Page 8 of Healing Eleanor

His fitted black tank top outlines lean, defined muscle. Ash-blond hair swoops away from his face in soft waves, the longer strands falling just beneath his ears. A pair of black glasses sit perched on his nose like they haven’t shifted since he put them on. Fine lines crease the corners of his eyes, but they do nothing to diminish the authority of a man who’s spent decades coaching dancers. He scans the room with the unnerving precision of someone who demands excellence and doesn't hesitate to cut down anyone who falls short.

“Good morning,” he says promptly. “Tonight marks our second run of Giselle, and I expect nothing less than perfection. We’ll run Act I in full. Leads, be sharp. Corps, find your spacing. No dragging your feet. We already lost one reviewer’s praise last night, and I have no intention of losing another.”

He lets the silence stretch for a minute before clapping his hands once.

“Barre, five minutes. Center after. Oh—Eleanor,” he adds, scanning the dancers until his gaze lands on me. “My office. Now.”

Heads swivel toward me, and I swallow, catching Sofia’s eye for a split second before grabbing my towel from my bag and slipping out after him.

The hallway is quiet compared to the rehearsal studio. My pulse thuds like a rocket getting ready for takeoff.

What could this possibly be about?

Dread creeps up my spine with every step. He slips through the open door and makes his way to the front of his desk, leaning on it with casual authority, arms folded across his chest. The dull gray light filtering through the half-drawn blinds cast long shadows across the floor, like prison bars.

“Close the door,” he says, barely glancing at me. “Then take a seat.”

I hesitate before reaching back and pushing it shut. This feels off. I take a seat in one of the plush chairs that face him.

He lifts his gaze to me, catching my eye. “You were a bit better last night,” he praises. “Especially after that disaster of a rehearsal.”

I draw my hands to my lap, fidgeting with my fingers, nerves prickling. “Thank you.”

He takes a slow, deliberate step toward me.

“You showed real emotion,” he continues. “Moments of true unpredictability. Giselle’s madness came alive in your eyes. You looked like someone who wanted that promotion.” His voice drops. “But there’s just one little problem.”

My lungs seize. “What problem?”

“Your weight.” He sighs. “I’d love nothing more than to promote you, Eleanor, truly.” A sly smile spreads across his face. “Though there are other ways you can earn it.”

A whirlwind of emotions hit me square in the chest. My weight? I maintain it just like every other girl in this company. My meals are perfectly weighed and portioned, thanks to my mother. “What do you mean by my weight? And how exactly can I earn it? Haven’t I proven myself enough? You cast me as Giselle, after all.”

His gaze drifts downward and lands on my chest. “You’re one of our shorter girls, Eleanor, and you weigh as much as the taller ones.” A laugh slips out of him. “It was almost like watching a whale up there.” He pauses, his eyes scanning me and sending a chill down my spine. “But… you do have nice curves, I’ll admit. Which is where my other offer comes into play.”

My body goes rigid. “Wh…what offer?”

His eyes meet mine again. “You’ve been with the company five years now,” he says, scratching his jaw. “Most dancers don’t last half that long without either rising… or burning out.”

He steps closer, planting his hands on either side of the chair, caging me in.

“I can make you principal, Eleanor. This fall.” His voice drops to a whisper as his breath brushes my cheek. “All you have to do is come to my office after rehearsals. No clothes. No pretense. And I’ll make you a real dancer.”

He straightens slightly, running a finger along my jaw before tilting my chin toward him.

Principal. My dream. My goal. The thing I’ve trained and bled for. But at what cost?

Sheer panic crashes through me. I try to speak, but my voice is lost somewhere deep in my throat. “I… I’m not sure I—”

“You don’t have to be sure,” he interrupts smoothly. “You just have to show up.” He wipes a stray tear from my cheek.

When did I start crying?

Then, as if everything’s decided, he rises to his full height and walks back to his desk.

“Now,” he adds without looking at me, “get back to rehearsal. And Eleanor—don’t let your nerves ruin tonight’s performance.” His voice darkens. “And don’t tell anyone about our little… meeting. You won’t like the consequences if you do.”

I nod, though he’s not looking at me, and slip out the door, my heart racing as I all but flee the room.