Chapter 15: Get Out of the Dance Troupe

Inside the villa, Alistair finished sliding the ring onto Clara’s finger. He led her to the full-length mirror, examining her reflection with a look of quiet satisfaction.

"It suits you."

His words were brief, delivered with his usual decisive edge.

Just then, a knock came at the door.

"Mr. Vance, there are several urgent documents that require your review."

Alistair turned to Clara. "Rest here for a while. I’ll be back before you know it."

Clara nodded. Once Alistair had left, she began to pace the room.

Finding herself bored, she stumbled upon a photo album.

She leafed through it, discovering a collection of Alistair’s photos. From a green, adolescent youth to the mature, composed man he was today, every image recorded the traces of time.

As she looked, her phone rang. It was Alistair.

"Work is done. I'm taking you home."

His voice through the receiver was concise and clear.

Clara frowned slightly, considering her options for a moment before speaking: "There’s no need. I want to report to the dance troupe; I want to start practicing as soon as possible."

Alistair fell silent for a heartbeat. "Then be careful. Contact me if you need a ride."

After hanging up, Clara hailed a taxi to the troupe's headquarters.

The moment she pushed open the doors to the rehearsal hall, she felt an atmosphere thick with tension and suppression.

The troupe leader saw Clara and hurried over to greet her. "Clara! You’re finally here. Come, let me introduce you to everyone."

All eyes turned toward her—some curious, some scrutinizing, and many clearly unwelcoming.

"This is Clara. She’ll be a member of our troupe from now on. Let’s give her a warm welcome."

The leader started the applause, but it was scattered and lacked any real warmth.

A girl with a high ponytail stepped forward, sizing Clara up with a look of blatant disdain.

"Hmph. She’s pretty enough, I suppose. But in this troupe, you can’t get by on a pretty face alone. It’s all about the foundation and the skill."

As soon as she spoke, a ripple of whispers broke out among the others.

Clara tightened her fists slightly. She offered a forced smile. "I’ll prove myself through my performance."

Her statement was met only with a few soft scoffs.

The leader coughed awkwardly. "Alright, that’s enough talk. Clara, go change. Get ready for rehearsal."

Clara entered the dressing room, changed into her dance attire, and pulled her hair back into a tight, secure bun.

By the time she returned to the hall, the others were already warming up. Clara quickly joined in, fighting to keep up with the rhythm.

The rehearsal began with a high-difficulty classical piece.

As the music swelled, the dancers moved like shadows. Clara threw herself into the performance with total focus.

However, since she had just joined and was unfamiliar with the specific choreography, she made a few minor stumbles.

"Oh, look. Here’s our new 'talented dancer,' and she can’t even remember the steps."

The girl with the high ponytail began her cold mockery again, and the others quickly chimed in.

"Exactly. She probably got in through the back door."

Clara nearly lost her composure, but remembering her current persona, she maintained a basic, polite smile.

"I think if anyone else here tried to perform this with only a few minor errors after never seeing the choreography even once, they'd realize I'm the only one who could pull it off."

For the rest of the rehearsal, Clara pushed herself even harder. Every movement was executed to the absolute limit. Even as sweat soaked through her clothes, she didn't slacken for a second.

During the break, everyone huddled together to chat, leaving Clara isolated.

She sat alone in a corner, sipping water and staring at the sky through the window, a wave of loneliness and helplessness washing over her.

Just then, her phone buzzed with a message from Alistair: "Is rehearsal over?"

Clara hesitated before replying: "Not yet. I can make my own way back later."

When the rehearsal officially ended, Clara didn't leave. She stayed in the hall to continue practicing.

She repeated the difficult sequences over and over, constantly refining her posture and expression.

Before long, she was the only one left. The empty hall echoed with nothing but the sound of the music and her own heavy breathing.

Just as Clara was losing herself in the dance, the door swung open. Alistair walked in.

He looked at her—drenched in sweat, exhausted, yet stubbornly defiant—and a flash of intrigue crossed his eyes.

"So late, and you're still at it."

Clara stopped her movements and looked at him. A surge of grievance hit her, and she turned her head away slightly.

"I want to catch up with the others as soon as I can."

Alistair stepped forward and handed her a bottle of water. "Take a break. I'm driving you home."

Clara took the water and had a sip, steadying her emotions. "No need. I’m going to practice a bit longer."

Alistair frowned, about to speak, but Clara cut him off. "I want to rely on my own hard work to earn their respect. Just... leave me be."

Alistair stared into her determined eyes and finally nodded. "I'll wait for you outside. Call me when you're done."

After he left, Clara threw herself back into the dance.

Minutes turned into hours. She felt her body reaching its breaking point, but her will only grew stronger.

Finally, she executed the entire piece perfectly—fluid, graceful, and every glance filled with raw emotion.

Clara collapsed onto the floor, staring at the empty hall with a profound sense of achievement.

Only then did she remember Alistair was still waiting. She scrambled up, packed her things, and walked out.

Alistair was leaning against his car. He straightened as he saw her. "Done?"

Clara nodded. "Yeah. Sorry to keep you waiting so long."

Seeing how exhausted she looked, Alistair opened the door for her. "Get in. Let's get you home."

On the drive back, Clara leaned against the seat with her eyes closed.

Alistair stole glances at her from time to time, his eyes filled with an emotion that Clara couldn't quite decipher.

When they arrived at her house, Alistair parked and turned to her. "Get some rest. I'll pick you up tomorrow."

Clara opened her eyes and looked at him. "Thank you. For today..."

Alistair waved it off. "Don't thank me. Call me anytime if something happens."

Early the next morning, Clara arrived at the hall ahead of everyone else, hoping to squeeze in some extra practice.

However, as she walked into the hall, she found thumbtacks shoved inside her dance shoes. On the surface of the shoes, someone had scrawled the words: "GET OUT OF THE TROUPE."

Clara’s hands trembled slightly, and a flash of fury ignited in her eyes, but she forced herself to calm down instantly.

She didn't need to investigate to know who was behind this.

Clara took a deep breath, tossed the ruined shoes aside, put on her spares, and began her practice.

A short while later, the others began to arrive. They were visibly surprised to see Clara practicing as if nothing had happened.

The girl with the high ponytail let out a cold snort.

"Keep acting. Let's see how long you can actually last."