Sasha pushed open the heavy stage door of the old opera house, the iron groaning like it resented intruders after midnight. The audition notice had been cryptic: “Kane Collective. Invitation only. No limits.” She had come anyway, twenty-five, broke, and hungry for something more than another corps de ballet rejection.
Inside, the theater was stripped bare. No seats, no curtain, just a single pool of white light on the raked stage and Victor Kane waiting beneath it. Tall, black hair slicked back, white shirt open at the throat, he looked more like a predator who had wandered into the wrong century than a choreographer. His eyes tracked her the way a pianist studies a new score, already hearing music no one else could.
“Shoes off,” he said, voice low, precise. “Everything else stays until
