Page 34 of Healing Eleanor

I blink. “I—yes, I think so.”

“Ooh, that’s where I am!” she beams, then looks down the hallway again. “Ugh, Nik, he’s always busy when you need him most, I swear. Anyway, I better go. Break a leg! Or wait, no, don’t actually break a leg. Forget I said that. You’ll be amazing.”

Before I can respond, she turns and half-jogs in the opposite direction.

I stand there for a second, completely thrown off my mental track. That was… a lot.

But in a strange way, it helped. For a split second, she let me escape my thoughts. Like a tiny, sweet mental reprieve.

I straighten my shrug, exhale slowly, and walk the rest of the way down the hall.

The door to Studio B is slightly ajar. I pause for a moment, hand resting on the cool knob. This is it. Then, with a deep breath, I push it open.

The studio’s beautiful. Not in the grand, towering way of the Metropolitan, but in a way that feels well loved. The floors are honeyed wood, worn soft with age yet perfectly sprung. Tall windows line the back wall, pouring golden light into the room and streaking the floors with a delicate glow. To my left, an entire wall of mirrors, and above, a vintage chandelier hanging from the ceiling, its crystals refracting tiny rainbows across the walls.

At the front, near the mirrored wall, three men stand, quietly speaking among themselves. They turn as I step into the room.

“Eleanor Montgomery?” the man in the center asks. Tall, with dirty blonde hair, glasses, and impeccable posture, his soft but steely eyes study me. His voice is smooth, confident—European, maybe Swedish, though I can’t say for sure.

“Yes, sir,” I reply, my voice steadier than I expect.

He offers a polite nod. “I’m Kasper Pedersen, Artistic Director of Hollingford Ballet Company.”

“Thank you for having me,” I reply hastily.

To his left is another man, maybe around the same age as Kasper. His greige hair feathers around his neck, his gangly limbs at odds with the ease in the way he carries himself, something unshakeable about him. His expression is focused, but not unkind. He gives me a small nod of greeting.

“This is Russell Clarke,” Kasper continues. “Our in-house choreographer.”

Russell’s mouth twitches. “Looking forward to seeing what you’ve got.”

“And,” Kasper says, gesturing to his right, “this is Nikolai Kozlov, one of our principal ballet coaches.”

My breath catches. He’s tall—easily well over six feet—with broad shoulders, a sharp jaw framed by a neat beard, and striking features. His dark hair is cropped short on the sides, a bit longer on top so a single strand falls against his forehead. Dark brows hover over crystal-blue eyes that don’t just look at you, but see right through you, too. His hands are clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable, yet his gaze remains intense.

I pull at the bottom of my leotard, self-conscious in his presence.

“Nice to meet you,” I murmur, offering a shy wave.

He dips his chin. “Welcome to Hollingford,” he says. His voice is lower than I was expecting and laced with the faintest trace of a Russian accent.

Kasper steps forward, waving toward the center of the room. “You’ll begin with a brief warm-up at barre, and then we’d like to see one of the combinations you submitted in your reel—your choice. After that, Russell may give you something new, depending on time.”

I nod once. “Yes, sir.”

I walk to the barre, heart thudding against my ribs like a ticking time bomb. As I place my hand lightly against the wood, I catch a brief glimpse of myself in the mirror. My eyes are wide and alert. My chin’s lifted, though my fingers quiver slightly.

This is it. No rumors. No favoritism. No distractions.

Just me and the barre. How it’s been since the time I could remember. I close my eyes, take a long, anchoring breath, and find my center.

When the piano chords I’d practiced for years start playing, I launch into warm-ups. Hands poised, back tall, and legs stretching through each tendu with precision. I keep my lines clean, sharp, but fluid, just like I’ve done a million times before. I’m controlled enough to give them no reason to doubt my technique.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Nikolai—or Nik, as I hear the others call him—not just watching me… but studying me.

His arms are folded across his chest, and his expression is still unreadable. But there’s something about his gaze that makes my skin buzz, like I’m standing too close to a live wire. It isn’t a critical look… it’s more intentional than that. Like he’s trying to understand something about me that I don’t even know myself.

I try to ignore it and focus on my combination instead, but the weight of his stare follows me into every movement.