Renna Rose Lancaster is the girl people stare at like she belongs in a glass case, a life airbrushed into unattainable perfection.
But Renna knows her life is nothing but a golden prison coated in pretty lies that keep her muted and small.
Her day...
"If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever."
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I never thought I’d end up inside a place like the Royal Ballet Theatre.
That wasn’t a passing thought either. It sat in my skull, heavy, repeating, like a migraine with opinions. I sat bolt upright in my seat, spine locked, shoulders back, like someone might tap me on the shoulder and ask for my credentials. Or my bank balance. Or my blood type.
So I’d made an effort today.
A real one.
Pressed shirt that didn’t smell like formaldehyde or ethanol or whatever cursed cocktail I’d marinated in during labs that week. Trousers that hadn’t been crumpled at the bottom of my wardrobe. Shoes that hadn’t known rain, mud, hospital corridors, or the general suffering of medical school floors. I’d even drenched myself in cologne. The Jimmy Choo one Renna once said made her want to bite me.
I tried. I really fucking tried.
Still felt like a stray dog that had wandered into a palace.
The place gleamed in a way that felt… supervised.
Gold traced everything. Chandeliers hung overhead like they’d been fed diamonds and compliments since birth. Velvet seats. Polished railings. Carved balconies full of people who looked like their surnames were carved into buildings. The kind of people who clapped softly, drank champagne like water, and called it “a modest fundraiser” while donating more money than I’d earn in ten lifetimes.
I am absolutely out of my depth and everyone here knows it.
I swallowed, eyes scanning the dress circle. Silk dresses. Tailored suits. Skin that had never seen stress acne. Somewhere behind us, champagne flutes kissed each other. Somewhere closer to the stage, someone laughed like the sound belonged to them.
And then the curtain rose again after the interval, and there she was.
Renna.
My Renna.
On that stage.
Floating.
No.
Fucking levitating.
I’d been watching her for nearly three hours already, and it still hit like a punch to the ribs.
I’d seen this dance before. A hundred times. In fragments. In my room, mostly. In socks that never matched, in jumpers she nicked from my wardrobe and drowned in. Hair scraped into a messy bun, lips bitten raw while she counted under her breath, swearing when her feet didn’t listen.
