Page 207 of The Bittersweet Bond

Backstage, the atmosphere was charged, the tension palpable—interrupted only by hushed voices and the soft rustle of tulle. Evin laced her pointe shoes with the precision of a ritual, while the other dancers whispered about final positions and minor details. Frau Wagner stepped in front of the group, holding a list, waiting until all conversations ceased entirely.

“Before we begin, there’s an important announcement,” she started in her usual calm voice, each syllable precisely measured. “Today, scouts from the Royal Ballet School in London, the Juilliard School in New York, and the Ballet School of the Opéra National de Paris are in the audience.”

A quiet murmurrippled through the rows. Some dancers exchanged meaningful glances, others straightened their posture even further, as if poise alone could lift them above the crowd.

Evin remained calm. Her fingers continued gliding over the satin ribbons, knotting them with practiced ease. The names of the schools washed past her without sticking. They were distant stars in the night sky—beautiful to look at, but unreachable. This announcement was meant for dancers like Rafael, not someone like her. She had her own clear goal in mind: a flawless performance. Everything else was merely noise that would distract her.

“Remember,” Frau Wagner continued, “this is a dress rehearsal. Show what you're capable of, but work as a unit. No one wins alone—it takes the whole group to shine.”

Evin nodded automatically, her thoughts already occupied with the opening steps of the choreography. The heart of the performance wasn’t in the eyes of the scouts, but in the movements they would create together. Everything else was secondary.

__________

Sebastian

The flight to New York was calm—almost eerily so. His father was immersed in paperwork, the picture of cold efficiency, while Bas tried to distract himself with music on his phone. The cloud cover below them stretched out like an endless sea of white, but inside Bas’s mind, a storm of questions raged.

Why this sudden trip? What exactly was his father planning this time?

Upon arriving in New York, everything moved swiftly. Another black SUV awaited them.Bas leaned his head against the window, eyes trailing along the skyline. The city held something awe-inspiring, something that never failed to captivate him. Yet, today, he felt like a spectator—disconnected and out of place.

Barely had they touched down at the airport when a chauffeur guided them directly to their SUV. In the car, Bas’s gaze drifted through the window, watching the high-rises and skyscrapers that always sent chills down his spine—this city was so much larger, so much faster than California. Still, he felt oddly detached.

“We’ll check into the hotel first before dinner,” his father announced matter-of-factly, tapping away on his phone. Bas nodded silently, though it didn't feel like he had any real choice.

The hotel was iconic, right in the heart of Manhattan, boasting a lobby overflowing with marble and elegance. The ceilings were high, the walls gleaming, with soft jazz music humming quietly in the background. An attendant in an impeccable uniform escorted them to their suite, which was as breathtaking as the city itself: panoramic windows overlooking all of Manhattan, furniture that seemed straight out of a design museum, and a luxurious bathroom bigger than some people’s bedrooms back home.

“Change quickly, we don’t have much time,” his father said curtly before disappearing into one of the bedrooms. Bas watched him for a moment, reluctantly beginning to change. There were moments when he recognized himself in his father. This was one of them.

A quick glance at his phone showed a message from Evin:

Evin

On your way to the restaurant already?

Bas

Still at the hotel. Forgot how intense New York is. Doesn’t matter—I’ll be back tomorrow. Can't stop thinking about you.

Evin

You better be.

I miss you.

Bas

Miss you too. How was practice?

Evin

Chaotic. As usual. I’ll tell you when you're back.

Bas smiled. He could vividly picture Evin writing this message—sitting on her bed in her room. But the warmth of that thought was interrupted by his father's voice calling from the bedroom.

Bas

Gotta go, Birdie. LY

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