Chapter 51 The First Evaluation
The judges table is a firing squad in silk suits, and I am standing right in the center of their sights.
I am not wearing the boot. My left foot is wrapped in so much medical tape that it feels like a block of wood, shoved into a custom fitted leather slipper that hides the swelling. Every time my heel touches the floor, a white hot spike of agony shoots up my spine, but I keep my face a mask of cold Janitor steel. I cannot limp. If I limp, the story ends here.
Caspian stands beside me, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. His grip is the only thing keeping me upright. He looks magnificent, lethal, polished, and radiating a Thorne brand arrogance that seems to make the room's temperature drop.
"Mr. Thorne. Miss Vane," Director Halloway says, her voice echoing in the vast, empty theater. She is sitting in the center of the board members, a tablet glowing in her hand. "We have heard rumors that your rehearsal process has been unconventional. I trust you have not forgotten the Vanguard standards."
"We have not forgotten anything, Director," Caspian says, his voice steady and dark. "We have simply evolved."
The music starts. It is not the sweeping, orchestral version they expected. It is the Shoreditch cut, the raw, pounding heartbeat that sounds like a riot breaking out in a cathedral.
I do not start with a leap. I start by sinking to the floor, my movements slow and liquid, hiding the fact that I cannot put weight on my toes. I am the anchor. I am the earth.
Caspian explodes around me. He is the storm we practiced in the basement. He uses my body as a pivot, his leaps so high they look like he is trying to escape the building itself. When he lands, he does not just land. He crashes into the floor and rolls back to me, our movements weaving together like a fight and a fever dream.
I can feel the board members leaning forward. This is not ballet. It is not even contemporary. It is something desperate and dangerous.
Then comes the moment of truth. The lift.
Caspian grabs my waist. This is the part where the physics change. He does not lift me high above his head. He swings me low, my body horizontal, my bad foot never touching the ground. I am flying, but I am flying on his strength alone. For a split second, the pain vanishes. I am not a broken girl. I am a piece of art he is refusing to let break.
We finish in a tangle of limbs on the floor, my head resting on his chest, our breathing jagged and loud in the sudden silence.
No one claps. At the Vanguard, they do not clap. They judge.
Halloway looks at the board. They are whispering. One man, a tall, thin billionaire who looks like he is made of grey paper, leans into the microphone.
"It is athletic," he says, his voice dripping with condescension. "But is it Vanguard? Miss Vane, your footwork was remarkably static. One might almost think you were favouring an injury."
My heart stops. I look at Caspian. His jaw is so tight I am afraid it might snap.
"The piece is about the struggle between the grounded and the ethereal," I say, my voice surprising me with its strength. "The static nature is a choice. It represents the weight of the past."
"A very convenient choice," Halloway says, standing up. She looks at her tablet, then back at us. "Mr. Thorne, your father has been very clear about the quality he expects from this Academy. And the board is inclined to agree that this experiment does not meet the criteria for the Showcase."
"So we are cut?" Caspian asks, stepping forward, his voice a low growl.
"Not yet," Halloway says, her eyes flashing with a strange, hidden light. "But you are under review. You have forty eight hours to perform the original choreography, the traditional piece. If Miss Vane cannot perform the triple tour and the grand jeté sequence by then, she will be replaced. And you, Caspian, will be escorted to the airport."
The room feels like it is collapsing. Forty eight hours. I cannot even walk across the flat without the boot, let alone land a grand jeté.
"We will be there," Caspian says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the exit before I can fall over.
We make it to the hallway before my legs give out. I collapse against the wall, the pain finally breaking through the adrenaline. I reach down and tear at the tape, my eyes blurring with tears.
"I cannot do it, Cas," I sob, looking at my foot. It is purple. It is twice its normal size. "I cannot do the traditional piece. It is impossible."
"We are not doing the traditional piece," Caspian says, dropping to his knees and pulling me into his arms.
"You heard her. If we do not, we are out. You are going back to New York."
"No," he says, his face inches from mine, his eyes full of a dark, beautiful madness. "She said we have to perform. She did not say where. And she did not say who would be watching."
"What are you talking about?"
"Halloway is playing both sides," he whispers. "She wants to please my father, but she wants the fame of discovering us. She gave us a deadline because she knows we are going to run. So we are going to give her exactly what she wants."
The elevators ding. The doors open, and Soren is standing there, holding a bouquet of roses and wearing a smirk that tells me he heard every word of our failure.
"Better luck in the Bronx, Vane," he says, tossing a rose at my feet. "I hear they need janitors at the local community center."
I look at the rose on the floor between us. I look at my broken foot. I look at Caspian's dark, burning eyes.
I have survived the fall. But as the elevator doors close on Soren's grinning face, I realise the real execution is just beginning.