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Chapter Text

The Pink Pony Club had a heartbeat.

Not the steady thrum of a clock, but the wild, chaotic rhythm of a life lived at full volume. It was a bassline that throbbed through the floorboards, a pulse made of the rustle of sequins and the hiss of a champagne bottle uncorking. It was the scent of cheap perfume and stale cigarettes mixing with the clean, sharp smell of newly polished hardwood. Philly had never seen anything like it. It was a cabaret for the dreamers, the brokenhearted, the ones who had been told they weren’t quite enough, who found their voice in the spotlight.

And at the center of it all was Melissa Schemmenti.

Some people said she was born in glitter and stiletto heels. Others swore she was a former ballerina who got blacklisted from the scene after breaking a director’s nose. The truth was more complicated. It was a long history of hustle, of knowing the right people, and of building an empire out of sheer stubbornness. But what everyone knew was that the Pink Pony Club was hers. She built it with her own two hands and every ounce of grit she had. It wasn’t just a club; it was a fortress. A sanctuary.

Melissa didn’t just run the place. She commanded it. From the moment she stepped out of her office, heels clicking against the hardwood, a cigarette tucked behind her ear, the dancers straightened their spines and the bartenders worked a little faster. Nobody wanted to disappoint her. Not because she was cruel, but because her approval meant something. It was hard-won and genuine.

Underneath the sharp tongue and the raised eyebrow was a deep, unwavering loyalty. If you danced for Melissa, she’d take a bullet for you. If you disrespected her stage, she’d make sure you never set foot in a Philly nightclub again. Her girls, her family, were a well-oiled machine, their movements synchronized not just by choreography but by a shared code of honor.

The Pink Pony Club wasn’t a strip joint. Melissa hated when outsiders assumed that. It was burlesque, it was showmanship, it was art. Sequined costumes, feather boas, and heels higher than rent. She wanted the crowd to leave grinning, maybe crying, maybe reconsidering everything they thought they knew about beauty. She wanted them to see their own potential reflected in the dazzling chaos on stage.

She taught the girls how to hold an audience in the palm of their hand. How to stand tall even when the lights were hot and the nerves made their stomachs churn. How to use pain and joy in equal measure, pouring it out in the sway of their hips and the tilt of their chins.

Her girls called her “Boss.” Sometimes “Coach.” Never “Melissa”, unless they were brave.

And she liked it that way.

Chapter One: The Audition

The sign outside glowed like a dare. THE PINK PONY CLUB — AUDITIONS TONIGHT.

The letters were neon pink against the brick façade of the building, a promise of something reckless and bright. You stood across the street for a full minute, your palms slick against the handle of your dance bag, the adrenaline making your heart thump a frantic rhythm. You were a mess of nerves, but a deeper part of you, the part that had spent hours in your tiny apartment practicing in front of a full-length mirror, was humming with a desperate kind of hope.

You shoved the door open and were instantly swallowed by a blast of warmth, perfume, and sound. Inside, the club looked like another world: mirrors catching the low light, a stage with a thick velvet curtain, chairs pushed back from the floor as though expecting an audience at any second. It smelled like spilled whiskey and glitter, a combination that felt both dangerous and thrilling.

There weren’t many people yet. A few dancers stretched near the stage, their limbs long and elegant even in baggy sweatpants and worn-out t-shirts. They moved with a casual grace you envied, the kind of confidence you only saw in the movies. One of them laughed from the bar, the sound sharp and knowing, and you felt your stomach clench. You were an interloper. An amateur.

And then you felt it, the weight of eyes on you.

From the balcony above, a woman leaned against the railing, a glass of something amber in her hand. Her red hair, pulled up but still wild, caught the light. She wore a tailored blazer that looked like it had seen both a boardroom and a street fight, and a pair of rhinestone earrings that glittered even in the dim light. Her eyes were sharp, assessing, and when they met yours, your throat went dry.

Melissa Schemmenti.

You’d read about her, heard whispers, the infamous owner of the Pink Pony Club. Some called her a legend, others a nightmare. Standing there, she looked like both. The air around her was heavy with authority. She was a woman who didn't take no for an answer, and who didn't give compliments lightly.

“You here for auditions, sweetheart?” Her voice carried easily over the chatter, husky with that Philly rasp. It was a voice that could both charm and intimidate, and it was pointed directly at you.

You swallowed, your tongue suddenly feeling too thick for your mouth. “I… yes. Yes, I am.”

Her smile curled, a sharp, knowing curve. “Then get down here. Don’t waste my time. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

You found yourself walking toward the stage on legs that felt like they were made of jelly. A dancer with a kind face motioned you toward a list of songs on a beat-up clipboard. “Pick one,” she said softly, “and try to breathe.”

You picked a sultry, slow-burning song, your hands trembling as you handed the clipboard back. As the first notes began to play, your heart hammered against your ribs. You tried to shut out the gaze of the other dancers, to ignore the ghost of Melissa’s presence, and just focus on the music.

You weren’t polished, not like the women you’d glimpsed warming up. Your movements weren’t effortless. But you had a kind of desperate drive, a reckless passion that pushed through your nerves. You spun, you dipped, you let your body remember every late-night practice session in your tiny apartment, every daydream of glitter and spotlight. You poured all your fear and desire into the movements, telling a story with every turn and every slide. You weren’t graceful, but you were hungry.

When the song ended, your chest heaved, and a suffocating silence fell. The only sound was your own ragged breathing. You felt a bead of sweat roll down your temple, and you looked out into the darkness of the club. Melissa had left the balcony. She was closer now, standing right at the edge of the stage, arms folded across her chest. She looked like a judge at a high court, her expression unreadable.

“Well,” she said, her voice low but firm, “you’ve got guts.”

Your stomach swooped, a tight knot of both dread and hope. “Is… is that good?”

“Sometimes.” She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as she gave you another once over. It wasn't leering, it was measuring, like a tailor with a tape. “You’re rough around the edges. Your feet are sloppy. You rush the beats when you get nervous, and you’ve got the stage presence of a scared kitten.” She let the silence linger, just long enough to make your breath hitch. “But—” she finally said, and the word landed like a punch. “—you’ve got fire. And I can work with fire.”

A wave of relief so powerful it made you sway washed over you. “So… I’m in?”

Melissa smirked. “Don’t get cocky, kid. You’re in for now.” She stepped back, gesturing toward the dressing rooms. “Go get changed. You’ll start training tomorrow. Seven sharp. Don’t be late, I hate late.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, a nervous habit you instantly regretted.

A flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes. Not annoyance, but something sharper. She leaned in just slightly, close enough that you caught the faint trace of tobacco and expensive perfume on her. Her voice dropped to a murmur only you could hear.

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me, hon. Makes me feel old. You call me Boss, or you call me Melissa if you’ve got the guts.”

Your breath caught, heat rising up your neck. The intimacy of her voice, the challenge in her eyes, sent a shiver down your spine. “Melissa,” you managed, the name feeling foreign and dangerous on your tongue.

Her smirk deepened, a flash of genuine satisfaction. “Attagirl.”

Then she turned on her heel, her silhouette disappearing into the shadows of the club, leaving you reeling in the spotlight. Your heart hammered, the word Melissa still burning on your tongue like a brand. You were in. And somehow, you knew this was just the beginning of the dance.

Chapter Text

The Pink Pony Club smelled of ambition, sweat, and a faint trace of last night’s champagne. You pushed the door open before dawn, dance bag slung over one shoulder. Your heart thumped against your ribs, a rhythm both familiar and wild. Outside, the neon sign blinked stubbornly against the gray Philly sky. Inside, warm light pooled across the polished floor, catching dust and glitter alike.

Melissa was already there. She leaned against the mirrored wall, coffee cup dangling from one hand, eyes like sharp green knives catching yours the moment you stepped inside. Her red hair was pulled back, her jaw sharp and unyielding.

“Finally decided to show up, kid,” she said, voice low and husky, unmistakably Philly. “Hope you didn’t trip over your own nerves on the way in.”

Your throat went dry. “I didn’t.”

Her smirk deepened. “Good. Don’t embarrass me before breakfast, hon. Follow me.”

The rehearsal space buzzed with movement. Dancers stretched and spun, their elegance making your own steps feel clumsy. Melissa stepped behind you, hands firm on your shoulders, adjusting your posture with effortless authority.

“Chin up. Shoulders back. You’re not here to look pretty. You’re here to burn.”

The faint mix of tobacco and perfume clung to her, sparking something deep in your chest. Her hands lingered a heartbeat before she stepped back.

“Better,” she murmured softly. “Don’t lose that fire.”

Hours blurred into spins, stretches, corrections. Her praise was rare, sharp, and fiercely earned. She hovered near you, whispering instructions in that low, commanding voice, turning fear and desire into motion. You stumbled, you strained, but hunger pushed you forward, and you tried to match the fire in Melissa’s eyes.

By midmorning, the studio had emptied. Only you and Melissa remained. The city hum faded into the quiet heat of the room.

“You’re improving,” she said finally, softer now. “Faster than I expected.”

Your cheeks flushed. “Thanks, Melissa.”

“Don’t get cocky. I didn’t say good. Just better. And remember, you only earn respect here, not titles.”

“Respect?”

Her smirk softened briefly. “Attagirl. Keep it, don’t lose it.”

A spin went wrong, your foot slipped, but Melissa’s hands shot out before you hit the floor. The warmth of her body steadied you; every doubt vanished in the pressure of her touch.

“You okay, hon?” Her voice was low, intimate.

You nodded, chest heaving. For a moment, the world shrank to her hands on you, the weight of her gaze, the pull between you.

“You’re gonna learn fast if you can handle me,” she murmured. “And if you screw this up, I’ll know. I always know.”

“I can handle it,” you breathed. “Handle you.”

Her smirk returned, slow and deliberate. “We’ll see, kid. We’ll see.”

The room was quiet except for the distant hum of the city. Melissa leaned against the doorway, eyes locked on yours.

“Stay,” she said simply.

“Stay?”

“To practice. Maybe to talk.” Her voice roughened, closer now. “Close the door.”

The click of the latch echoed. Quiet stretched tight. Melissa stepped closer, her hand brushing your arm.

“You’ve got fire, but fire alone burns you out,” she murmured. Fingers traced your shoulder, deliberate and teasing. “You need control. Confidence. Rhythm. Maybe someone to keep you honest.”

Her smirk deepened. “Maybe I’m the only one who can keep up with you.”

Her hand traced the line of your arm to your jaw, eyes holding a challenge. “You feel that?” she asked.

“I do.”

Melissa leaned in, close enough that you felt the heat of her breath. “Good. You’re learning fast. But don’t get comfortable. This is only the beginning, hon.”

She stepped back, silhouette melting into the club’s shadows. Your chest hammered, the name Melissa still tasting like fire on your tongue.

The streets of Philly were wet from an early mist, the neon glow of the Pink Pony Club reflecting in puddles. Your legs ached from yesterday’s session, but anticipation kept you moving. You found Melissa outside the club, leaning against the brick wall, coffee in hand, eyes scanning the quiet street like she owned it.

“Late start today?” you asked, trying to mask your nerves with a teasing tone.

Melissa’s smirk cut through the gray morning. “Funny. You’re early. Gotta keep you on your toes, kid.”

Her green eyes softened ever so slightly. “You slept?”

“Barely,” you admitted. “You?”

“Coffee counts as sleep,” she said with a shrug, and you almost laughed. Almost.

The city stirred around you, but the air between you held its own rhythm. Melissa stepped closer, lowering her voice.

“You’re improving. Don’t get used to me just handing out compliments, though.” Her hand brushed yours as she gestured toward the studio. “But maybe today we see if you’ve got stamina for more than just a few hours of fire.”

Inside, the studio was already warm, mirrors reflecting sunlight and your tense, eager form. Melissa moved first, showing spins and steps that left your chest aching. Then her eyes locked on yours, the teasing gone, replaced by that sharp, evaluating look that always made your pulse spike.

“Show me you’ve got fire and control, hon. Don’t make me regret letting you stay.”

You mirrored her movements, faltering once, and she didn’t flinch. Instead, she stepped closer midspin, guiding your arm with hers, fingers brushing in a way that sent a jolt straight through you.

“You’re holding back,” she murmured, her gaze pinning you like a spotlight. “Let yourself burn.”

The studio shrank to the space between you: the heat of her body, the rhythm of her steps, the pull of her gaze. Sweat stung your eyes, your chest heaved, and for the first time, you didn’t care who saw.

Melissa’s hand lingered longer than necessary on your shoulder. “Good,” she murmured, voice softer but charged. “Better than I expected this morning.”

You tried to keep focus, following her flawless movements, but the teasing smirk and sharp corrections felt personal now. Her presence dared you to push harder, risk more.

“You’ve got something,” she said after a long pause. “I’m not sure you know how dangerous you are, kid. But I’m gonna make sure you find out.”

Her words hung in the humid air. Music faded, but neither of you moved. Tension thickened, electric. The fire she wanted wasn’t just in your body, it was in the unspoken pull between you.

Melissa stepped back, smirk curling, mischief and challenge flashing in her eyes. “Take five. Don’t get comfortable. And don’t think for a second this ends here. You’ve got a long way to go before you can handle me.”

You sank to the floor, stretching trembling limbs, heart hammering.

Outside, the mist had thinned into a soft drizzle. Melissa held two steaming cups of coffee, offering one without a word. You took it, fingers brushing hers, and the warmth seeped deeper than the mug in your hand.

“You think you can keep this up?” she asked, voice low, playful, almost daring.

“I have to,” you said, trying to sound confident, but your chest fluttered like it hadn’t all morning.

Melissa’s smirk softened into something unreadable. “Good. Because this isn’t just about steps and spins, hon. It’s about knowing when to burn and when to survive. And you? You’ve got fire. Don’t waste it.”

Her eyes held yours a beat too long, the pull undeniable. Then she tilted her head and walked toward the club, leaving you standing in the damp street, heartbeat racing, coffee warming your hands, already counting the hours until the next rehearsal.

And you knew, without a doubt, that whatever came next, whatever game Melissa was playing, you wanted to keep up.

Chapter Text

The club never really slept. Even in the quiet hours before the crowd arrived, the air vibrated with leftover heat and the ghosts of applause. Mirrors reflected the first hints of morning like shards, catching dust, glitter, and the faint gleam of nerves in your eyes. Melissa stood at the edge of the stage, clipboard in hand, her heels clicking against the polished floor. She didn’t greet you, and she didn’t need to. Her eyes alone set your pulse racing.

“You’re on tonight,” she said, voice low but sharp enough to slice through the silence.

Your stomach flipped. “Tonight?”

“You heard me, hon. Weeknight crowd. Regulars. Not big, but sharp enough to notice if you don’t belong here.” Her gaze swept over you, steady and unyielding. “You ready to burn, or are you gonna fold before the lights hit?”

The rehearsal had left your muscles tight, every fiber still humming. “I’m ready,” you said, though your voice wobbled.

Melissa’s smirk flickered, small but dangerous. “Good. My name’s on you now. Screw it up, and you don’t just embarrass yourself. You embarrass me.”

The words landed heavy, but instead of sinking you, they steadied you. If you could carry Melissa’s name on your back, maybe you belonged.

That night, the curtain rose and the spotlight claimed you. Heat burned against your skin, the bassline pressed against your ribs, and the crowd blurred into shadow. All that mattered was the rhythm Melissa had carved into you during endless mornings and the steel you forced into your spine. You moved, not perfectly, but with a desperate precision. Every dip, every turn, every breath was lit by the fire she demanded.

From the side, Ava Coleman leaned against the wall, sequins catching the light. Her grin was wicked, like she had already found the headline for your obituary. Melissa’s eyes flicked her way. You caught it, just for a second. Ignore her. Focus.

You did. You finished strong. When the last note hit, applause crashed against you, almost drowning the sound of your own heartbeat. But Ava’s smirk cut through it, sharp as glass.

Backstage, while your chest was still heaving, Ava’s voice floated over. “Well, look at that. The rookie didn’t faceplant. Somebody call Action News, we’ve got a survivor!”

Your jaw tightened. “Thanks.”

Ava tilted her head, mock sweetness dripping from her tone. “Don’t thank me, thank Melissa. Boss doesn’t usually hand out stage time like Acme coupons. You must’ve begged real cute.”

“I did my best,” you shot back, though your throat was dry.

Ava leaned in, eyes glittering. “Mm-hmm. And your best looked like TikTok dance tutorial number five. Not tragic, just… adorable. But this isn’t prom night, sweetheart. It’s survival of the thickest. And me?” She winked. “I don’t lose.”

Melissa’s voice cut in, sharp and steady. “Ava. Enough.”

Ava lifted her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Don’t get your heels in a twist. I’m just mentoring. Ava Winfrey. You get a reality check, you get a reality check…”

Melissa’s glare could’ve frozen fire. “She earned her stage. Back off.”

Ava laughed, strutting away with a twirl. “Fine. But rookie? Don’t get comfy. Glitter fades. My shade doesn’t.”

Melissa’s eyes softened when they met yours, though her tone stayed firm. “She’ll push you. Don’t let her rattle you.”

Your stomach settled, though your legs still trembled. The first test was done, but the war had just begun.

The next morning, Melissa perched on the edge of the stage, heels dangling, eyes sharp but amused. “You survived. Not bad. Not perfect, but not bad.”

Before you could reply, the door banged open. Ava strolled in like the club owed her rent, sequins catching sunlight that didn’t belong to her.

“Well, if it isn’t Sparkle Barbie,” Ava drawled. “You look tired. What’s the matter, applause keep you up? Or were you lying awake rehearsing comebacks for me?”

You folded your arms. “I’m not scared of you.”

Ava gasped theatrically, a hand pressed to her chest. “Not scared of me? Baby girl, even the Cowboys are scared of me. And that’s saying something.”

Melissa’s voice cracked sharp through the air. “Ava.”

Ava grinned, unbothered. “What? I’m helping. A little seasoning, a bit of shade, and the rookie’ll thank me when she’s still standing.”

Melissa’s glare darkened. “Step out of line and you answer to me.”

Ava winked, unbothered. “Rules, rules, rules. I love rules. Makes breaking them extra fun.” With a twirl, she swept back out, leaving glitter in her wake.

Melissa turned to you, steady as ever. “Don’t let her get in your head. Fire’s not enough. You need control.”

Your chest tightened. This wasn’t about surviving anymore. You wanted to be the best. Before you could answer, she slid off the stage, heels clicking toward you. Her hand landed on your shoulder, firm and grounding. “Show me you can take correction without falling apart. Right now.”

“Now?”

“Now,” she said, already moving to the center. “Crowd or no crowd, you dance like someone’s always watching. Because they are.”

What followed wasn’t rehearsal. It was war. Melissa barked counts, sharp as glass, correcting your turns with the flat of her hand, adjusting your stance with the press of her palm. Every touch seared. Every word carved deeper. She didn’t let you quit. She didn’t let you falter.

“You let Ava in your head for one second and she wins. You think she’s just running her mouth, but she’s testing you. She always tests.” Melissa’s gaze locked on yours in the mirror. “Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

Your breath tore out ragged. Sweat burned down your back. “And if I can’t shake her?”

Melissa’s smirk curved, quick and dangerous. “Then you don’t belong here.”

The words lit a fuse. You spun sharper, landed cleaner, fought harder. Melissa’s nod was small but it hit harder than any applause.

When she finally dismissed you, your body shook, but your mind roared. You lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, still feeling the ghost of her touch steadying you, still hearing Ava’s laughter. You weren’t caught between fire and shade. You were forged in both. And you weren’t about to break.

The days blurred into routine. Sweat, music, and Melissa’s relentless voice. The club became your entire world. She pushed you past exhaustion, correcting every spin, sharpening every posture. She was sculptor, you were clay, and she never let you forget it. “Chin up, hon. You’re telling a story, not asking permission.” “Sloppy feet. Fix it.” Every correction landed like a spark.

The other dancers watched with quiet curiosity. They knew Melissa’s attention wasn’t free. A dancer named Janine offered you water once, her smile tired but kind. “She’s tough,” she murmured. “But she makes us better. She sees things in us we don’t see ourselves.”

Ava was the opposite. She drifted in and out of rehearsals like smoke, always a little too loud, always too late. “Still working on your sad kitten routine?” she’d chirp, voice dripping with mock sympathy. You learned to ignore her, but ignoring Ava was like ignoring fire in a crowded room. Impossible.

One afternoon, Melissa had you running turns until your legs were lead. You stumbled, dizzy. She sighed. “Again.”

Ava appeared like she’d been waiting for that moment. “Aw, look. Baby bird’s wobbling. Need a nap?”

Melissa’s growl rumbled low. “Ava.”

Ava didn’t stop. She climbed on stage and performed the same turn with cruel grace, landing perfect. She smirked. “See? Easy.”

Anger sliced through your chest. You marched to center and did the turn again, this time fueled by rage. The room blurred, but you landed steady. Melissa’s eyes caught yours in the mirror, unreadable. Ava’s smirk faltered just slightly.

Melissa stepped forward, touched your shoulder, straightened you. “Good,” she whispered. “Don’t forget that feeling.” Then louder, to Ava: “That’s what happens when you push her. She doesn’t cry. She fights.”

For once, Ava didn’t answer. She just tilted her head, smirk softened, and walked out. Melissa’s hand lingered on you a second too long.

Weeks passed. Ava kept testing you, sometimes cruel, sometimes oddly helpful. A whisper from the wings. “Left foot, rookie. You’re dragging it.” You didn’t trust it, but you used it. And it made you better.

Melissa’s presence was different. Slower. Deeper. She corrected you, yes, but her hand would linger a moment longer than necessary. Her gaze softened when she thought you weren’t looking. She’d hand you a bottle of water with her fingers brushing yours. A quiet intimacy threaded through every touch.

One night after rehearsal, the club was empty except for the two of you. Only the stage lights glowed, warm against polished wood. You sat on the edge of the stage, still buzzing. Melissa joined you, heels dangling.

“You’re getting better,” she said quietly.

“Just better?” You were bolder now. You’d earned it.

Her smirk curved slow. “Don’t get cocky. But yeah. I’m not worried about you folding anymore.”

The compliment hit hard. Warmth spread through your chest. You turned, catching how the lights caught her hair, how tired lines carved her face. “What about Ava? Why does she do that?”

Melissa was quiet a long time. She sipped her coffee, eyes fixed on the empty stage. “Ava’s a showman. She tests people. But she only pushes the ones she thinks can take it. The ones with fire.”

She turned, gaze intense. “She pushed me once. I almost quit. But I didn’t. I hit a routine so sharp it made her dizzy. That’s when she stopped testing and started watching.”

The words hung heavy. You caught something else too. A pause, a flicker, like she’d almost said more. You wondered if there was history there. More than rivalry. Something unspoken. The thought simmered, unanswered.

Melissa leaned in, close enough for perfume and smoke to fill your lungs. “I’m not just teaching you to dance,” she murmured. “I’m teaching you to survive. And you’re learning fast.”

Her hand rested on your knee, warm and grounding. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her smirk curved again, slow and deliberate. “Don’t get comfortable. This is only the beginning.”

She stood, heels clicking as the spell broke. But the air still hummed, charged with something unspoken. The stage was a fortress, and you were no longer just a guest. You belonged to it now. And Melissa’s touch, her words, Ava’s shadow...all of it clung to you like a promise.

Whatever came next, you were ready.

Chapter Text

Morning clung to the city like smoke. Outside, rain polished the sidewalks, neon light from the Pink Pony Club still burning faint and stubborn against the gray dawn. You hesitated at the threshold, sneakers squeaking against damp concrete, before pushing inside. The air was heavy with last night’s perfume and stale cigarettes, echoes of laughter still clinging to the rafters. It always felt like stepping into a ghost, every night’s fire trapped in the walls.

Melissa was already there. She always was.

Not lounging, not waiting, but perched on the lip of the stage like a judge at an execution. A clipboard balanced against her knee, a cigarette glowing faintly between two fingers. Her jacket was black, cut sharp, her expression sharper. One heel tapped against the wood in an even rhythm, a sound that hollowed your chest. Her eyes found you the second you crossed the floor.

“You’re late.”

Your throat tightened. “Only a couple minutes—”

“Late is late.” The rasp in her voice was gone. No warmth, no teasing "hon", just steel. She flicked ash into the dark. “Warm up. We’re running the new sequence before anyone else shows. Don’t disappoint me.”

Your dance bag thudded against the empty floor. The mirrors threw your reflection back at you, stiff shoulders, downcast eyes. The last few weeks had felt like fire, intimacy sharpened into something dangerous. But now, the fortress was back. Melissa was all stone walls.

She dropped from the stage, heels striking sharp. Her hands landed on you without hesitation, correcting your posture: chin up, shoulders down, spine long. Her touch was clinical, cold, yet your skin burned everywhere it lingered.

“From the top,” she ordered.

Music crashed in, sultry, unfamiliar. You moved, but nerves made your spins sloppy. The rhythm slipped through your fingers like water. Melissa’s pen tapped her clipboard in merciless time.

“Again.”

You sucked in a breath. “I can, I just need—”

“Don’t tell me. Show me.”

So you did. Again. And again. Until sweat blurred your vision and your shirt clung to you, until the metallic taste of exhaustion filled your throat. Each time you faltered, Melissa’s hand caught your wrist or pressed at your back to keep you upright. Never lingering, never soft. She saved you from the floor without once letting her eyes warm.

“That’s dancing?” she snapped after one messy fall. “You break the line, you break the story. Right now, you look like you’re beggin'. Weak. And I don’t keep dead weight.”

The words carved into you deeper than the fatigue.

And then, a slow clap echoed from the doorway.

“Well, damn,” Ava Coleman drawled, sequins on her dress catching the thin morning light. A tumbler in her hand, grin wide and wicked. “Rookie’s got butter feet. Don’t sweat it, sugarplum. Falling on your ass? Rite of passage. I’ve polished this whole floor with couture at least twice.”

Melissa’s glare sliced across the room. “Ava. Not now. You’re early.”

“Am I?” Ava leaned into the frame, sipping her drink. “Or are you just busy running boot camp and forgot what time it is? You drill her like a marine, Boss, then look surprised when she cracks? What’s the play, burn her out or afraid she’s getting too good?”

The air thickened. It felt like Ava had reached straight into the tension between you and Melissa and dragged it into daylight.

Melissa’s voice dropped, colder than steel. “Quiet. She’s not finished.”

Ava lifted her hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Baby bird’s wings don’t heal easy when you break them.” She pivoted out with a laugh that stuck like smoke.

Melissa didn’t flinch. She just looked at you. “Again.”

You danced until your body screamed. Until the music blurred into your heartbeat, until you landed a shaky drop with enough force to stay upright. Melissa let the track play on for thirty seconds before cutting it off with a sharp gesture.

By midmorning, the room filled with other dancers. The noise was a small mercy, voices and footsteps hiding the sting of Melissa’s silence. She corrected others now, but her presence still felt anchored to you.

Janine slid you a water bottle when Melissa turned away. Her smile was kind, her voice hushed. “Don’t take it personal. She pushes hardest when she sees something worth it.”

“She’s done this before?” you whispered.

Janine hesitated, then glanced at Melissa drilling a dancer named Jacob into the floor. “Yeah. There was another girl once. Talented. First one Melissa mentored this close. She left. Melissa didn’t stop her.”

“Why?”

Janine lowered her voice. “Melissa’s got walls. The closer you get, the harder she shoves. It’s how she protects herself. She’s terrified of needing someone.”

The words settled like stones in your chest. Terrified of needing someone. It explained everything and nothing at all.

By night, the club emptied into rain slick silence. Melissa sat at the stage’s edge, cigarette burning low.

“You went too hard on her,” Ava’s voice cut from the bar. She was already in glitter and feathers, drink in hand.

“She wants the stage. She earns it,” Melissa said flatly.

Ava’s smirk gleamed. “No, Boss. You only push the ones you care about. That’s your tell. Corrections that linger too long, hands that never let her hit the floor. You’re scared, not of her failing, but of what happens if she doesn’t.”

Melissa crushed her cigarette out against the wood. “Better scared than soft. Get out. I close in five.”

Ava’s laugh was velvet and blade. “Admit it or not, you’re burning. And rookie? She’s the match.” She swept away, sequins scattering light.

Melissa stayed, shadow and smoke. You moved toward her before you could stop yourself. “Is that why you’re cold? Because of the other dancer?”

Her eyes snapped to yours. “You want a paycheck, you dance. You want this stage, you get stronger. Anything else is distraction. And I don’t do distractions.”

The next morning, you showed up fifteen minutes early. Melissa was already there, wiping down the glass door like it might confess something. She didn’t look at you.

“You’re on time.” Just fact, not praise. 

Her corrections bit harder than before, words precise, hands brief but scalding. When you stumbled, she cut the music dead.

“Look at you. Fire, passion, all that crap, but no focus. You’re chasing my approval instead of nailing the steps. Weakness. And weakness doesn’t last here.”

Tears pricked from sheer frustration. Melissa saw them. Used them.

The door creaked. Ava appeared, wrapped in a feather boa like armor. “Stage fright or crush?” she teased. “She’s starving you on purpose, baby girl. That’s the trick. Keep you hungry until you crawl.”

Melissa’s clipboard cracked down on the stage. “I push her because she can take it. Not because I need anything.”

Her voice trembled at the edges, anger fused with something raw. The closest she had ever come to admitting it.

You danced harder, body breaking into precision born of rage and hope. When Melissa finally stepped back, her words landed soft but sharp. “Not bad. Not perfect. But not bad.”

It was both dismissal and acknowledgment.

Something snapped inside you. “What do you want from me, Melissa? What’s the final test? Just tell me.”

She froze. For one terrible second, her eyes were raw, naked. Then the walls slammed back into place. Chin high, voice like iron. “Perfection. Or nothing.”

The silence cut deeper than the words.

Rehearsal ended. Ava leaned in the doorway, grin sharp. “Careful, rookie. The spotlight’s not the danger. It’s what happens when the lights turn off. Ask yourself why her hand burns but her words freeze.”

She vanished, leaving her taunt lodged in your chest.

Melissa didn’t look at you when she said, “Be on time tomorrow.” Chains, not words.

That night, you lay in bed listening to rain batter the city. Ava’s laughter echoed. Janine’s warning replayed. Melissa’s hands, Melissa’s fire, Melissa’s walls, all of it clung like smoke.

You knew the danger wasn’t failure. The danger was wanting someone who would never let you close enough to see the wound beneath the armor.

And still, with terrifying certainty, you knew you would choose the fire every time.