Italian Ballerina Novels & Stories

She's so weird" beauty commented. She was the best dancer and indeed a beauty queen that's why she had the name"beauty" she crossed her legs and made sure to stand on her toes just as instructed. "I hope this would be a fair judgement" Lilian added. She was behind beauty and part of her team. Anastasia kept falling when trying to stand on her feet. It has been a month now since after the announcement of who the lucky ballet dancer would be, to perform live with a superstar. No one wanted to miss this chance it would be a christmas ball to remember and everyone needed to put in their best to be selected.

She was going to keep her in the dark anyway. Tina shrugged. "I guess so." "I guess not." — Dinner was ready. Another lady Balia hadn't seen was the one in charge of the kitchen. According to Tina, she was her assistant. She was a tiny Italian woman with dark hair and doe eyes. Balia spent most of her time watching various dishes in awe and staring at the lady as she set the table, only tearing her eyes away when she was hit by the familiar musky and woodsy scent of Senna's cologne.

She slipped off Denise's lap and crossed the room, wrapping one arm around the pole, she pushed lightly from the floor. Her body rose in one smooth motion. She curled around the pole like a ribbon caught in the wind, every movement precise, every line unmistakably shaped by years of ballet. For a moment, she wasn't a frightened young woman searching an unfamiliar city. She was simply Gianna. And everyone in the room smiled as they watched her fly. ──━⊰ 𓆙 ⊱━──

‘You have several hotels throughout Europe that you aren’t letting go, yet this jewel you are. ‘You’re correct,’ Abdullah said. ‘Hotel Grande Lucia is a jewel.’ As Raul frowned, Abdullah gave a nod that told Raul he would explain some more. ‘Come and see this.’ They stepped into the grand ballroom, where a dark-haired woman, dressed in a dark suit that was rather too tight, was standing in the middle of the dance floor. Just standing. Her shoes must be a little tight too, for she was holding stilettos in one hand.

The guest was Francesca Romano. The name, whispered in hushed tones, resonated with an undeniable weight. Amara had heard it before, fragments of conversations, whispers of Dante’s past. Francesca Romano: a name synonymous with power, beauty, and a fierce, unyielding will within the Italian underworld. Dante’s former fiancée. Amara dressed in one of the new, more elegant dresses provided for her, a deep emerald green that complimented her dark hair. She felt like an exhibit, a carefully curated display for a critical audience.

I’m better than this! “Ball gown for a reception isn't a bright idea either. Follow me.” I make my way to the ball gown section as she lets out a loud gasp. She mumbles slurs to me in Italian, but I act as though I didn't just hear her call me a sick witch.

His eyes locked onto Donatella's as they walked side by side, their hands clasped together. Donatella, a vision in a stunning white gown, radiated elegance and poise. The fitted, floor-length dress showcased her curves, and the intricate diamond designs that adorned the gown sparkled under the light. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, with a few loose strands framing her face. Despite her youth, she carried herself with a sense of maturity and determination that commanded respect.

"Yes?" "Signor Volkov was incredibly moved by your performance," she continued, a practiced smile on her face. "He would be honored if you would join him in his VIP room. He wishes to congratulate you in person." *** But now, I wasn't dancing anymore. I was running to escape… to escape a hell disguised as a dream. Run, Seraphina, Run. Never look back! The graceful ballerina was gone, replaced by a desperate creature fleeing through the night. I ran and ran, my bare feet screaming in protest as they slapped against the grimy streets of Milan.

she stated earning a roaring laughter from Roman. “fine, you win be ready in 15” Camila jumbled off the couch with a huge smile on her face and headed for the stairs. She picked out a long black gown that didn’t hug her figure so that her stomach won’t show that much. She paired it with a pair of black flats and a silver purse. She didn’t do any makeup, just curled her hair and was rushing down the stairs. Roman was already ready there, waiting. He was dressed in a black suit and was looking down at his watch.

“The rumours are really sketchy, nobody really knows.” “What is your hypothesis?” “It has something to do with Adam and a possible love triangle,” she says as-a-matter-of-factly. Arla is one of the best ballet dancers in our school right behind Cleo and I. She was always the odd one because of her outspoken personality. She feared nobody, not even Ms. Azizen. She did not entangle herself with gossips though and tried not to draw too much attention to herself. She is not the conventional beauty; there is nothing striking or attractive about her. She has short hair that can barely be pulled into a bun, average brown eyes and average lips—not too plump or too thin. Her build is not a ballerina’