knew thought so.

His looks weren't what mattered to me, though. It was his skill as an instructor, his renowned ability to turn any average dancer into a prima ballerina no matter how terrible they were at the start. He was incredibly talented, and I'd heard he was even more incredibly taxing.

I sighed, watching as he spoke to Lily in a voice low enough I could not hear him, and wished desperately that I had the kind of money it took to book even one session with him.

Saving up for something that extravagant was out of the question, though. At least until I was selected for the corps. Until then I would continue to work under the table jobs that didn't ask questions about my high school diploma, and pray that this month I'd manage to make rent.

Resigned to my situation, I took one last long look at the girl who had everything and the man standing behind her. He glanced up and my heart began to race wildly as our eyes met. And then he looked back down at Lily, completely unconcerned with the unplanned audience, and placed his hands on her waist to steady her as she moved to a new position.

I turned away, cursing myself for getting caught up in the fantasy of being his student.

This is for the best, I told myself as I hurried down the hall and out of the building to catch the bus back home. The last thing I need is another man putting his hands all over me and demanding to have his way.

________________________________________________________________________________

Author's Note:

Hey! Thank you for reading the first chapter of High Pointe. This is a dark and dirty romance between an up and coming ballet dancer and the instructor who takes a little too much interest in her.

I haven't been in the ballet world for over a decade now, so if you find anything that stands out as strange in the choreography please let me know. I want this one to read as realistic as possible while still being complete fiction.

We're just at the start and things aren't as dark or dirty as they're going to be, but keep going because it gets increadibly steamy from here. 

High Point is the first of the Divertessments, a dark ballet romance project that follows five ballerinas and the men who fall for them. Keep reading to follow Sophia and Victor in a dizzying dance of lust and obsession, obedience and endurance. 

And comment a 🩰 below if you're already invested!

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