Chapter 1

“Elara, for the love of all that is graceful and good, are you still in your pajamas?” The voice, sharp and melodious like a perfectly tuned violin, cut through the morning’s quietude, slicing through Elara’s last vestiges of peaceful slumber. It belonged, of course, to her mother, Vivienne.

Elara groaned, burrowing deeper into the tangled mess of her duvet. The digital clock on her nightstand glowed a merciless 7:00 AM. Saturdays were supposed to be sacred. Saturdays were for sleeping in, for lingering over lukewarm mugs of tea and dog-eared fantasy novels, for the glorious, unfettered luxury of doing absolutely nothing. Saturdays, however, had become synonymous with one thing, one exquisitely torturous, pink-leotarded, bun-wearing thing: ballet.

“Elara Seraphina Vance! Do I need to come in there and personally unearth you from that nest?” Vivienne’s tone ratcheted up a notch, now bearing the unmistakable resonance of a prima ballerina commanding the stage. Elara sighed, a long, defeated sound that seemed to deflate her very soul. Resistance, she knew, was futile. Vivienne Vance had never lost a battle in her life, especially not when it came to her daughter’s “cultural enrichment.”

Slowly, agonizingly, Elara extricated herself from the warmth of her bed. Her feet hit the cold hardwood floor with a thud that felt less like a gentle awakening and more like a surrender. She shuffled towards the bathroom, catching a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror. Her reflection stared back: a slender, albeit slightly rumpled, eighteen-year-old with a mop of unruly dark hair and eyes that, even half-closed with sleep, held a distinct spark of rebellion. She was the antithesis of everything her mother embodied. Vivienne was all lithe lines, elegant poise, and an aura of effortless refinement. Elara was ... Elara. Clumsy, prone to tripping over her own feet, happiest buried in a book or tinkering with the ancient, wheezing engine of her father’s forgotten lawnmower.

“And those dreadful ripped jeans are not appropriate for a pre-ballet breakfast! Put on something sensible while you eat.” Vivienne’s voice, now closer, echoed from the kitchen. Elara rolled her eyes. The “pre-ballet breakfast” was a carefully curated affair: organic Greek yogurt with precisely five blueberries, a single slice of whole-wheat toast, and freshly squeezed orange juice – no pulp. It was designed, Elara suspected, to provide optimal energy for leaping and twirling, not for the more mundane pursuits of simply existing.

As she brushed her teeth, Elara’s mind drifted back to how this nightmare had begun. It was Vivienne’s fervent belief that every young woman should experience the “discipline and grace” of ballet. Elara, at the tender age of five, had been a squirming, reluctant participant, more interested in chasing butterflies in the studio garden than perfecting her pliés. As she grew, her aversion only intensified. While other girls blossomed into elegant swans, Elara remained an awkward duckling, her movements stiff, her enthusiasm non-existent. She preferred the dusty shelves of the library to the polished barres of the dance studio, the smell of engine oil to the sweet scent of rosin.

But Vivienne, a former principal dancer with a regional ballet company before an unfortunate ankle injury ended her professional career, saw only potential. Or, perhaps, she saw a second chance. A chance to live vicariously through her daughter the career she had lost. “You have the lines, Elara,” she would often say, tracing the length of Elara’s leg with a critical eye. “And such expressive hands. All you need is the dedication.” Dedication was something Elara had for obscure historical facts, for intricate mechanical puzzles, but never, ever, for ballet.

She stumbled into the kitchen, already feeling the familiar dread tightening in her chest. Vivienne sat at the gleaming quartz island, posture impeccable, sipping from a delicate teacup. Her blonde hair, meticulously styled, gleamed under the recessed lighting. She looked, as always, as if she had just stepped out of a high-fashion magazine.

“Good morning, darling,” Vivienne said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. It was the smile she reserved for situations where she was attempting to project calm while internally seething. “Your breakfast is ready. And do try to eat slowly. We don’t want any ... digestive distress during class. Or worse, a poor performance.”

Elara poked at her blueberries with a spoon. “Mom, do I really have to go today? It’s Saturday. And Ms. Dubois just makes me do tendus for an hour straight. My feet already hurt just thinking about it.”

Vivienne set her teacup down with a soft click. “Elara, we’ve had this conversation a thousand times. Ballet is good for you. It builds character. It teaches discipline. And frankly, darling, it’s an excellent way to maintain your figure.” She paused, her gaze sweeping over Elara with a dismissive air. “You’re eighteen, a woman now. It’s time you embraced your feminine side. And remember the consequences of failure. We’ve discussed this.” Elara’s jaw tightened. She knew the threats were real, and a part of her, a tiny, buried part, yearned for the freedom to simply say no, to walk away. But the fear, a lifetime of conditioned fear, always won.

Elara bit back a retort. Her “feminine side” felt more aligned with a wrench than a leotard. “But Mom, I have that history project due on Monday. I really need to get to the library and research the socio-economic impact of the Industrial Revolution on Victorian working-class families.”

“Nonsense. An hour of ballet will clear your mind and sharpen your focus. Besides,” Vivienne added, her voice hardening almost imperceptibly, “we’ve paid for the full term. And I refuse to let my investment go to waste. Now, finish your breakfast. And put on something presentable before we leave. I expect you to be ready in ten minutes, or we’ll start your discipline early.”

Elara dragged herself back to her room, pulling on a pair of sensible black leggings and a plain t-shirt. She knew from bitter experience that if she attempted to wear anything more rebellious, Vivienne would simply drive her back home to change, delaying the inevitable and incurring further punishment. She located her worn ballet bag under a pile of textbooks, pulling out the infamous pink leotard – a size too small, perpetually riding up in awkward places – and the slightly-too-tight pink tights. Her pointe shoes, still stiff and unyielding despite years of use, sat like silent accusers in a corner. She hated them. She hated the way they squeezed her toes, the way they made her feel like she was walking on stilts.

The drive to the studio was filled with Vivienne’s usual pre-ballet pep talk, interspersed with pointed reminders of the disciplinary measures awaiting any perceived lack of effort. “Remember your turnout, darling. From the hips, not just the knees. And point your toes as if you’re reaching for the stars. Feel the music, Elara! Let it flow through you! And let’s not have a repeat of last week’s performance, shall we? You know what happens then.”