Dance, Sugarplum

1. Lyla

CHAPTER 1

LYLA

INTRODUCTION

The dressing room buzzes with the nervous energy of twenty-five ballerinas as we filter in for auditions.

“Thirty minutes,” the stage assistant calls as she closes the door behind us.

Picking a cubby in the corner, I keep my chin high and my gaze forward as I cross the room. Many of the girls hang back a moment to watch. Sizing up the competition isn’t unusual in this industry, but I don’t have the time for that.

There are some benefits to having been the best and failed. For one, I don’t need to watch anyone else. The ghosts of my past performances are my only true competition. Every ballerina is a little hungry for success—too thin, overworked, desperate—but if they’re hungry, I’m starving .

Judgmental eyes cling to me as I stuff my bag inside one of the empty cubbies. Pretending they’re not all watching me, I quickly strip out of my sweats and climb into my tights and leotard. I’m not here to impress these dancers or give them another embarrassing story to tell about me—the broken ballerina.

I pick my leotard nervously, trying to ignore that it no longer fits me right. Whispers burn my back as the other dancers find their spots and start to change.

“She fucked him.” I don’t see which ballerina speaks, but it’s not surprising. I’ve been living with this rumor for a long time now. Their disdainful comments are nothing compared to being the broken Prima Ballerina, a woman accused of betraying her own dead mother before she was in the ground.

I say nothing. I don’t even turn. I’ve had a long time to practice pretending I don’t care, but I silently tell my mother I love her, and I never would.

The only eyes or whispers that concern me belong to Mikhail Ivanov—the director waiting outside to cast his Christmas production.

Coming here at all shows my desperation. This is the fourth audition I’ve hit in the past three weeks—none of which have taken me. Not many productions have open roles left, especially paid ones. And pay is what I really need this Christmas. I understand that coming here is useless because Mikhail has good reason to reject me. Yet I have nowhere else to be.

Several years ago, he offered me a position in his company. For a couple of months, baskets of exotic fruits and impossibly colorful flowers arrived at my address with a simple note. Even today, the lines of Mikhail’s notes hang heavy in my gut, much like my lack of breakfast.

I felt seen. But my stepfather is none other than Carter Livingston. I was the crown jewel of his company, and he grew jealous of the gifts and convinced me to stay. He made me promise to never leave his side.

Family .

A simple and powerful word that he threw out carelessly any time he needed me to do something.

I often wonder where I would be if I had gone with Mikhail. I don’t let myself get carried away. I made my choice, and I have to live with the consequences.

The past doesn’t matter. The beautiful things Mikhail said about my form aren’t true anymore. I’m not the same dancer I was when he wanted me to be his star. I’ve fallen far since those days.

I’m doomed on that front as well. Mikhail is expecting a dancer who no longer exists.

I tie up my shoes, and the pink ribbons slip softly between my fingers despite all the abuse. That softness is one of the only remaining vestiges of my old life, and it takes a second too long to let go.

They call us one by one. My last name is Moore, so I’m dead center. The time will allow me to stretch and school my face into the perfect mask. Despite how easily I once donned it, it’s hard to hold up now.

The room grows larger by the minute. Since when are there so many dancers around? I swear the competition didn’t used to be this thick. That’s to show how sheltered I’ve been.

“She’s really still at this?” Someone laughs, and I’m not even sure they’re talking to me. I refuse to face them and find out either way.

There was a time when they couldn’t spell success without the letters of my name. Lyla Moore, the prime offering of the best theaters in the world. I hold those memories close to my chest, even if most are illusions. I never had a choice as to who to dance for, not as long as Carter had any power over me. He would never let me go in glory, only in shame.

I shake myself, wondering the same question they are. Are you really still at this?

How easy is it to fall from grace all because of one jealous man? How easy was it to tarnish my reputation and end my career prospects? How fast a rumor can spread.

After every hit I’ve taken in the past couple of years, auditioning with teen girls when I used to lead my company is the least of my humiliations. I stand tall and convince myself I’m not a failure. There’s no point in dwelling on what could have or should have been. I’m here now.

Even if now is so ugly.

My cheeks redden with shame as my fingers trip over the small tear on the left side of my leotard. I didn’t care what my clothes looked like during the good times because I had more.

I could dance in nothing but my pointe, and a full audience would applaud and call it brilliant defiance.

“Lyla Moore.”

My head whips up when they call my name. The time passed faster than I thought it would, and the idea of facing Mikhail with the routine I’ve prepared today turns my stomach.

I can’t do this.

“It’s actually her.”

The whispers are impossible to ignore as I cross the room, their stares like lasers burning my skin. My heartbeats and steps synchronize as I swallow the lump in my throat, looking straight ahead at the woman holding the door and clipboard instead of at them.

My hands ball into fists as I chase out my self-doubt; my need for security is greater. With each step, I promise myself this is the last chance for them to kick me while I’m down. Carter will not continue to ruin my life.

I hope my name burns their tongues.

Following the assistant out of the dressing room and across the backstage, I crack my knuckles and pray to the deities who once favored me to do it again.

Just this time. Mikhail is the only one who can put me back together.

She holds a finger up, signaling for me to wait. With a nod, I bring my hands to my waist and roll my ankles to warm them up. I’ve performed this routine a million times. I won’t miss.

My eyes close, and I breathe in hope. The broken ballerina will dance again. They can’t keep me down. I will get up again, just like the music box I had when I was a girl.

I will be stronger.

“Go in, Lyla.”