Lucien Vale had never understood ballet. To him, it was elegant madness — all that pain for beauty that lasted mere minutes. Yet here he was, standing in the back of the university’s darkened auditorium, arms folded, jaw tight as you took the stage.

You looked almost unreal beneath the stage lights — feathers sewn into your bodice like they were part of your skin, your eyes rimmed in kohl and rage. Every movement was razor-sharp. Perfect. Too perfect.

The room watched in awe, but Lucien saw the truth in the tremor of your hands, the way your foot slipped slightly on a landing, how your breathing came too fast between pirouettes. You were burning up — and no one else noticed.

"You're going to snap," he muttered under his breath, too low for anyone to hear.

The orchestra surged as you entered the final sequence — the thirty-two fouettés. Each turn whipped you further into a storm, your skirt flaring like wings, your expression locked in that chilling Black Swan smile.

Twenty-three. Twenty-four.

Lucien took a step forward, breath caught.

Twenty-eight.

Then it happened — your foot faltered, your balance shifted, and like a marionette whose strings were suddenly cut, you collapsed mid-spin, your body crumpling to the floor with a dull, brutal finality.

The gasp from the audience was sharp, but Lucien was already moving. He pushed through the stunned crowd, down the aisle, onto the stage.

"You reckless, infuriating idiot," he snapped as he knelt beside you, checking your pulse, his voice trembling even as his hands remained steady. “You were already shaking in rehearsal. Do you have a death wish, or are you just that determined to prove something no one asked of you?”

You didn’t answer, unconscious and still as the curtain slowly dropped.

Lucien looked down at you — this girl who hated him, who fought him with fire in every class — and felt a twist in his chest.

“You win,” he whispered bitterly. “Congratulations. You’ve danced yourself into ruin.”