Chapter 1: Chapter 1

457 words

<html><head></head><body>"You were born with the talent to become a dancer." Who would have thought that what sounded like praise would nearly destroy me? For others, that dance studio was a place where dreams came true. For me, it was a living nightmare I barely escaped. My name is Fiona Valentine, a ballet student. Perhaps due to early maturity, my body developed faster than most—especially my chest. My dance instructor had warned me more than once that if this continued, I’d have to switch dance styles. Ballet wouldn’t be an option anymore. That day, I went to the studio for my usual practice. But after class, Mr. Ryan Lowell kept me behind. "The State Championship is next month. Why haven’t you mastered the routine yet?" I bit my lip. "I’ve been practicing, but without a partner, it’s not the same." Last month, my dance partner, Ethan Roland, was injured and hospitalized. The pas de deux—a duet meant for a man and a woman—was missing half, drastically reducing the quality of my training. "There’s no time for slow progress. Come here. I’ll be your partner," he ordered. I didn’t dare refuse. Ryan’s large hands settled on my waist—lower than usual, dangerously close to my hips. "Turn. Arch back." I twisted my body and bent backward. "Grand jeté." At the same time, Ryan stepped forward sharply, his right leg sliding between mine. His hands gripped the small of my back, lifting me into the air. Following his momentum, I leaped, executing a perfect split midair. Then—I felt his left hand brush against my inner thigh. "Ah! Wait, sir—!" Panicked, I tried to pull away. But Ryan’s gaze wasn’t where I feared. His hands remained in place, seemingly innocent. Was I imagining things? He lowered me but gave no time to think. "Your basics are weak. Don’t you know you’re supposed to keep your head up during an aerial split?" I kept my eyes down. My leotard had a plunging neckline and clung tightly to my body, making partnered practice awkward. My previous partner had always been careful to avoid uncomfortable contact. But now, Ryan had taken his place. To avoid exposure, I held back in certain movements. Yet in ballet, physical interaction between partners was essential. Mastering difficult lifts and sequences was part of the art. I couldn’t hunch forever. "Move on to the next set," Ryan commanded. I took a deep breath, pushing away my unease, and forced myself to continue. This sequence was the climax of the routine. I had to hook one leg over my partner’s shoulder, perform a split, then arch back as he spun me. Even mentally prepared, when Ryan’s grip tightened and his hands began sliding lower, I couldn’t stay silent. "Sir… your hands—" </body></html>