Page 4 of Swallow Your Sorries

Perfection.

“N-no.”

“Good girl.” He pulls away from me, the corners of his full lips twitching, his eyes sparkling with something I can’t quite place.

What the hell was that?

I wet my dry lips, mentally shaking the thought away. Great. I’d probably be using him as my new inspiration for my nightly ritual. The one where I fantasise about impossibly beautiful boys being obsessed with me.

“Now that we’ve cleared up how beautifully and intentionally made your body already is, what else does Madame complain about?”

My cheeks burn, my stomach flipping over.Beautiful?This sample of beauty personified was callingmebeautiful. Me with reddish blonde eyebrows and eyelashes that disappeared against my pale skin?

“Nothing. She doesn’t critique me on things I can control. Like my timing or positioning. I can’t improve if I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong. I keep trying to impress her—”

He shakes his head. “You won’t ever be good enough for her. So stop trying.”

How would he know?

Now that his warm fingers aren’t holding me, my shoulders begin to shake again and snot bubbles in my nose as thoughts of Madame come rushing back. I pivot away, hiding my face.

Shit! Did he see that?

“Why do you care about what one teacher says, anyway? She isn’t the sole authority.”

I swipe at my nose and try to compose myself in a nanosecond. “But there’s no denying that she does have authority. Don’t you know who she is? She’s a freaking—”

“Prima ballerina?” he asks, seemingly unimpressed. “Yeah, I know. But she isn’t some god.”

“She’s the god of Beaulieu Academy’s ballet division, or at least she was. She can teach me exactly how to nail my audition.”

“You want to go to Beaulieu?” he asks, arching a brow as I stare at him via the mirror’s reflection.

“That’s my best chance at dancing in college. Over seventy per cent of its students get into a renowned program. If Beaulieu Academy is listed on my college admission form, I’ve already gotten one ballet slipper in the door.”

“Ballet’s that important to you, huh? Not just a hobby?”

I whirl to face him, gawking as if he’s just asked me if I liked food. “Ballet is everything to me. It’s my escape. It’s a world away from my father—” I bite my lip.Why the hell did I say that?

“What’s wrong with your father?” He seems genuinely interested whilst already having an idea of the answer. But that’s impossible. Someone who went to a private school wouldn’t know a single one of my family members.

I let out a shaky breath. “Everything.”

He remains pensive, watching me, but he doesn’t push for details.

“Madame told me I should just quit now,” I say, wrapping up that conversation hastily. Talking about my father is off-limits. “But how can I ever do that? It’s my lifeline. My dream.”

“Lifeline?” he asks, more to himself.

“Haven’t you ever had a dream?”

“No,” he says seriously and somehow I find his lack of a dream sadder than my crushed one.

Behind his back Madame darts past the crack in the door, not seeing us.

“Ihateher,” I whisper.

“Hating her won’t make you a better dancer.”

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