The stage lights kissed her skin, warm as sunlight, turning the pale pink of her tutu into molten gold. The corset hugged her tightly, sculpting her into the hourglass the ballet world had tried to shame her for. The bodice glittered with hundreds of hand-sewn crystals that caught the light with every breath she took, and the delicate tulle flared around her hips like the petals of a perfect rose.
She wore no necklace no ornament to distract from the long line of her throat only diamond studs at her ears, winking with each movement. Her dark hair was twisted high into a bun, the sleek style making her cheekbones seem sharper, her mouth fuller.
The violins swelled, and she moved, toes cutting across the polished stage. Her back arched as she spun, the swell of her chest rising beneath the tight bodice, the skirt whispering against her thighs. Every leap felt like flying, every landing a promise kept.
She could feel the heat of the audience's stares as keenly as the stage lights the lovers imagining her in their arms, the critics searching for a flaw, the little girls who wanted to be her. Her breathing was steady, but her heart hammered against the satin boning of her costume. She danced not for them, but for herself.
A single bead of sweat slid down the hollow of her spine as she held her final pose, chin high, arms arched like wings about to break free. For a heartbeat, the Opera House was silent. Then the applause began, swelling like a storm until it drowned the music completely.
She smiled, the perfect ballerina's smile serene, untouchable, as she took her bow. Inside, her lungs burned, her muscles ached, and something deep in her chest whispered that perfection always came with a price.
Petals rained down from the balconies white roses, pink peonies, and the occasional long-stemmed red that hit the stage with a soft thud. She bent gracefully to pick one up, lifting it to her nose as if it were the only gift in the world.
A boy in the front row tossed a bouquet almost as big as his head. She laughed, catching it against her chest, the sound ringing clear even without a microphone. More flowers followed, the stage slowly becoming a garden beneath her feet.
Then she saw her a little girl no older than six, held up by her father so she could reach the stage. In her tiny hands, a single daisy. Not wrapped in paper, not tied with ribbon. Just a daisy.
Geneviève crouched at the edge of the stage, ignoring the cameras flashing like fireworks, and reached down to take it. Their fingers touched small and warm against hers.
"Merci," she whispered.
The little girl's mouth formed a perfect 'O,' and the audience melted. A collective sigh rippled through the crowd. Someone clapped louder. Others whistled.
Geneviève tucked the daisy into the crystals of her bodice, right over her heart. She rose, taking one last sweeping bow.
From the outside, she was the picture of grace the beloved swan of Europe, adored by all. But as the curtain began to fall, a faint unease coiled low in her stomach, an instinct she had learned never to ignore.
Her world was about to change, and it wouldn't care how many flowers they had to throw
Backstage smelled of rosin and warm fabric. Stagehands smiled as she passed, some clapping her shoulder, others murmuring, "Magnifique, Bellecourt." The gold light from the stage spilled into the corridor, bathing everything in a final glow.
Near the exit, two of the Opera House's senior patrons stood waiting Monsieur Delacourt in his perfectly tailored tux, Madame Renaud in a gown that cost more than a year's salary for most of the dancers. They had been funding the company since before Geneviève could walk.
"Geneviève, ma chère!" Madame Renaud caught her hands, kissing the air beside her cheeks. "You were luminous tonight. Truly."
"Extraordinary," Delacourt added, nodding as though to confirm a private truth. "A performance worthy of your final bow here."
She smiled automatically and then the words sank in.
Her final bow?
Her steps faltered. "Pardon?"
"Oh, I thought you knew," Madame Renaud said, her tone airy, the way rich people delivered bad news they didn't have to feel. "Your agency's decision. Tonight marks the end of your residency at the Palais Garnier. Such a shame, but… new blood, you understand."
Geneviève's pulse roared in her ears.
Delacourt offered a sympathetic tilt of his head. "But what a way to go out, hm?"
They moved on without waiting for her answer, their perfume lingering in the air long after their footsteps faded.
She stood there, the applause still ringing faintly from the stage, holding a daisy to her chest as if it could keep her from unraveling.
The sound of their footsteps disappeared, leaving a hollow silence behind.
Geneviève's chest tightened so suddenly it was like someone had squeezed her heart in a steel grip.
Her legs felt numb, the daisy in her hand suddenly too fragile to hold.
She swallowed hard, but the air wouldn't come.
One of her biggest gigs the stage she had dreamed of owning, the spotlight she'd fought tooth and nail to keep was gone.
Gone.
The weight of that word slammed into her like a fist.
She wanted to scream, to cry, to rage at the unfairness of it all. Instead, her vision blurred, and tears pricked the corners of her eyes, burning behind the perfect mask she wore for the world.
All the rehearsals, the pain, the endless criticism of her body was it all for this?
Her breath came in shaky gasps. The applause, the flowers, the cheers from just minutes ago now sounded like a mocking echo in the empty room of her soul.
She was alone.
And falling.
Geneviève hadn't even changed. The satin of her tutu clung to her body, the stiff skirt bouncing with each hurried step as she left the backstage doors.
This crowd wasn't the one she knew.
Gone were the wide-eyed admirers with trembling bouquets. These faces were hard, mouths twisted, spitting words that stung like hot oil.
"Fraud!"
"Whore!"
"Slut!"
She glanced around, pulse kicking faster.
Where was her security?
They'd been here earlier flanking her, clearing the way. Now… nothing. No earpieces. No dark suits. Just the crush of strangers pressing in closer and closer.
A hand snatched at her arm, nails digging into her skin. Another slid across her hip, fingers lingering where they had no right to be.
Her heart pounded in her throat. She shoved forward, clutching the daisy the little girl had given her, keeping it pressed between the swell of her chest like it might protect her.
Then a boy still young, barely more than sixteen lunged forward, his face lit with something ugly. He reached straight for the daisy, his knuckles grazing the curve of her breast.
Geneviève saw red.
Her palm connected with his cheek in a sound so sharp it silenced the mob.
Gasps. Then stillness.
She didn't wait for the backlash. She tore herself free, shoved open the car door, and slammed it shut. Her hands shook as she gripped the wheel, her breath ragged.
In the rearview mirror, the crowd began to move again phones rising, lenses catching every detail.
The daisy lay crumpled in her lap.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, one thought burned like acid:
Security doesn't just vanish.
The city lights blurred past her windshield, streaks of gold and red smearing in the rain on the glass. Her hands still trembled on the steering wheel, the satin bodice digging into her ribs with every shallow breath.
Then her phone buzzed. Once. Twice. A dozen times in rapid fire.
She ignored it.
It buzzed again. And again.
Finally, at a red light, she glanced down. The screen was a flood of notifications
mentions, messages, group chats exploding.
Her name. Everywhere.
The first video played automatically: the slap. Captured from three different angles already.
Zoomed in. Slowed down. Looping endlessly.
Comments scrolled faster than she could read:
"Violent diva."
"Can't handle the truth."
"Guess she is the bitch they say."
Another clip—this one of her face as she shoved through the crowd. Someone had paused it mid-expression, her eyes narrowed, lips curled, and plastered it with the caption: When the mask slips.
Headlines were already popping up on gossip feeds:
Fallen Swan of Ballet? Geneviève Bellecourt Assaults Teen Outside Opéra Garnier
From Prima to Pariah in One Slap
The buzzing didn't stop. Her agent's name flashed across the screen. She let it ring.
Up ahead, the light turned green.
She pressed the gas, jaw locked so tight it ached.
The daisy slid from her lap to the passenger seat. Its petals were already starting to wilt.
The news anchor's voice was low and measured, but the words were knives.
"…And now, famed ballerina Anneliese Köhler has spoken out regarding the incident outside the Opéra Garnier. The two dancers were known for their close friendship, often performing together and praising each other in interviews. Köhler, who was seen rehearsing at the Garnier earlier this week, had this to say…"
The screen cut to Anneliese—sleek bun, perfect posture, a swan in black silk. Her expression was solemn, concerned, as though the entire world's disappointment weighed on her shoulders.
"I care deeply for Geneviève," she began, voice trembling in the exact way that would make viewers lean in. "We've been through so much together. Which is why… it hurts to see what's happening now. I only hope she takes responsibility for her actions, both tonight… and for what she's done in the past."
The anchor didn't hesitate. "You're referring to the allegations?"
Anneliese's eyes lowered, lashes hiding the gleam beneath. "I can't speak for everyone. But… I've heard stories. We all have. And I've seen things that… well… I wish I hadn't."
The montage started. Blurred stills from an alleged sex tape, grainy and dark, faces indistinct but the internet didn't care. Threads and gossip accounts were already claiming it was her.
Captions scrolled under the footage:
'Slept her way to the top.'
'Eliminated other ballerinas to clear her path.'
'Even young trainees weren't safe from her ambition.'
Geneviève's stomach churned as the accusations piled up each one dirtier, more grotesque than the last.
They painted her as a predator, a manipulator. A destroyer of dreams.
And the person leading the charge, the one feeding the rumors to the press and the forums, was the woman who had been her anchor in the storm.
Anneliese Köhler.
Her partner onstage. Her confidante offstage. Her family after her grandmother's death.
The woman she would have taken a bullet for.
The phone lit up again on the passenger seat.
Annika Vogel.
Geneviève's grip on the wheel tightened. She didn't want to talk not to anyone but her thumb betrayed her, swiping to answer.
"…Yeah?" Her voice was thin, strained.
"Where are you?" Annika's tone was brisk, no warmth, just business as usual.
"I—" Geneviève's throat worked. "I was leaving backstage, and the owners… they said thank you for my last performance there." Her voice wavered. "I thought it was a joke, but they just walked away. Annika, they're—they're dropping me. One of my biggest gigs, just gone—"
Her breath hitched, words tangling. "And the crowd outside—someone grabbed— I don't— I can't—"
The sentences dissolved into fractured gibberish, like her brain couldn't keep up with her mouth. Her chest heaved, the sound breaking into sharp, desperate sobs. The kind she hadn't felt in years not since her grandmother's funeral.
On the other end, there was only the sound of Annika breathing. For her, silence wasn't hesitation it was searching for the right tool, the right lever to pull.
"…Pull over," she said finally.
"I—"
"Pull. Over," Annika repeated, sharper now, though the bite didn't land quite right—it was awkward, clumsy, like she was trying to wear someone else's skin. "You're already trending, Genne. How do I explain the headline about you wrapping yourself around a tree."
Geneviève's fingers trembled on the wheel, vision swimming. She didn't even realize she'd guided the car toward the curb until the engine dropped to a low hum.
"Good," Annika muttered. "Now sit. Breathe. Just… don't move for a second."
It wasn't tenderness not from Annika but it was the closest thing she knew how to give. And right now, it was all Genevieve had
♡♡♡
Annika didn't knock, didn't ask she yanked the driver's door open so hard it bounced.
"Out."
Geneviève blinked at her, mascara streaks cutting down her cheeks, lips trembling.
"I said out, Bellecourt," Annika repeated, her voice flat but with an edge sharp enough to slice glass. "Unless you plan on adding vehicular homicide to today's headlines, you're done driving."
"I—" Geneviève's voice wobbled, too raw to form words.
Annika reached in, grabbed her wrist not hard, but firm and hauled her out in one swift movement. Geneviève stumbled, heels scraping against the curb. Her knees felt like water.
"God, you're lighter than you look," Annika muttered, steering her toward the back door. "Come on, tragic Barbie, in you go."
Geneviève gave a weak, watery laugh that broke into a sob. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth as Annika pushed her down into the leather seat.
The assistant crouched to meet her eye level, blue eyes bright and cutting against her strawberry-blonde hair, every strand naturally perfect in the fading streetlight. Her frame was almost a mirror of Geneviève's hourglass curves, long dancer's legs but hers was wrapped in a leather jacket and scuffed boots, not silk and tulle.
"You done leaking yet?" Annika asked, deadpan. "Or should I grab a bucket?"
That did it. Geneviève broke. Not the polite tears of a scandal-hit starlet but the ugly, soul-deep sobbing she hadn't let herself feel since her grandmother died. The sound tore out of her chest and curled the air between them.
Annika sighed not annoyed, not really and slid into the front seat, starting the car. "Fine. Cry. It's all you're good for apparently."
Annika didn't turn left toward Geneviève's penthouse. She blew right past it without a glance.
"This isn't—"
"Nope." Annika's voice was razor-flat. "We're not doing this at your place. You'd just sit there and cry into overpriced silk pillows until your face swelled."
Geneviève stared at her through red, wet eyes. "My place, my rules."
Annika cut her a side glance, one brow arched. "Your money. My brain. And right now, my brain says you need to be somewhere you can't lock the door and drown in your own pity party."
The city slid by in blurs of neon and rain. She pulled into her underground garage, and the truth stung all over again.
A black coupe. A silver convertible. Three custom bikes. Every single one of them bought with Geneviève's money.
The elevator opened straight into Annika's apartment. Warm wood floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows flashing the Paris skyline. White leather furniture she'd picked herself. Abstract art that cost more than most people's yearly rent.
Geneviève's took off her shoes throwing on the polished floor. "I could cut your salary, you know."
Annika smirked. "Yeah, but then who'd keep you from turning into a tragic cautionary tale?" She tossed her jacket on a chair. "Sit."
Geneviève dropped into the couch, the soft leather swallowing her. Annika tossed her a blanket cashmere, of course and stood there like she was waiting for compliance.
"Now," Annika said, voice sharp but not unkind, "tell me what those vultures at the Opera House said to you."
Geneviève hesitated, fingers twisting in the blanket. "They… thanked me. For my last performance there." Her throat closed, the words catching. "Like I'm already done."
Her voice cracked on the last syllable, and that was it. The tears came, hot and merciless, breaking her down in the center of Annika's immaculate living room.
"They said I'm done"
Annika's eyes locked onto the pink tutu, the corset so tight it looked like it was choking the life out of Geneviève. The faint bruises along her ribs weren't easy to miss.
She didn't soften. Not even a little.
"Oh, so now you're in a career-ending scandal you want me to wrap you in cotton wool and sing lullabies?" Annika snapped, grabbing at the laces of the corset without waiting for permission.
Geneviève flinched, but didn't fight.
"You think this is the time to baby you?" Annika's voice was harsh, but there was fire behind it—a furious kind of care. "Get that thing off. I have to do everything for you."
Her fingers worked the corset, pulling the tight fabric loose piece by piece, the sounds of rustling tulle and metal hooks filling the tense silence.
Geneviève closed her eyes, letting the weight start to lift not just of the costume, but of everything she'd been holding in.
Annika didn't say anything else. She just kept working, and the sharpness in her eyes said it all: I'm not going to let you break. Not now.
The last hook of the corset snapped free with a sharp click.
Immediately, the weight of her own body betrayed her: her breasts, no longer confined, pulled her backward.
Geneviève's breath hitched as she sagged onto the couch without meaning to, the soft cushions swallowing her whole.
She didn't fight it.
Her limbs felt like lead, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself fall completely.
Annika watched her with that same unreadable expression part irritation, part something softer that she refused to name.
Annika muttered, crossing her arms. "You're a wreck. Big surprise."
Geneviève closed her eyes, the tears still fresh but less frantic now.
For a moment, all that was left was the quiet hum of the city outside and the weight of her own body finally at rest.
Annika vanished into the kitchen, the sharp click of her boots fading down the hall.
Minutes later, she returned balancing a tray piled high with cupcakes some dark chocolate, others bright lemon with glistening glaze, a few dusted in sparkling pink sugar. The sweet scent of frosting and vanilla filled the room, warm and almost comforting against the cold weight settling in Geneviève's chest.
A tall glass of milk, sweating in the warm air, sat next to the tray.
Annika set it down with a soft thud, eyes locking onto Geneviève's swollen, tear-streaked face.
"Well," she said, voice dry and low, "since your career's done for, might as well say goodbye to that ridiculous diet of yours."
Geneviève's lips twitched in a fragile, almost shy smile. Her fingers hovered, trembling over a cupcake, like it was a lifeline.
Before she could take a bite, Annika's hands darted out, squeezing her chest with a quick, playful pressure.
Geneviève gasped, cheeks flushing hot, and swatted Annika's hands away, more forceful than she intended.
"Annika!"
Annika laughed dry, sharp, but not unkind.
"All that starving yourself and those just refuse to quit. Maybe it's time to feed them something sweet for a change."
Geneviève's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, caught somewhere between frustration and relief. A laugh slipped out shaky, raw, real.
Fingers finally closing around a cupcake, she bit down slow, the rich sweetness a brief reprieve from everything crashing down around her.
Annika watched her with something almost like fierce protectiveness hidden behind the sarcasm.
"Eat. Drink. Survive," she said quietly.
For a moment, the chaos outside the apartment faded just two women, fragile and fierce, holding onto whatever small comfort they could.
The TV flickered on, bathing the room in a pale, flickering glow.
Annika slumped beside Geneviève on the couch, her eyes tired but alert, scanning the screen.
The anchor's voice floated through the room steady, but heavy with a kind of quiet finality.
"Geneviève Bellecourt — a name that once sparked awe around the world. Starting ballet at just three years old, she dazzled audiences with a meteoric rise that seemed unstoppable. But now, at twenty-two, whispers are growing louder. Is this the end? Many say she's past her prime, forced into early retirement amid scandal."
The screen shifted.
There she was thirteen years old, poised and radiant on stage, her tutu sparkling like stardust, every movement pure, effortless magic. The performance that launched her career. Her thirteenth birthday a moment frozen in time, forever brilliant.
Geneviève's breath caught in her throat. Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms.
The years of grueling rehearsals, the bruises hidden beneath layers of makeup, the sacrifices made in silence all of it flashed before her eyes.
They're erasing me.
Annika reached out, fingers trembling slightly, to switch the channel.
But Geneviève's hand shot out, weak but resolute, gripping Annika's wrist.
"Wait," she whispered, voice raw, cracking like a fragile thread. "just watch."
The room was silent except for the TV's quiet hum and the distant sound of rain against the window.
Tears welled in Geneviève's eyes not just from the memories, but from the weight of what was to come.
"Too old," the words echoed in her mind. Twenty-two — an age when most women were only just beginning to bloom, but in ballet, it was ancient.
Her career, her identity, everything she'd fought for slipping through her fingers like smoke.
Annika's jaw clenched tight, her eyes burning with a fierce protectiveness. She said nothing, just held the space beside Geneviève, letting her crumple quietly into the past and brace herself for the future no one wanted to talk about.
The room was heavy with unspoken fears and fragile hopes a fragile truce between the girl she once was and the woman she still hoped to be.
Geneviève's head dropped onto Annika's shoulder, heavy and raw.
Annika froze for a second not used to this kind of softness from the girl who always seemed unbreakable. Then, awkward and unsure, she shifted closer, pulling Geneviève in without thinking.
The room filled with Geneviève's sobs louder, deeper than before, wracking her body like a storm that wouldn't quit.
Annika blinked back tears she didn't want to admit were there. She'd seen Geneviève fight every damn thing life threw at her since they were six years old. The early mornings, the bruises hidden beneath layers of makeup, the nights spent practicing until her muscles screamed.
And now… her whole world was crumbling, ripped apart by rumors and lies, and Annika felt helpless.
A bitter, ragged laugh tore from her chest — sharp and broken, but with a strange kind of humor.
"After all these years," the laugh seemed to say, "even my damn boobs can't talk us out of this."
Geneviève let out a shaky laugh too small and unexpected, breaking through the tears before finally snuggling closer, seeking the warmth and imperfect comfort Annika offered.
No words. Just two battered souls holding on messy, flawed, real.