Kiss Me

Kiss Me

“In a selfish world, only the selfish succeed.”

Isolde said it without a flicker of guilt, admiring her reflection in the mirror. Behind her, a girl was crying her eyes out, her sobs almost comical in their desperation.

Isolde turned, slow, deliberate, effortless. She was elegant in everyway possible, beautiful with blue eyes like the sea, skin as smooth as milk. Her pouty lips plump and painted red.

“Oh, darling, don’t cry.” She tilted her head, watching the young girl wipe at her useless tears like it would change anything. “You should know by now, I drink girls’ tears for youth and power. Didn’t the other dancers tell you?”

The girl hiccuped, hands trembling against the tutu that would never belong to her. Not in this life.

“I just—I worked so hard. I thought—”

“Oh, stop,” Isolde groaned, rolling her eyes. “You thought what? That talent would be enough? That if you just danced with a pure heart, everything would fall into place?” She laughed, sharp and loud. "No one cares what you are. You stood there on stage shaking like a goddamn leaf.”

“That's because the music was different from what I practiced…I…I panicked.”

Isolde scoffed, “Then you aren't meant to be a ballerina. I have experienced multiple times different music and I pulled through. I did not become who I am today by crying like a child. You're either on stage or forgotten. Clearly, you would be forgotten. You do not have what it takes. You are useless.”

The girl pressed herself against the vanity, shrinking under the gaze of the others in the dressing room.

No one stepped in. They knew better.

Isolde turned back to the mirror, fixing the golden pin in her hair, ensuring not a single strand was out of place. “Work hard all you like. But don’t embarrass yourself thinking effort alone makes a star. It doesn't, only in dreams.”

Someone coughed. A whisper.

Cowards. Isolde thought.

Isolde adjusted her tutu, smoothing the fabric before glancing at her reflection one last time.

Perfect.

She stepped out onto the stage, where the air buzzed with whispers and expectation.

The lights hit her.

Silence.

And then—she danced.

She took her position, standing still at center stage, the heat of the lights pressing against her skin. The hush that fell over the crowd was electric, a moment stretched too thin, ready to snap.

Then, the music struck.

She moved.

Her foot brushed the stage in a slow, deliberate arc, her arms extending with a control that looked effortless but was anything but.

The violin sang, and she answered with her body, her form weaving through the notes like she had been born in them.

A pirouette, tight, and on point, her lips stretched in a beautiful smile, her body a thread spinning through the air.

A leap, impossibly high, as if gravity itself had been deceived into forgetting her.

She landed on the tips of her toes, not a tremor, not a sound.

A gasp rippled through the audience. Someone whispered, "Beautiful."

She did not pause.

Each movement cut through the stage with dangerous precision, every turn a whisper of violence wrapped in silk. Her arms, a flowing extension of the music; her feet, a weapon carving the air.

She bent deep, one knee brushing the floor, back arching a swan in its final breath, delicate and deadly all at once.

The strings of music rose , and so did she.

A final turn, a final leap, her body reaching for the heavens, and then, the descent.

She landed, barely more than a whisper against the stage, head bowed, arms extended. Stillness.

For a second, nothing.

Then, the world erupted.

Thunderous applause, voices overlapping, whispers of "A prima donna at such a young age… incredible."

She stood slowly, the applause crashing over her like a wave, but she did not bow.

She did not have to.

Let them cheer. Let them whisper. Let them hate her for being what they never could be.

It didn’t matter.

She won. She was on top and she will always win.

Back in the dressing room, the praise still clung to her like perfume.

“Isolde.”

She turned, greeted with a smiling face that she didn’t trust.

Celeste. A stupid girl who thinks she could ever be better than the Isolde.

“Impressive as always,” Celeste said, stepping closer, voice syrupy sweet. “You make it look so easy.”

“It is easy,” Isolde replied, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

Celeste chuckled, unfazed. “You should come upstairs. The director wants to see you. There’s something… special in store for you.”

Something about the way she said it made Isolde pause.

The others were looking now, watching with hidden interest.

Isolde smiled, slow and unbothered. “Is that so? Maybe he wants to change my membership then.”

Celeste nodded. “I do not know but You wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

Isolde nodded. “I would be there.”

The stairs creaked beneath her pointed steps, the grand hallway stretching into a silence that felt too heavy.

Strange.

She had been summoned before. The director had never called her up here so late. Except when to announce of her position as one of the top shareholders of the royal ballet academy. Maybe she would get another gift today.

She adjusted her posture, shoulders squared. If this was some attempt to rattle her, they were wasting their time.

The moment she stopped at the first step, she saw them.

The faces waiting at the top of the stairs.

Not the director.

Not an opportunity.

And by the time she realized, it was already too late.

The push came fast.

Sharp hands on her shoulders a rush of air, and then—

Falling.

Nothing to grab, nothing to hold.

A scream ripped from her throat, swallowed by the dark as the ground rushed to meet her. She tried to reach for the railings but couldn't. Her eyes widened, her he

art spiked.

Her final thought wasn’t regret.

It wasn’t fear.

It was rage.

How dare they.

“You!!” Isolde screamed and then…silence.