Chapter Text
The studio was silent, save for the rhythmic creak of the floorboards beneath my pointe shoes and the distant hum of the city beyond the towering windows of Velaris Theatre. Golden light spilled through the glass, pooling across the polished floor, illuminating the faint sheen of sweat cooling against my skin. My muscles trembled, taut from hours of rehearsal, the familiar ache in my feet a quiet testament to the battles I had fought to stand here—to stay here.
“Hey, where are you, princess?”
Dorian’s voice cut through the quiet, laced with amusement.
I blinked, dragging myself back to the present. He stood a few feet away, his sharp blue eyes gleaming in the warm light, a lazy smirk curving his lips.
I exhaled through my nose, forcing my shoulders to straighten. “I’m listening,” I muttered, rising back en pointe and moving through the motions as if repetition alone could banish the thoughts that had stolen my focus.
Dorian snorted, unconvinced. But before he could push, Madame Ruelle’s voice sliced through the studio.
“Again.”
Her sharp, knowing gaze flicked between us, missing nothing.
Madame Ruelle—Suzanne Ruelle—had been a force in the ballet world for decades. No one dared to call her by her first name. Suriel, the dancers whispered behind her back, a nickname earned for her uncanny ability to see through every weakness, every flaw in technique. She had molded stars, shaped legends, and now she was here, overseeing the theatre’s best.
Overseeing me.
Because I was the prima ballerina.
It hadn’t been handed to me. It hadn’t been easy. I had bled for this title, pushed past exhaustion, endured nights of breaking my body and rebuilding it stronger.
And Amarantha hated me for it.
For years, she had ruled this stage, her reign unchallenged—until I arrived. Until I took what had once been hers.
Not through politics. Not through trickery.
Simply because I was better.
She still lurked in the wings, watching, waiting, her venomous smirk a constant presence at the edges of rehearsals. Every glance, every condescending remark, dripped with barely veiled disdain.
She wanted me to fail.
Too bad for her—I never would.
Beside me, Dorian rolled his shoulders as the music swelled again. He had been my partner for a year now—a constant, unwavering presence in my life. My best friend in a world that demanded nothing short of perfection.
He was infuriatingly talented. Effortless, in a way that made it easy to forget how much work went into every movement.
But I knew.
Just as I knew that ballet had started as an act of rebellion for him—a petty defiance against his father that had transformed into something more. Something deeper.
Dorian never spoke much about his family, but I knew about his twin—the brother he hadn’t seen in a year.
And I knew that, no matter how effortlessly he carried himself, no matter how much charm and arrogance he layered over it, that absence weighed on him like an iron chain.
Still, he grinned now, shaking out his limbs with the practiced ease of a dancer who had long since made discipline his second nature. “Ready to make all the others jealous?”
I smirked, rolling through my ankles, feeling the deep hum of muscle memory settle into place, my body an instrument perfectly tuned for this. “I do that every day.”
Dorian barked out a laugh, and then—
The music swelled, and we moved.
No hesitation. No thought. Just the quiet symphony of our bodies, the breath between notes, the space between heartbeats.
My muscles stretched and coiled in perfect harmony, every step a conversation, every lift a trust fall into something sacred. The studio, the theatre, the world outside its walls disappeared. It was only us—only the unshakable rhythm of ballet, the language we had bled to master.
A turn, a leap, a whisper of silk and strength.
And as the final note rang out, as I landed with flawless precision in his arms, my breath barely disturbed, I knew—
No one would ever take this feeling from me.
🩰✨🤍🌌
We moved through the Sleeping Beauty pas de deux again, our steps polished to a gleaming edge, every transition flowing like water, seamless and precise. The violins soared through the empty theatre, filling the vast, gilded space with their haunting melody as Dorian’s hands guided me effortlessly through each lift, each delicate balance.
I was Aurora. Light and air, strength wrapped in silk, untouchable yet utterly present in every step, every breath.
Dorian was my prince—steady, unwavering, his movements effortless yet controlled, a perfect foil to my sharp precision. Where I was quicksilver, he was stone. Where I floated, he anchored. Together, we moved as if we had been born for this moment.
The final fish dive was flawless. His grip was firm yet weightless, a silent promise of trust as I arched backward, my spine curving like a bow, toes pointed, fingers grazing the air. The music built to its final crescendo, and for one fleeting moment, as I hung suspended in that perfect shape, I felt it—the weightlessness. That intoxicating, breathless second where I wasn’t just dancing.
I was flying.
The last note resonated through the theatre, and then—silence.
Only our breaths filled the vast space, our bodies still humming with the aftershock of movement.
Dorian’s hands lingered just a second longer before he pulled me upright, that lazy smirk already curving his lips. “Not bad, princess.”
I rolled my eyes, shaking out my arms, ignoring the deep-set ache blooming in my legs. “You dragged your left foot before the last lift.”
“Did I?” His voice dripped with mock innocence.
“Yes.” I turned to the mirror, untying the ribbons of my pointe shoes, my feet pulsing from hours of rehearsal. “And you know it.”
He chuckled, stretching his arms behind his back. “I’ll be flawless next time, then.”
“You better be.”
Rehearsals had been relentless, each hour pushing us closer to the limits of exhaustion. And they would only get more intense. The performances began on the first day of spring—a poetic rebirth, when I would step onto the stage, no longer Feyre Archeron, but Aurora.
A role every ballerina dreamed of dancing.
And it was mine.
I stepped off the marley floor onto the wooden stage, retrieving my warm-ups from where I’d left them. The crisp evening air had begun creeping in through the open doors of the theatre, carrying with it the scent of Velaris—faint traces of blooming flowers, the salty breath of the Sidra, the promise of spring just beyond the horizon.
I grabbed my phone from my bag, scrolling absently through my messages—until I saw his name.
I froze.
Unknown Number: Feyre, please. Just talk to me.
A cold shiver slithered down my spine.
Tamlin.
No matter how many times I blocked his number, he always found another way. Always had another excuse. Another empty apology.
I knew better now.
Knew what lurked beneath the pleading words, beneath the practiced regret.
It wasn’t about love. It wasn’t about remorse.
It was about control. And the fact that he had lost his grip on me.
My fingers clenched around the fabric of my sweater as I locked my phone and shoved it deep into my bag.
Not now. Not ever again.
When I turned back, Dorian was watching me.
I forced a smile. “See you tomorrow.”
He frowned slightly. “You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?”
I shook my head. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t know about the jobs. The late-night bar shifts. The early mornings spent working at the café before rehearsals.
And it was better that way.
I gave Dorian a final wave before slipping out the side doors of the theatre and into the crisp embrace of the late-winter night.
Velaris was alive. A city that never truly slept, its streets humming with light, with music and laughter spilling from cafes and open terraces. The scent of roasted chestnuts and sea air drifted through the cool breeze, mixing with the distant pulse of violin strings from a street performer on the corner.
For a fleeting moment, I let myself believe I was just another person in the crowd—untethered, free.
I exhaled and picked up my pace, weaving through the thinning masses, my pointe shoes swinging from my bag like a ghost of the life I had left behind an hour ago. The air still held the sharp bite of winter, but the city pulsed with warmth, with movement. Laughter drifted from the bars lining the streets, their neon signs casting soft glows against the cobblestones.
The Sidra’s Rest was already buzzing by the time I slipped through the back entrance. The dimly lit bar was thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and the faintest trace of cigarette smoke, the steady hum of conversation clashing with the clinking of glasses and the low, rhythmic thump of music.
I didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t think.
Just changed into the uniform I knew by heart—tight black jeans, a cropped black shirt that left little to the imagination. Efficient. Uncomplicated. Another role to slip into, another mask to wear.
I tied my hair into a high ponytail, rolling my shoulders before stepping behind the bar just as the first wave of orders hit.
Chaos.
Hockey night meant chaos.
There was no time to breathe, no moment to pause as my hands moved in quick, fluid motions—pouring drinks, grabbing bottles, sliding cash into the register with muscle memory as sharp as any choreography. The air thrummed with the energy of the crowd, voices rising and falling, the occasional cheer erupting from a group watching the game on the mounted screens.
I didn’t know much about ice hockey—just that Velaris’s local team, the Illyrians, weren’t playing tonight. Otherwise, the energy in here would have been feral. I’d worked enough of these nights to know how unhinged the crowd got when their team was on the ice, how a single wrong jersey could spark a fight that ended with broken noses and overturned tables.
Tonight, though, was manageable.
Until he walked up to the bar.
Broad-shouldered, towering, too much presence for the space he took up. A smirk already settling onto his lips, dripping with confidence that had been honed into something razor-sharp over years of knowing exactly what to do with it.
“Three beers, sweetheart,” he drawled, his voice rich with amusement.
I arched a brow, already grabbing the bottles and popping the caps.
Handsome. That was the first thing I noticed—because it was impossible not to.
Dark, wavy hair, golden-brown skin, hazel eyes gleaming under the dim lights. A strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and a body that looked like it had been sculpted from arrogance and war.
Probably got away with too much in life.
I slid the beers toward him, leveling him with a flat look. “Not your sweetheart.”
His chuckle was low, deep, as he took a sip from one of the bottles and leaned in slightly. “Not yet.”
I snorted, shaking my head as I turned away to grab another order, already dismissing him.
But his laughter rumbled behind me, unbothered. And then—
“I’m Cassian, by the way.”
I glanced over my shoulder, giving him a once-over. “Good for you.”
That only made his grin widen.
And as he turned, heading back toward a table filled with equally broad-shouldered men, recognition clicked.
The Illyrians.
I barely held back my grin.
Well, well.
Looked like some of the team had shown up after all.
Which meant—
Maybe, just maybe, Dorian would finally see his brother again. And maybe he’d stop complaining about it.
I tucked that thought away, slipping seamlessly back into the rhythm of work.
I didn’t have time for distractions—not for flirting, not for long-lost reunions, not for anything beyond making it through the night.
Here—behind the bar, beneath the dim lights and the roar of conversation—no one called me Aurora.
No one expected perfection.
Here, I was just another nameless girl in Velaris.
And for a few hours, I could pretend that was enough.
🤍✨🩰🌌
But then—
“Hello, darling.”
A voice like smoke and silk, rich as velvet and laced with something far too dangerous.
I rolled my eyes as I turned—only to freeze.
Standing before me was the most devastatingly beautiful man I had ever seen.
I knew who he was instantly.
He looked like Dorian—same chiseled jaw, same sharp cheekbones, same wicked smirk that promised trouble. But there were differences, too.
His skin bore the golden kiss of the sun, as if he spent more time outdoors than in rehearsal studios and grand theatres. His eyes weren’t the deep, piercing blue of his twin’s but a shade of violet so striking that I caught myself staring for a second too long.
And he was taller.
Which was just unfair.
But there was no mistaking him.
Rhysand Havilliard.
Twin brother to Dorian.
Captain of the Illyrians hockey team.
Part-time model.
Heir to The Night Court—one of the wealthiest companies in Velaris.
The thought almost made me snort. Every major territory had a company like it—The Summer Court, The Spring Court, The Autumn Court—a relic from a time when Prythian had been divided into seven kingdoms, each ruled by a High Lord.
Those High Lords were long gone.
Now, money was power, and CEOs were as close to kings as modern society allowed.
And Rhysand?
He was the golden prince of Velaris.
It was almost comical how differently he and Dorian had turned out.
I’d heard Dorian complain about him enough times—how they hadn’t seen each other in over a year, how their father had pitted them against each other from the moment they could walk, how Rhys had gone from teenage hockey prodigy to the untouchable golden boy of Velaris overnight.
And yet, despite it all, Dorian never stopped wondering if—when—his brother would come back.
And now, here he was.
Standing in front of me.
Smirking like he had all the time in the world.
“Well?” Rhysand mused, head tilting slightly as he studied me, violet eyes gleaming with amusement. “Not even a hello?”
I blinked, snapping myself out of it. Right.
Crossing my arms, I raised a brow. “Hello, darling.” I threw his own greeting back at him, as dry as possible.
His smirk deepened, slow and knowing. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Oh, this one was going to be trouble.
I sighed, already reaching for a clean glass. “Are you here for a drink or just to waste my time?”
Rhys let out a low chuckle, the sound curling around my spine in a way I refused to acknowledge. “I think I’m going to enjoy this.”
I rolled my eyes, keeping my focus on the bottle in my hand. “Enjoy what, exactly?”
His gaze flicked over me—assessing, intrigued. “Finding out what makes you tick.”
Cocky bastard.
I ignored the way my pulse kicked up a notch, focusing instead on pouring the drink.
Rhysand Havilliard could play all the games he wanted.
I wouldn’t be playing along.
Rhysand’s smirk deepened, slow and wicked, the kind of smile that made my fingers itch to slap it right off his obnoxiously perfect face.
It was unfair, really, that he had that face—the sharp jaw, the high cheekbones, the effortless, sculpted arrogance of a man who looked like he’d been hand-carved by the gods themselves.
Where Dorian was a good man—a loyal friend, steadfast and kind (even if his girlfriend, Manon, had once smirked and told me he’d confessed he’d bleed in any color she wished)—his twin was something else entirely.
Rhysand Havilliard was infuriating.
Charming, yes. But in a way that was sharper, more calculated. The kind of charm that was a blade hidden behind a velvet smile. A man who knew he was beautiful and wielded it like a weapon. It was almost comical that he wasn’t in the tabloids every other day with a new woman draped over his arm.
In fact—he wasn’t in the tabloids much at all.
The rumors about him were far more interesting than whatever truth lay beneath them. Some said he was the most feared player in ice hockey, a brutal, merciless nightmare on the ice. Others whispered about how clean his record was, how little scandal ever seemed to touch him.
And then there was the fact that he had somehow managed to graduate summa cum laude from university while playing professional hockey and stepping into the business world, already poised to take over his family’s empire.
That was why Dorian hadn’t seen him in so long.
Because this man—this arrogant, smirking bastard—was everywhere at once.
And now, he was here.
Standing in front of me.
Looking at me like I was the most amusing thing he’d seen all night.
I sighed, forcing a saccharine smile onto my lips. “Are you going to order, or did you just come here to annoy me?”
Rhys chuckled, deep and slow, his violet eyes flicking over me with that same infuriating, assessing look. “Can’t I do both?”
I rolled my eyes. “I have other customers, prick.”
His grin didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened. “I like the way you say that.”
I scowled, fingers tightening around the edge of the counter, resisting the urge to throw something at him. “What do you want to drink?”
Something flickered in those violet eyes—amusement, interest. “Something without alcohol.”
I blinked, caught off guard for a second before I snorted. “Oh? Don’t want to ruin your physique?”
Rhys’s smirk widened. Damn it.
“Ah, so you’ve been paying attention,” he mused.
I really wished I could launch a bottle at his head.
Instead, I rolled my eyes, grabbed a soda, and slid it across the counter. “Here. Now leave me alone.”
He only hummed, unfazed by my irritation, like my bristling temper was nothing more than a delightful little game to him.
I checked the time. Finally. My shift was nearly over.
“Lucky for you,” I muttered, reaching behind the bar for my bag, “I’m done for the night.”
Rhys lifted his drink, swirling it idly in his hand. “Lucky for you, darling.”
🤍🩰✨🌌
I was so close to being free for the night.
But just as I turned to leave, a voice—smooth as velvet, rich as sin—curled around me like smoke.
“Wait.”
I sighed, forcing my shoulders to stay loose before turning back.
Rhysand Havilliard was still watching me, his violet eyes filled with something unreadable—something sharp and knowing, something that made my skin prickle with unease.
His gaze flicked over me, slow and deliberate, his head tilting slightly.
“And what should I call you, darling?”
I leveled him with an unimpressed stare. “You shouldn’t.”
His lips twitched, like he liked the challenge.
I grabbed my bag again, ready to walk away, when his voice cut through the air—calm, effortless. “You must do sports, too.”
I froze for a fraction of a second.
The way he said it—so casual, so certain—sent a warning bell ringing in my mind.
I narrowed my eyes slightly. “Why do you say that?”
Rhys simply flicked away an invisible speck of lint from his shoulder, all feigned nonchalance. And then—
He winked.
Winked.
That same feline smirk tugged at his lips, the one that made my fingers itch to punch it off his ridiculously perfect face.
He leaned in, just enough that I caught his scent—night-kissed air, sea salt, citrus, and the faintest trace of jasmine.
Fucking hell.
“Even if you’re really thin,” he murmured, voice like a lazy drawl, “I can see the muscle.”
My jaw clenched.
I almost scowled, but instead, I took a deliberate step back, putting distance between us before he could say anything else.
Was he—was he reading me?
I turned sharply, walking straight to the back room without another glance.
But I still felt him.
Felt the weight of his stare, like he was memorizing every flicker of emotion I didn’t want him to see.
I exhaled, pressing a hand to my chest, cursing myself for feeling anything at all.
And yet—
Curiosity got the better of me.
I peeked out. Just for a second.
Rhysand was gone from the bar.
He had returned to his table—no longer lounging, no longer smirking.
He was standing now, his posture shifting, his entire expression changing as he turned toward someone new.
And then—
He grinned.
Not the slow, taunting smirk he had given me.
But a real grin, the kind that lit up his face in a way that was almost boyish.
I barely had time to process it before he stepped forward and hugged a familiar figure—
A figure who laughed, clapping him on the back, his blue eyes bright with something I hadn’t seen in them for a long time.
Dorian.
Shit.
I had to go.
I turned swiftly, slipping out the back before Dorian could see me—before I had to explain why I’d been talking to the one person he maybe loved most in the world.