The water fountain at the side of the studio tastes like metal, but I fill my bottle and drink from it anyway, the cold shocking down my throat.

Across the studio, Madame Loretto is still pacing like a general surveying the wreckage of a battlefield. Her heels click against the hardwood floor, the only sound besides the muffled sniffling of three girls pretending they’re not crying.

It’s been that kind of day.

Madame’s not yelling because we’re bad.

Well—maybe some of us are bad today.

But mostly, she’s yelling because she’s furious.

The news hit like a grenade an hour into rehearsal:

The auditions for the Spring Gala have been moved up. Two days earlier.

Apparently, the venue double-booked, and the company that usually rents it to us got bumped. Now everything’s chaos.

Madame had exploded in the middle of the floor, hands flying, French curses blending with furious English ones as she ripped into whoever dared to meet her eye.

It was unfair, she screamed.

Unprofessional.

Cruel.

Most of the girls were already barely holding it together under the weight of Gala season. This was just the final shove. Half the room was either trembling, blinking back tears, or outright sobbing into their towels.

I twist the cap back onto my water bottle and lean my head against the wall for a second.

Madame’s yelling doesn’t really apply to me.

Not today.

Apart from yesterday’s disaster of a stumble, I’ve been good.

Better than good.

My solo’s been clean for weeks. The choreography’s etched into my bones now—muscle memory so deep I could probably do it half-asleep and still stick the landing.

If I’m being honest, these extra two days weren’t going to change much for me.

But I’d never, ever say that out loud.

Madame would find flaws. She always does.

It’s her job. Her favorite sport.

I glance at the clock.

Fifteen minutes past five.

Tyler’s probably already outside, waiting in the parking lot with the engine idling and the windows down.

He texted me when he got there—ten minutes early, because he’s always weirdly punctual when it doesn’t involve remembering his chemistry homework.

I shift my weight from foot to foot, restless.

Across the studio, another girl bursts into tears after missing a triple pirouette, and Madame throws her arms in the air.

“Enough!” she snaps. “Enough for today! Go home before you drown in your own mediocrity!”

The poor girl sobs harder and flees the room, ballet slippers squeaking against the floor.

Madame Loretto presses her fingers to her temples like she’s warding off a migraine and shouts to the rest of us, “Go. All of you. Out. You are only wasting my oxygen.”

Everyone scrambles to grab their bags like their lives depend on it.

Me included.

I snatch up my bag and water bottle, practically jogging toward the exit when—

“Penelope.”

Madame’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade.

I freeze.

My stomach sinks a little.

I could argue.

Say I have to go.

Say someone’s waiting for me.

But then again… arguing with Madame Loretto is about as smart as spitting into a hurricane.

I turn, clutching my bag tighter. “Yes, Madame?”

She crosses the room toward me with a precision that makes my pulse stutter.

For a second, I brace myself for it—

the scolding, the critique, the evisceration.

Instead, she stops in front of me and crosses her arms.

“You were good today,” she says.

I blink.

Once.

Twice.

Did she just…?

“You hear me?” she says sharply.

“Yes, Madame,” I stammer. “Thank you.”

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