Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
The Hearts section? That’s where Bianca works. Maybe she would have seen something that night… I can call her and—
Wait.
Oh, shit.
Bianca’s dressing room and her stage aren’t the only things in the Hearts section.
Rouge’s office is also there.
Were they looking for something?
Too many puzzle pieces, but not enough to get a full picture of what’s going on.
I return my focus to the phone. “Thank you, Pia. I appreciate your intel.”
“Of course, Doctor.” She reassumes the vampish voice she answered the call with. “While I have you, any chance you’d be interested in grabbing a drink this evening?”
Normally, my horny ass would jump at the opportunity.
But ever since Bianca…
“No, thank you, Pia. Have a good night.”
I end the call.
24
BIANCA
I made it.
I fucking made it.
At least, I’m making it further than I have in ten years in this godforsaken city.
I may have screwed up the dance callback, but clearly my sides and songs won the audition panel over.
Mr. Shippe went back into the room for a few moments after dismissing the bulk of the girls who were invited for the Lisa callback. Now the door swings wide open and the choreographer, director, and pianist exit. They each smile as they pass me, but… Is that sympathy in their eyes?
Mr. Shippe comes out.
“Bianca Montrose?”
I jump to my feet a little too enthusiastically. But fuck it, I’m excited about it. “Yes, Mr. Shippe?”
He gestures inside the audition room. “Would you come in for a moment, dear?”
I wrinkle my forehead. “But the other people on the panel left.”
“They’re grabbing a quick cup of coffee.” He shrugs. “We won’t need them for right now.”
I narrow my eyes. Shouldn’t they be in the room as well?
Then again, Mr. Shippe is the producer. He’s the one making the final decisions. The rest of the people on the casting panel act more as advisors than decision-makers. Maybe he’ll be recording the callback and sharing it with them later.
I walk inside, and Mr. Shippe closes the door behind him. He slowly crosses the room and sits on the audition table, keeping his eyes on me the entire time.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Bianca. The panel loved your audition.”
“Thank you.”
He holds up a hand. “But we both know you screwed up the dance combo.”
My heart sinks. “I’d be happy to do it again. I had it down perfectly. My ankle just gave out. Probably just nerves.”
Mr. Shippe chuckles. “If nerves can affect your audition, they can affect your performance. I’ve watched a lot of dance auditions, sweetheart. I know when a girl needs to fix her technique.”
“I promise you, if I can just do the combo again—”
“I don’t want excuses. Words are meaningless, Bianca. I want to see action.” His voice is smooth but heavy. “Let’s go from the top of the ballet section. And don’t just do the steps. Feel them.”
I nod. I lengthen my spine, feeling the hum of my muscles in my calves and ribcage. I start the dance combo, sliding into a tombé, falling forward with weight and grace. I follow it up with a pas de bourrée, knitting the space beneath me—back, side, front—before I make a glissade outward and leap, my jeté slicing the air.
“Good.” Mr. Shippe circles behind me as I land. “But I want to see desperation in that leap. Like you're reaching for something that could save you.”
His voice is gruff, and he’s speaking directly into my ear, even though we’re the only two people in the room. But I keep my focus ahead, shifting into arabesque, my left leg reaching long behind me, arms stretched. Then into attitude, bending my body into a question mark shape, my hips level. My shoulder lifts ever so slightly and—
Mr. Shippe touches my ribcage.
“Drop that shoulder,” he murmurs, his hand lingering a second too long. “Keep it clean, not collapsed.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. The correction is valid. The placement of his hands isn’t.
But I soldier on. The next move is a piqué turn—a sharp step onto pointe, my left foot snapping into a passé. I hold it, chest lifted, arms centered. Stillness. Control.
“Yes, yes.” He steps around me. His eyes scan me—not my form—in the mirror. “Hold it just like that… You have beautiful balance.”
I ignore the heat rising up the back of my neck and step into the pas de bourrée again—the one I screwed up during the audition. This time I do it flawlessly. Then sous-sus, legs drawn tight, lifted high. Then a quick échappé—open to second position, close back in. It’s clean. My breath is steady.
“You’ve clearly been trained well,” he says. “But I want to see the…sensuality. Lisa is a raw, earthy woman. Don’t be afraid of the space your body takes up.”
I continue the dance combo, gliding into balancé—side, back, front—and let the rhythm carry me, arms soft but sure. Twice through. I’m trying to keep the artistry, but my focus fractures when Mr. Shippe moves closer again, this time standing directly behind me.