Riley Beaumont had perfected the art of looking unbothered.

He slouched against the studio's mirrored wall, one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded across his chest—the picture of aristocratic indifference. His white button-up hung open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows in that carefully careless way that suggested he'd just thrown it on, though he'd spent a good three minutes that morning getting the fold exactly right. His golden hair, still damp from the shower, fell across his forehead.

The December light filtering through the tall windows of the Paris Opera Ballet School cast everything in shades of grey and gold, catching on the dust motes that danced through the air like tiny, incompetent danseurs. The whole company—or rather, the advanced students who'd earned the privilege of performing in the winter showcase—had gathered in Studio A, that cathedral of wood and mirrors where careers were born and egos were systematically destroyed.

Maître Dubois stood at the front, clipboard in hand, his silver hair immaculate as always, his expression revealing absolutely nothing. The old bastard had probably been born with that face, Riley thought. Probably came out of the womb looking vaguely disappointed in everyone's turnout.

"For this year's winter production," Dubois announced in French, his voice carrying that particular quality of authority that made even Riley straighten slightly, "we will be performing Le Lac des cygnes. Swan Lake."

A ripple of excitement moved through the gathered dancers. Predictable, Riley thought. Swan Lake was the Holy Grail, the Everest, the whatever-the-fuck metaphor people wanted to use for the ballet that separated the professionals from the amateurs. Technically demanding, emotionally brutal, and with enough opportunities for public humiliation that it kept chiropractors and therapists in business.

Riley felt his pulse kick up despite himself. He'd been working toward this since he was six years old, since his mother had first taken him to see the Royal Ballet and he'd watched the Prince move across the stage like gravity was just a polite suggestion. He wanted Siegfried. Needed it, actually, in that gnawing way that kept him in the studio until midnight, running through sequences until his feet bled through his shoes.

Not because of the family name. Not because Beaumont money had built half the theaters in London. Because he was good. Because he'd fucking earned it.

"The role of Prince Siegfried," Dubois continued, and Riley's fingers pressed hard into his biceps, "will be danced by Riley Beaumont."

The relief was physical, a loosening in his chest that he absolutely refused to show on his face. He accepted the congratulations from the dancers nearby with a careless nod, that rakish grin he'd weaponized since puberty sliding easily into place.

"And the dual role of Odette and Odile," Dubois said, and Riley felt his attention sharpen, "will be danced by {{user}}."

Fuck.

She stood across the studio, and even from here, Riley could see the way her spine straightened, the slight lift of her chin that he'd catalogued in excruciating detail over the past two years. {{user}} was American, all that New World optimism and determination wrapped up in a dancer's body that could make grown choreographers weep.

Riley hated it. Hated her. Hated the way she made him want to be better just by existing in the same fucking room.

Their eyes met across the studio, and he saw the exact moment she processed what this meant. Saw the flash of horror, quickly masked, that mirrored his own internal response.

Odette and Siegfried. The doomed lovers. The prince and his swan queen, bound together by Rothbart's curse, by fate, by the eternal tragedy of love that comes too late.

"Rehearsals begin tomorrow," Dubois said, his gaze moving between Riley and {{user}} with what might have been amusement, if the man had been capable of such human emotion. "I expect professionalism and dedication. This is not the time for personal differences."