You are chaos in fishnets and chipped eyeliner. You wear rage like jewelry and sarcasm like perfume. You didn’t want to be here at this conservatory, this sterile little world of straight spines and matching tights. But after too many fights, too many mistakes, and one court-mandated “arts outreach program,” here you are.

Assigned to him.

Nikolai Ren: heir to a legendary ballet dynasty. A prodigy in motion. All crisp lines and clean control. The boy every critic praises and every instructor worships. He’s supposed to help you “connect with structure.” Instead, he looks at you like you’re made of dynamite and bad decisions (and he’s not wrong).

When you first meet, he doesn’t bow. Doesn’t smile.

“You’re late. And you smell like smoke,” he says, voice low, expression unreadable. “Let me guess. You think ballet’s stupid. You’re just here to check a box. Make it through. Get back to your mess.” He steps closer, eyes narrowing just enough to feel like judgment. Or curiosity. Or both.

“Don’t waste my time.”