Page 134 of Swallow Your Sorries

“But why? You didn’t anticipate an interlude back then, right?”

“I didn’t.”

“But you were still going to tutor me? Help me?”

“Of course. How else would you have stayed with me?”

I swallow. “This obsession you have with me…it started before we met again in the theatre, didn’t it?” That’s the only way it could make sense. Those trauma bonds went deeper than I thought.

“Yes.”

“Don’t you think that’s…abnormal? Like, deeply unhealthy?”

“Yes. That’s why you’re here, dove. You’re my cure.”

“I don’t—”

“You don’t need to understand. You need to dance because time’s slipping away,” he says, eyeing the digital clock above the door. “Besides, I’m the one asking the questions, remember? Twenty-one of them, to be exact.” He moves to the speakers and plugs in his phone before eyeing me wearily. “Don’t bother trying to hack into it this time. I have a password.”

A half second later, Cinderella’s classical ballet soundtrack that we’ll be using for the play flits through the speakers.

I snort. “As if there’s anything on there I’d care about.”

“You’re on there.”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“What I just said. You’re on there.Lots of you.”

I straighten. “Gant—”

“Get away from the barre. You’re not ready for it yet,” he says as I grip it for support to keep from falling. Suddenly I feel faintish.

What does he mean I’m on there? In what capacity???

“Get back on the floor. We only have the studio for forty-five minutes.” His eyes flicker to his phone again. “Thirty-nine.”

Mistress’ threat of demotion circles in my head as I swallow the argument ready to bubble from my throat. I could bicker with him later.

When I oblige, sinking back onto the hardwood, I’m shocked when he doesn’t get directly behind me. To be honest, I thought he’d use the stretches as another excuse to get between my legs again.

Am I disappointed that he isn’t? Even after what he’s just said?

“Let’s start with a mirror split,” he says from a safe distance away. “Open your legs wide, and get as close to the mirror as you can. I’m going to push on your hips.”

I follow his instructions and a second later, his feet push into my ass, pressing my crotch as flat to the mirror as it’ll go. Tears burn my eyes and I swallow a whimper as I try to bear the burning sensation running horizontally between both legs. I hadn’t done a mirror stretch since Madame Pelletier’s class. Maybe if I’d stuck to it, I’d be more flushed now.

I’d forgone all of Madame Pelletier’s advice, latching onto whatever my new instructor had said. I’d convinced myself that she was wiser despite her lack of accomplishments to Madame in comparison. I wholeheartedly believed that she’d lead me down a better path than Madame Pelletier ever could. But being at Beaulieu has shown me that my disdain for Pelletier only impeded my own success.

Gant’s words two years ago swirl in my mind.

‘Hating her won’t make you a better dancer.’

No, it made me a willingly worse one.

“Elle.”

My only response is a whimper.

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