Chapter 10: Ella.

Clarisse nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak.

Ella kept talking. Something about a date. Something about riding on the back of the motorcycle. Something about how Devane's hands felt on her waist. Clarisse heard fragments, pieces, the words slicing through her like glass.

She'd thought—stupidly, pathetically—that the moment in the kitchen had meant something. The handhold. The whispered okay. The way Devane had looked at her like she was the only person in the world.

But Devane had disappeared for a week. And now she was texting Ella. Taking Ella on rides. Putting her hands on Ella's waist.

Clarisse was nothing. Just the stepsister in the other room. Just the girl who'd bandaged her ribs and thrown a wrench and held her hand in the kitchen.

Stupid, she thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"I have to go," she said abruptly. "Class."

"Oh, okay! Text me later. And tell Devane I said hi!"

Clarisse walked away. Her legs were numb. Her chest was hollow. The hallway stretched on forever, filled with faces she didn't see and voices she didn't hear. She made it to the bathroom before the tears came.

She locked herself in a stall. Pressed her back against the cold metal door. Slid down until she was sitting on the tile floor, knees pulled to her chest, palms pressed over her mouth.

She didn't cry. Not really. Just a few hot tears that escaped before she could stop them. Her body shook. Her throat ached. The voice in her head was screaming—see? you're nothing, she doesn't want you, no one wants you, you're just a skinny, broken, pathetic little—

She bit down on her palm until the voice went quiet.

Then she stood up, flushed the toilet she hadn't used, and walked to the mirror. Her reflection stared back—red eyes, pale face, lips pressed into a thin line. She looked exactly like what she was: a girl who'd been starving for years and had finally been given a taste of something real, only to have it ripped away.

She fixed her hair. Straightened her shirt. Practiced her smile.

Then she walked out of the bathroom and went to class.

°°°°°

Ballet practice was hell.

Clarisse arrived at the studio thirty minutes early, as always. She changed in the locker room, avoiding her reflection in the long mirror, and walked into the rehearsal space with her pointe shoes in hand.

The floor gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights. The barre stretched along one wall. The mirrors covered the others, reflecting her back at herself from every angle.

She hated it.

Her tutor was a woman named Madame Bellerose—a former principal dancer with the Paris Opera, now retired and teaching in a cramped studio in the suburbs. She was small, severe, and exacting. She'd trained some of the best dancers in the country. She did not tolerate weakness.

"Again," she said, for the fourth time.

Clarisse was in the center of the floor, mid-arabesque. Her leg was shaking. Her arms ached. Sweat dripped into her eyes. She'd been at this for two hours—two hours of corrections, repetitions, failures. Her feet were bleeding inside her pointe shoes. She could feel the blisters forming, the skin tearing, the familiar wet heat of blood soaking into the satin.

"Your alignment is off," Madame Bellerose said. She circled Clarisse like a hawk, her heels clicking on the floor. "Your hip is dropping. Your shoulders are tense. You're holding yourself like a girl who's afraid to fall."

Clarisse clenched her jaw. Held the position. Her muscles screamed.

"Again."

She went back to the barre. Started over. Plié. Relevé. Arabesque. The movements were burned into her body, but today they felt wrong—heavy, sluggish, like she was dancing through mud. Her mind kept drifting. To Ella. To Devane. To the way Devane's hand had felt in the kitchen, warm and solid and terrifying.

"Stop."

Clarisse froze. Her chest was heaving. Her legs were on fire.

Madame Bellerose walked toward her. Her face was unreadable. She was a small woman, but she filled the room. She stopped inches from Clarisse and looked at her for a long, uncomfortable moment.

"What is wrong with you today?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"You are not fine. You are dancing like a corpse." Madame Bellerose's eyes narrowed. "You have not eaten today."

It wasn't a question. Clarisse's stomach lurched. "I ate breakfast."

"You are lying. I can always tell." Madame Bellerose reached out and grasped Clarisse's chin, tilting her face toward the light. "Your eyes are dull. Your skin is grey. Your muscles are trembling. You are running on empty."

Clarisse pulled away. "I'm fine."

"You keep saying that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

The Princess Bride reference caught Clarisse off guard. A laugh bubbled up—hysterical, inappropriate—and she choked it back down. The sound turned into a sob. She pressed her hand over her mouth.

Madame Bellerose didn't move. She just watched.

"Sit," she said finally. "Before you fall."

Clarisse sat. Her legs gave out. She landed on the floor with a thud, pointe shoes splayed, arms wrapped around her knees. The tears came then—not the pretty kind, not the controlled kind. Ugly sobs that tore out of her chest and left her gasping for air.

Madame Bellerose sat down across from her. Not close. Not far. Just... there.

"Dance is cruel," she said quietly. "It takes everything. Your body. Your time. Your mind. It asks for perfection and punishes humanity. I know this. I lived it. I starved for it. I bled for it. And it almost killed me."

Clarisse looked up. Her face was a mess. "How did you stop?"

"I didn't." Madame Bellerose's voice was soft. "I found a reason to live that was bigger than the dance. And then the dance became something I did, not something that devoured me."

Clarisse's throat tightened. "What if I don't have a reason?"

Madame Bellerose looked at her for a long moment. Then she stood up and offered her hand.

"Then you find one," she said. "Starting with dinner. You will eat tonight. Not for me. For yourself. Or you will not come back to my studio."

Clarisse stared at the outstretched hand. Her whole body was shaking. Her feet were bleeding. Her heart was a bruise.

She took the hand.

°°°°°

She didn't see Devane that week either.

The days blurred together. School. Practice. Home. School. Practice. Home. She moved through them like a ghost, barely present, barely alive. She ate because Madame Bellerose made her promise. Small things—a banana, a piece of toast, half a sandwich. Each bite was a war. Each swallow was a victory she couldn't celebrate.

She saw Ella in the hallway. Ella waved. Clarisse waved back. She didn't ask about Devane. She didn't want to know.

But she knew anyway.

Ella posted a photo on I*******m. Her on the back of a motorcycle. Devane in front. Devane's hair messy. Devane's jaw sharp. Devane's hand on Ella's knee.

Clarisse stared at the photo for too long. Then she closed the app and threw her phone across the room.

It hit the wall and landed on the carpet. The screen cracked.

She didn't pick it up.

°°°°°

The night before the second week of school, Clarisse sat on her bed, staring at the wall. Her feet were bandaged. Her stomach was empty. The voice in her head was a low hum—not screaming, just whispering. You're nothing. She doesn't want you. Why would she? Look at you.

She heard the motorcycle.

It was late—past midnight. The engine roared outside, then cut. The garage door rumbled. Footsteps. The creak of stairs. A door opening and closing.

Devane was home.

Clarisse sat still. Her heart was pounding. She waited for something—a knock, a note under the door, a voice in the hallway. The minutes stretched. Five. Ten. Twenty.

Nothing.

She lay down. Stared at the ceiling. The cracks were still there. The shadows were still there. She traced them with her eyes, memorizing the patterns, counting the seconds.

At some point, she fell asleep.

And dreamed of a hand holding hers, warm and solid, in a meadow under the morning sun.