Chapter Text
Agatha Harkness had been the artistic director of the New York City Ballet for nearly seven years. Under her leadership, the company had modernized its repertoire without abandoning its lineage; Balanchine still lived in the bones of the corps, but there were bolder choices now. Riskier casts. Darker retellings. She had made headlines with her minimalist Nutcracker and a reimagined Apollo with an all female pantheon. Critics called her vision sharp. Dancers called her brutal. But no one called her lazy.
Rio Vidal was her rising weapon. A soloist with the kind of stage presence that could silence a theater before her first entrance. Born in Puerto Rico, trained in Madrid, sharpened in the corps of two lesser known European companies before she made the leap to New York. She was small, but never delicate. Her technique was unforgiving, her turns merciless. Other dancers said she danced like she had something to prove. They weren’t wrong.
But principal? That still wasn’t hers.
Not yet.
She was close. Everyone knew it, especially Rio. And Giselle was supposed to be her coronation.
Yet, tonight, as she navigated the glittering crowd, the applause and admiration felt distant, like noise behind a glass wall.
She hated fundraisers. She hated donors who tried to talk ballet like they’d survived corps rehearsals. The ones who used words like “ethereal” and “plié” as if they’d ever bled through a pointe shoe. As if they’d ever danced Act II on a twisted ankle with their ribs strapped.
Tonight wasn’t about them.
Tonight was about the sting of not being chosen.
Not being Giselle.
Natasha Romanoff was perfect, of course. Porcelain and fire. A dancer who could break your heart with a single développé. The Giselle every critic would worship. Agatha had said it so sweetly during the cast announcement, in front of the whole company, voice cool and unshakable:
"Myrtha needs more ice than flame, Vidal. You know how to command the dead."
It had been a compliment. A backhanded crown.
Rio wanted to throw it across the dressing room.
The role of Myrtha was a force, regal, vengeful, haunting. But it wasn’t Giselle. It wasn’t Act I’s vulnerability, the madness, the humanity. Myrtha was above grief. She ruled in it. And it felt, to Rio, like Agatha was saying: you’re no longer someone who can be loved onstage.
Rio had smiled graciously. She had nodded. Clapped for Natasha. Then she had gone into the dressing room, stared at the row of lockers, and wanted to throw something. A shoe. A stool. The company bulletin board.
Instead, she had sat down on the bench and said nothing at all.
The marble lobby of Lincoln Center glowed like a theater ghost, soft, golden, and full of old secrets. The ballet’s annual winter fundraiser had brought out the city’s sleekest predators, all gloved smiles and six figure checks. Men in tuxedos. Women in gowns. The kind of people who donated to the arts to feel cultured and vaguely superior.
Now, at the fundraiser, the lobby lights were doing their usual trick, making everything look expensive and clean. She took a flute of champagne from a tray and moved through the crowd with a predator’s stillness, ignoring the buzz of small talk and season ticket compliments.
Her hair down. Her jaw was sharp with glittering bronzer. She looked like the version of herself she rarely got to be: the one not sweating in rehearsal tights or wrapped in a towel between fittings. The one who could flirt. Choose. Destroy.
And across the room, Agatha was watching her.
Rio didn’t look directly at her. Not yet. Instead, she leaned in toward the man in the pale blue suit, someone named Alex or Andrew, she hadn’t really heard, and smiled as if he were the only man in the room. Let him place his hand lightly on the curve of her back. Let herself laugh at something he said that wasn’t remotely funny.
She could feel Agatha’s attention like heat on her collarbone.
Her neck flushed. Her throat tightened.
This wasn’t about Alex.
This was about saying: You don’t get to cast me and bury me in snow and pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
She didn’t want to be graceful tonight. She wanted to be sharp.
So yes, she let the man with the Wall Street haircut touch the back of her waist. She let him offer her champagne. She let herself pretend, for exactly three minutes, that someone else could touch her without everything catching fire.
Then she turned. Slowly. Met Agatha’s eyes across the room like they were still on stage, still in act two, still in hell.
Agatha wore a tailored black suit like it had been cut from midnight itself. No blouse, just the clean line of a silk lapel breaking at her sternum, collarbone sharp as a rebuke. Her trousers were pressed to the inch, heels low but lethal. No jewelry except a single silver ring on her right index finger, the one she used to point, to choose, to cut.
She looked like power incarnate. A storm in control of itself.
The crowd moved around them, blurred, irrelevant.
Agatha raised her martini like a dare… or warning.
Rio lifted her glass in reply, her smile small and blade thin.
Rio had worn red.
Not just red, that red. The color of blood on satin, of Carmen’s last note. The dress clung to her like a secret: bias cut silk with a low back and a slit up the thigh that whispered when she walked. She’d curled her hair in soft, vintage waves that looked accidental and weren’t.
Alex, Andrew, whatever his name was, was still talking.
She nodded, smiled, let her eyes glitter like she cared. She laughed at something he said about stocks or yachts or something so stunningly male she wanted to weep with boredom. But she stayed. She leaned closer. Her hand brushed his lapel, and she could feel Agatha’s gaze sharpening across the room like a chisel.
Then the heat was gone.
Rio blinked. Looked up.
Agatha had disappeared.
She scanned the room over Andrew’s shoulder, past donors and dancers, photographers and patrons, until she found her again.
Standing too close to Natasha Romanoff.
Rio 's pulse kicked.
Natasha wore a black gown, backless, with fine crystal detailing like frost over her hips. Her hair was up, neck exposed. She looked elegant. Poised. Undeniably castable.
Agatha was speaking to her softly. Too softly. Her hand lifted, intentional, precise, and tucked a stray lock of red hair behind Natasha’s ear. The move was slow. Familiar. Agatha’s fingers lingered just a breath too long, brushing the curve of Natasha’s cheek. Then they dropped, and one of them, the traitor, the coward, landed on Natasha’s bare arm.
Light. Possessive. Intimate.
Something in Rio turned sharp.
She felt it in her ribcage, in the place where her breath suddenly wasn’t. A flicker of heat rose to her cheeks and throat, the fine hairs on her arms standing up beneath the silk. She took another sip of champagne, but it tasted like ash. She hadn’t realized how tightly she was gripping the glass until the stem creaked faintly in her hand.
The poor excuse of a man was still talking.
She wasn’t listening anymore.
She couldn’t look away.
Natasha said something that made Agatha smile. Smile . And Rio wanted to walk straight through the crowd and slap the expression off both their faces. Not because Natasha was touching her. But because Agatha was letting her.
Agatha didn’t even pretend to mind.
Rio’s jaw locked. She laughed again, sharp and hollow, then let her hand rest lightly on Andrew’s shoulder. She pressed in closer, leaned toward his neck, close enough for her breath to brush his skin.
She didn’t care what he thought of her.
She only cared that Agatha saw it.
But Agatha wasn’t even looking.
The blood behind Rio’s eyes pounded harder.
“Sorry to interrupt,” came a dry voice behind her, “but I need to borrow our beautiful dancer”
Rio turned her head. Alice stood just behind her, a wine glass in hand, her velvet green blazer catching the low light. She looked half amused, half concerned, like she’d seen this show before and knew it wasn’t going to end clean.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Rio said without turning, gaze still fixed on Agatha and Natasha.
But Agatha never looked their way.
Not once.
Rio’s chest pulled tight. The act slipped. She stepped back from Andrew and dropped her hand.
“Thanks for the company,” he said, clearly emboldened. “Can I get you another drink later? Maybe get your number?”
Rio blinked, then let out a laugh so flat it could’ve been printed.
“I don’t swing that way, bro,” she said. “Full time lesbian. Good luck out there, though.”
Andrew flushed, trying to smile like it didn’t sting, and melted into the crowd.
Alice raised an eyebrow. “Poor guy. Never stood a chance.”
Rio gave a humorless snort. “He was a prop. He’ll survive.”
Alice nodded once, her tone softening. “Come on. You’re vibrating like you’re about to detonate.”
Rio sighed and followed her. She noticed Alice's hair was in its usual braid crown, a halo of pins barely holding it in place. She had always looked slightly out of time, like she could belong in a 1960s French art film or a punk show in Berlin. She was the company’s creative director, Agatha’s second in command, but she was also one of the few people Rio could talk to without wanting to claw her own skin off.
“Nice night for capitalism in heels.” Rio said. Her voice came out low, too calm. Her smile was practiced and fake.
Alice gave a soft snort. “You looked like you were about to stab that man with a canapé stick.”
Rio shrugged, lips tight. “He’s lucky I didn’t.”
Alice tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Rio said quickly. Too quickly. “I’m great. Just trying not to shatter this glass and get banned from our own company.”
Alice didn’t answer. She just waited.
Rio looked away.
Alice finally spoke. “I know it’s not easy.”
Rio froze. Just for a second.
“You’ve been working for this forever,” Alice went on gently. “Giselle. We all knew, well, most of us knew you were ready. And then…”
“Then I wasn’t,” Rio said sharply, cutting her off. “Not ready. Not chosen. Not fragile enough. Not dead enough. Not whatever Agatha thinks she wants this week.”
Alice winced slightly. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.” Rio’s voice softened. “And thanks. Really. But I’m fine.”
Alice didn’t believe her. That much was obvious.
But she let it go.
“You need to head backstage,” Alice said after a beat. “They’re announcing the Giselle cast in fifteen.”
“I thought they already knew the cast.”
“They do. But now the board needs to hear it, the donors want to clap, and Lilia wants her moment.”
Rio rolled her eyes. Lilia was Lilia Calderu, one of the main shareholders of the New York City Ballet and a woman who referred to dancers as “my little swans.” She didn’t know a pas de bourrée from a pas de chat, but she knew how to fund a season, and that meant standing ovations every time she opened her mouth.
Alice nudged her glass toward Rio’s. “Come on, hellcat. Let’s go smile for the vultures.”
The backstage corridor was humming with technicians and interns. Everything smelled faintly of foundation and dust. The greenroom had been cleared for the cast to gather before the official announcement. Rio walked in just ahead of Alice, trying not to let the tension in her shoulders show. Trying not to think about Agatha’s hand on Natasha’s arm.
She failed.
Because Natasha was already there.
Standing alone by the mirror, one hand adjusting a stray hairpin, the other flipping casually through a program. She looked up when Rio entered.
Their eyes locked.
Rio never really liked Natasha, not since Agatha had brought her over from Russia to join the company a year ago. They’d never gotten along well. Maybe it was because Natasha was the same kind of shadow Agatha had cast on Rio’s life when she herself was brought from Paris to the New York City Ballet three years ago. Someone new, someone poised to replace, or maybe just unsettle.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then Natasha smiled, polite and unreadable.
Rio smiled back, colder than winter.
The silence stretched.
Alice cleared her throat. “I’ll go make sure Lilia hasn’t wandered into the wings unsupervised.”
She slipped out, leaving Rio and Natasha in a room that suddenly felt ten degrees too warm.
Natasha spoke first.
“You look beautiful tonight.”
Rio stared at her.
“You really do,” Natasha added, voice light, too light. “Red suits you. Very… commanding.”
Rio’s fingers curled against her thigh.
She tilted her head. “You’re not nervous?” she asked. “Big night. First Giselle at New York City Ballet. Lots of pressure to make heartbreak look innocent.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “I don’t really do innocent.”
Rio stepped forward, slowly, her heels clicking like punctuation.
“No,” she said, voice like silk dragged over glass. “You don’t.”
From the stage, Lilia’s voice cooed through the speakers like syrup over glass.
“Ladies and gentlemen, patrons, lovers of art. Welcome,” she purred, her accent aristocratic, vaguely French, and entirely invented. “It is my deepest pleasure to celebrate another bold, beautiful season at the New York City Ballet.”
Backstage, Rio stood in the wings, fuming.
She didn’t hear most of what Lilia said, something about legacy, something about the board’s generosity, something about the vision of the company. What she heard was blood in her ears. What she felt was Natasha, still standing too close, too calm, brushing invisible lint off her gown like she hadn’t just stolen something that wasn’t hers.
Rio shifted her weight, arms crossed tight. Her jaw ached from clenching.
Lilia continued. “We are honored this year to present a new staging of Giselle, helmed by our visionary director, the exquisite Agatha Harkness—”
Rio barely suppressed a scoff. She exhaled hard through her nose, eyes fixed on a point in the distance. Her jaw twitched.
Beside her, Natasha didn’t miss a beat.
“She does have an eye, doesn’t she?” she said, voice casual, gaze fixed forward. “Always watching. Always choosing.”
Rio didn’t answer.
“She sees things most people miss.” Natasha’s tone was airy, but her smile had teeth. “Understands what makes a body move… or stop moving.”
Rio turned her head slowly. “Are you rehearsing metaphors now?”
Natasha finally looked at her.
And then, so casually it could have been mistaken for nothing, she added, “Of course, I imagine you know exactly how she is… after hours.”
Rio’s stomach flipped.
Her spine straightened.
She blinked, steadying herself, then fixed Natasha with a sharp, hard look. “What did you just say?”
Natasha didn’t reply. She just looked at her, lips curved into something almost amused. There was a glint of cruelty in her eyes, subtle, practiced, lethal. She tilted her head, eyes wide with mock innocence. “Nothing,” she said. “Just… she seems very generous, doesn’t she? With her attention.”
Rio’s throat tightened.
Natasha leaned in a fraction. Close enough that only Rio could hear. “I mean… she tucks my hair behind my ear too, you know. Whispers things when no one else is around. Calls me little ghost in rehearsals. That’s her thing, isn’t it? She likes broken things. Fragile things.”
Rio took a step forward, rage curling in her chest like a fist. Her fingers twitched, half a second from doing something stupid. She was halfway through something ugly ready to pour out of her mouth—
“—and now, to introduce the dancers who will lead this haunting, magnificent production,” Lilia trilled from the stage, “please welcome… Myrtha, Queen of the Wilis… Rio Vidal!”
Applause burst like a wave.
The lights shifted. The curtain behind her glowed softly with spillover stage light.
Someone clapped her lightly on the back, Alice, probably, and Rio was moving forward before she remembered how to walk.
Her heels struck the floor too sharply.
The applause washed over her like acid.
She stepped into the light, face composed, body steel. Her smile was perfect. Her insides were wildfire.
Her dress shimmered in the gold glow, red like fury, red like war. The slit shifted with each step, a controlled burn of thigh with every movement. She took her mark, felt the heat of a thousand eyes. Applauding, admiring. She dipped her head, curtseyed. Not for them, for herself. For control. For composure.
“—and now,” Lilia continued, “please welcome your Giselle , the luminous, the heartbreakingly gifted… Natasha Romanoff! ”
More applause.
Louder. Sharper. That particular sting that comes when you know it isn’t for you.
Rio didn’t turn. Didn’t move. She kept her eyes forward as Natasha stepped into the spotlight beside her, smiling like she was born to be there. Like the light answered to her.
They stood there, shoulder to shoulder, both smiling. One smile was real. The other one was carved from fury.
Because this wasn’t about truth. It was about theater. And Rio had never been more aware of the stage than now, of the eyes, the pressure, the need to perform even as her hands trembled at her sides.
This wasn’t Giselle.
But it was war. And the curtain hadn’t even gone up yet.
“And now,” Lilia cooed, her voice gliding across the ballroom like champagne, “a few words from our brilliant, visionary director. The woman behind tonight’s gala, behind this season’s daring slate of performances—the very pulse of the New York City Ballet…”
She let the pause hang just long enough for the crowd to lean in.
“Please welcome… Agatha Harkness!”
The audience clapped again. Warmer. Familiar. Respectful, almost reverent, peppered with a few overzealous cheers from donors who’d had one too many glasses of wine. The lights shifted slightly, casting a soft glow toward the raised platform at the front of the room. All eyes turned.
Rio didn’t turn.
But she felt the shift in the room the moment Agatha entered it.
Agatha stepped forward with practiced grace, sleek in black, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable. A smile, polished, cool, and just sharp enough to keep everyone on edge, touched her lips as she approached the mic. She didn’t rush. She never rushed.
She didn’t need to.
Black suit. Sharp lines. Unapologetically tailored. The lights caught the faintest glint off her cufflinks. Her heels echoed once on the stage before the soft hush of carpet swallowed the sound. She took the mic with one hand, the other resting at her side, casual, but precise. Calculated elegance. The kind Rio had memorized with her teeth and hands and hips.
“Thank you,” Agatha said. Her voice was low, measured. A blade wrapped in silk. “This company is nothing without its dancers. Their talent, their discipline, their pain, they are the reason we tell these stories. They are the story.”
The room listened.
Rio watched her from the corner of her eye. Watched the familiar way her mouth moved. Watched the cool poise of her hands. Watched the way she looked everywhere but at her.
“And in this production of Giselle ,” Agatha continued, “I am proud to present a cast that reflects not only our artistic legacy, but our evolution. Our power. Natasha Romanoff brings grace and depth to a role that asks for both innocence and devastation. She leads this ballet with the nuance of a veteran and the spirit of a firebrand.”
Then she turned.
Just enough.
And looked at Natasha.
Not at Rio.
Not even a glance.
“And I trust her completely,” she said.
The applause began again. A beat slower, but steady. Like the room had exhaled. Like the narrative had been sealed.
Then Agatha did something else.
She stepped forward.
And held out her hand.
Not to the audience.
To Natasha.
Natasha took it.
With a smile that didn’t waver, she let Agatha draw her forward. Center stage. Into the full beam of the lights.
Agatha turned slightly toward her, the gesture quiet, proud, intimate.
She didn’t let go.
Rio stood a few paces behind them.
Smiling.
Burning.
The applause kept going, but it sounded far away now. Muffled. Like water in her ears.
Agatha was still holding Natasha’s hand. Her fingers rested lightly on the back of it, reassuring. Familiar. Her posture was relaxed in a way Rio had seen only in the dark, in the quiet, when no one else was around.
It’s just for the crowd, she told herself. It’s for the story. For the press photos. For the donors. It’s not real.
But her hands were trembling again.
Agatha released Natasha’s hand.
She stepped up to the microphone again, her expression crisp with authority and polish. The light behind her caught the edge of her cheekbone, making her eyes glitter.
“And with that,” she said, voice like velvet over command, “we welcome you to celebrate with us. Please enjoy the rest of your evening. The reception continues in the atrium, and donations remain open throughout the night, for those generous enough to believe in our future.”
The audience laughed, soft, sophisticated, the way rich people do when they feel important.
Agatha smiled.
Perfectly timed. Perfectly cold.
She gave a brief nod, then turned, her heels clicking softly as she exited stage left, Natasha beside her.
Rio didn’t wait for the applause to end.
She pivoted and slipped offstage, heat rising beneath her skin like a second, unwelcome layer.
Backstage was dim and crowded with tech crew and dancers in various states of undress and rehearsal clothes. The lighting seemed harsher here, less flattering. More real.
Alice was there, headset still perched around her neck, clipboard tucked under one arm. She clocked Rio immediately.
“Jesus,” Alice said. “You alright?”
“Fine,” Rio snapped. Too fast. Too sharp.
Alice raised an eyebrow.
“Didn’t look ‘fine’ from the wings.”
Rio pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek. Her chest was too tight. Her dress was too tight. Her patience was gone.
“I just need a drink,” she muttered, brushing past her.
“Okay,” Alice called after her, voice gentler now. “Just… for what it’s worth, You're allowed to feel upset about not being Giselle.”
Rio stopped walking.
Her back was still turned.
But her shoulders tensed. And then she moved again, faster this time, ignoring the way Alice’s words sat like glass inside her.
Not being Giselle.
Not being enough.
She found the hallway to the staff bar and cut through it like she belonged there, ignoring the murmured greetings, the heads turning. She didn’t want to be seen. She wanted to be noticed.
She wanted.. No. She needed Agatha to see her.
What does she have that I don’t?
Rio could still feel the image pressed behind her eyes: Agatha’s hand on Natasha’s. The ease. The pride.
She’d never done that with her. Three years of silence. Of hiding. Of sneaking out the back door before the morning light could catch them in the same clothes.
Natasha got the spotlight. Natasha got the title. Natasha got the hand.
And Rio?
Rio got applause that felt like pity.
She reached the bar.
It was crowded, filled with patrons, company dancers, donors, critics. Everyone glittered, like they were dressed for a fairy tale made of steel and envy.
Rio didn’t bother scanning faces. Not yet.
She just ordered the strongest thing she could say without slurring. Neat.
Then she turned. Leaned against the counter. Let the room blur into color and perfume and distant, expensive laughter.
A woman approached Rio with a presence that could command a throne. Tall and statuesque, her sharp cheekbones cut like obsidian, and her eyes glimmered with a fierce intelligence, the kind of electric sharpness that felt both dangerous and magnetic. Draped in a dark green suit tailored to perfection, the fabric caught the low light and shimmered like deep forest shadows. Her hair was sleek, pulled back tight, framing a face that was both enigmatic and intoxicating.
She slid beside Rio at the bar with a smooth grace, her voice dropped to a low, velvety purr. “You look like you could use a reprieve from all this glitter and pressure.”Without missing a beat, she caught the bartender’s eye. “Two of whatever’s strongest you’ve got.”
Rio raised an eyebrow, caught off guard but intrigued. “How generous of you”
The woman smiled, a slow, knowing curve of the lips. “Consider it an investment. In conversation… or distraction.” She extended a perfectly manicured hand. “Hela”
Rio let her hand linger for a breath longer than necessary before finally shaking it. She leaned in slightly, the sharp edges of her frustration dulling beneath the quiet thrill of being seen so clearly.
"Rio," she said, her voice lower now, almost conspiratorial. "I could use a distraction."
Hela’s gaze lingered, sharp and unreadable. “Rio... A name that carries weight.”
Rio smiled, the corner of her mouth tilting upward with a hint of challenge. “Depends who’s listening.”
They both laughed softly, the sound a brief escape from the clinking glasses and polite chatter surrounding them.
Rio leaned in, the tight coil of tension in her shoulders finally starting to loosen. “So, Hela,” she said, voice smooth, “do you always rescue beautiful dancers drowning in fancy receptions?”
Hela’s eyes didn’t leave hers, her smile darkening with intent. “Only the ones who look like they’re seconds away from misbehaving.” She let the silence hang, gaze lingering on Rio’s mouth. “You looked like you needed… something worth surrendering to.”
Rio matched her smirk. “Good to know I’m not completely hopeless.”
Hela raised her glass, the rich green fabric of her sleeve brushing Rio’s arm lightly. “To being hopeless, then. And to finding unexpected company in crowded rooms.”
Rio clinked her glass against Hela’s, the sound crisp and intimate amid the distant hum of the event.
For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them. Rio forgot the sting of Agatha’s hand on Natasha’s, the cold distance that had settled like frost between them.
“You’re trouble, aren’t you?” Rio teased, eyes glinting.
“Only if you’re looking for it,” Hela replied smoothly. “But sometimes trouble is exactly what a night needs.”
Rio let herself laugh, a genuine, unguarded sound. “Maybe I could use a little trouble.”
Hela’s smile deepened, her gaze holding Rio’s with an almost hypnotic intensity. “Good. Because I’m quite persuasive when I want to be.”
They talked for a while longer, the flirtation weaving between them like a dance, light, electric, a welcome distraction from the heavy drama of the evening.
For a little while, Rio was just Rio.
Not a dancer edged out in the shadows.
Not a secret kept behind closed doors.
Just a woman, sharing a drink with someone who saw her, really saw her.
Rio lifted her glass for another sip, caught mid laugh at one of Hela’s sharp remarks, when suddenly her elbow knocked the drink. The amber liquid spilled, arcing through the air, and drenched the front of Hela’s dark green blouse.
“Oh, shit,” Rio muttered, cheeks flaring with heat. “I’m so sorry.”
Hela barely blinked, but Rio could see the slight crease of surprise in her perfect brow. “Well, that’s one way to get my attention,” she said, voice low, amused.
Without waiting for a response, Rio took Hela’s hand. “Come on. Bathroom. I’ll fix this.”
They slipped through the crowd and down a quiet corridor to the ladies’ room. The harsh fluorescent light was a stark contrast to the warmth they’d been sharing, but there was a soft privacy here, an unspoken permission to let their guards down.
Rio grabbed paper towels and dampened them under the sink. “Hold still,” she murmured, gently blotting the stain.
Hela leaned into her touch, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re a surprisingly good cleaner.”
Rio’s breath caught. “I can be good at a lot of things.”
Without breaking eye contact, Hela reached for the buttons of her blouse and slipped it off with practiced ease, letting it fall onto the counter. She stood in just her bra, composed, unbothered, her confidence steady and bold. The exposed skin, the curve of her collarbone, the calm in her gaze, it all felt deliberate.
They worked in silence for a beat, then Hela glanced up, a slow smirk tugging at her lips. “You always this hands on with strangers?”
Rio smirked, her fingers brushing a stray damp lock of hair from Hela’s forehead. “Maybe”
The minutes stretched, the tension thick but warm, like a slow burning flame rather than a wildfire. Rio helped dry Hela’s blouse with careful, deliberate movements, their hands occasionally brushing, each touch sparking silent promises.
They stepped out of the bathroom side by side, the cool air of the hallway wrapping around them like a secret. Rio adjusted the collar of Hela’s blouse with a careful, lingering touch as they emerged into the muted bustle of the backstage corridor.
Across the room, standing like a statue amid the milling guests, was Agatha.
Her gaze snapped instantly to Rio’s, a razor sharp, unblinking stare that sliced through the crowd and pinned her in place. For a heartbeat, the world around them blurred, noise fading into silence.
Rio’s mind raced, calculating, then with a slow, deliberate motion, she brought her fingers to her lips and wiped them, softly, suggestively, as if to say, You know what just happened.
The silent message hung between them, charged and undeniable.
With a small, confident smile, Rio turned and slid her arm through Hela’s as they made their way back to the bar.
Hela’s laugh was low and teasing. “If you wanted to see me in lingerie, all you had to do was ask. I wasn’t planning to keep it a secret before the spill.”
Rio smirked, eyes glinting. “Oh, is that an invitation or a threat?”
Hela leaned in slightly, voice silky. “Depends how persuasive you’re willing to be.”
She was about to say more when she suddenly stopped mid sentence, her eyes flickering over Rio’s shoulder.
“Agatha.”
“Great,” Rio muttered under her breath, pulse kicking up. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to.
A hand landed gently, but with unmistakable pressure on her shoulder.
“Hela,” came Agatha’s voice, low and composed. Too composed. “I need to speak to my dancer.”
The possessiveness in the phrasing wasn’t subtle.
Hela didn’t move, not right away. Her smile sharpened like the glint of a knife. “Relax, Agatha,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “I wasn’t stealing her. Just… appreciating your taste.”
Agatha’s eyes flicked toward her. Cool. Cutting. “She’s not on the donor menu. Try another floor.”
Rio bit the inside of her cheek to keep from reacting.
Hela exhaled, amused. “Charming as ever.”
She turned to Rio, her smile was slow, wicked at the corners. “I did enjoy the night with you,” she said, voice low and unhurried, like they had all the time in the world. “You’re trouble, just like me” she said, voice like smoke.
She slipped a black card into Rio’s hand with a light touch, fingers brushing hers just a second too long. “If you ever feel like causing more of it…” Her gaze dipped briefly, deliberately. “You’ll know where to find me.”
Her fingers lingered just a moment, then she turned her head slightly, eyes finding Agatha.
“Goodbye, Agatha” she said coolly, without raising her voice, just enough for it to carry.
And then she walked away, heels clicking like punctuation marks.
Agatha’s hand moved from Rio’s shoulder to her lower back. Firm. Anchoring.
“Come,” she said, her voice lower now. “Walk with me.”
And Rio did.
She didn’t ask where they were going.
Agatha’s hand stayed at the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd with quiet authority. Past the bar, past the stage, down a hallway humming with dimmed noise and colder air. Her touch wasn’t gentle, it was decisive, proprietary. Like Rio had already agreed to something she hadn’t signed for.
She only spoke once, and only quietly: “Keep up.”
They turned another corner, past catering, past dressing rooms, until they stopped in front of a nondescript gray door. A keypad glowed faintly on the side.
Agatha typed in a code without hesitation.
The door clicked.
Rio raised an eyebrow. “Where are we—?”
Agatha opened the door and stepped inside.
Rio followed.
Monitors lined the wall, grayscale and color feeds of the gala in real time: the bar, the floor, the stage, every hallway. Silent watchers. Cables twisted like veins. One screen still showed the moment Agatha had arrived behind her and Hela. Another caught the angle of her fingers brushing Hela’s collar.
The door shut with a quiet finality.
Rio turned slowly. “Seriously? You brought me to the camera room?”
Agatha didn’t answer at first. She crossed to the wall, adjusted the volume on one of the feeds, then looked at Rio.
There was no anger in her eyes.
Just something more dangerous.
Possession. Calculation. And something else buried deeper, thin and burning.
“Do you think I don’t see you?” Agatha asked softly. Not a whisper. A threat wrapped in velvet.
Rio didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
She didn’t have to.
Agatha was already stepping closer.
The air in the room turned electric, tight and charged, like a storm about to snap.
Agatha stepped closer, the glow of the monitors casting her face in pale blue shadows. Her jaw was tense, her eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
“Are you planning on leaving the company?” she asked, low but simmering.
Rio blinked. “What?”
Agatha’s voice rose, controlled but shaking at the edges. “Don’t play dumb, Rio.”
“I’m not — what the hell are you talking about?”
Agatha let out a quiet, furious laugh. “Hela”
Agatha tilted her head, scoffing, eyes narrowing with theatrical disbelief. Her hand flicked through the air dismissively, the way she always did when she was about to snap.
“Oh, come on. Please don’t insult both of our intelligences. You don’t just happen to spend half the gala wrapped around the most powerful woman in the American Ballet Theatre circuit unless you’re angling for something.”
Rio opened her mouth, but Agatha cut her off with a sharp, slicing gesture.
Agatha’s tone dropped, cold and clear now. “Hela Odinsdottir.”
And suddenly, it clicked. The name landed like a punch. Rio’s breath caught.
Hela wasn’t just a striking woman in the fundraiser. She was the daughter of Odin Odinsdottir. The Odinsdottir family. The ones with a controlling stake in the American Ballet Theatre. And Hela? She was next in line. Rumored to be circling for power. She’d been trying to poach dancers of the New York City Baller for years.
Shit.
Rio’s throat went dry. “I didn’t know,” she said, and meant it. “I wasn’t planning anything. I didn’t even know who she was.”
Agatha’s silence felt like a blade pressed to the skin.
Rio could feel her pulse pounding in her ears, the weight of the night crashing over her, guilt, confusion, anger all twisted into something feral and raw. Hela’s hand on hers. Agatha’s eyes on Natasha. Everything folding in on itself.
Agatha didn’t blink. “Did you fuck her?”
Rio stared at her.
The air cracked between them.
“I could ask you the same thing.” she said finally, her voice tight, almost careful.
Their eyes locked. A dozen things lived in the space between them, jealousy, defiance, want, history. Too much history.
Agatha’s expression didn’t shift. Neither did Rio’s.
Just the faint sound of the city outside, muffled through the windows.
Then Rio took a slow step closer.
“Or does that question only matter when you’re not the one being watched?”
The corner of Agatha’s mouth twitched, whether it was anger or amusement, Rio couldn’t tell.
Not yet.
Agatha tilted her head slightly, her brow arching with that familiar, infuriating elegance, like she was humoring a child throwing a tantrum. One hand flicked up, fingers fanning loosely near her temple before curling inward with theatrical flair. That sharp, mocking gesture, like she was brushing away smoke, or summoning patience from thin air.
“I think you’ll need to enlighten me,” she said, voice silk over steel. “Because clearly something’s gotten lost in translation.”
Rio’s lips parted, disbelief flooding her face.
Agatha’s expression cracked, just for a second. A flicker. Rage and guilt colliding beneath the surface like two tectonic plates. Then she stepped in, fast.
“That’s not an answer,” she hissed.
Rio’s eyes flashed. “Neither was yours.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“No I am not,” Rio snapped, “I’m responding. There’s a difference.”
They were too close now. Heat pulsing between them, not the kind that drew bodies together, but the kind that preceded explosions.
“I trusted you,” Agatha said, voice low and bitter. The kind of bitter that burned on the way out. “I gave you everything.”
Rio’s breath caught, her chest heaving with something raw and rising. “Did you?” Her voice rose, sharp and ragged. “Because it feels like you trusted me right up until I stopped lying down when you told me to.”
Agatha’s jaw tightened. “You think I cast Natasha to spite you?”
Rio laughed once, too loud, too harsh. “No. I know you cast her to replace me.”
Agatha’s eyes darkened, mouth twitching. “She is better—”
“Say that again.” The words came out cold, lethal.
The silence that fell was volcanic. Neither of them moved. Even the walls seemed to shrink back.
“You don’t mean that,” Rio said, quieter now, but it was the kind of quiet that trembled under strain. “You don’t even believe it.”
Agatha didn’t answer. Her silence said too much.
Rio stepped forward, close enough to feel the heat between them reignite. “I bled for you,” she whispered. “You think she would? You think she even understands what you are, what this costs?”
Agatha’s throat worked. She didn’t respond, she moved, sharp and sudden, her hand snapping up to Rio’s throat. Not hard enough to hurt. Not enough to stop her breath. Just enough to silence her.
Just enough to own her.
Rio didn’t flinch.
Agatha’s palm was warm. Possessive.
Furious.
They stood like that, locked in something jagged and electric, chests rising fast, mouths just inches apart.
“I made you Myrtha,” Agatha whispered, low and dangerous. “Because that role burns. Because it demands rage. Because it is you .”
Rio’s pulse thundered beneath Agatha’s fingers.
“And you still want me on stage?” Rio asked, barely audible.
Agatha leaned closer, breath brushing her jaw. “I want you where no one else can touch you.”
Rio didn’t move.
But her eyes burned.
The pressure between them snapped like a wire pulled too tight.
Agatha’s eyes darkened, her hand tightening just slightly at Rio’s throat, and then she moved, fast, furious, certain.
She kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. They have never been. they probably never will be.
It was the kind of kiss that bruised. Like it had been for the past three years. Three years of secrecy. Three years of silences in rehearsal studios, of hotel rooms and quick fixes between curtains and costume racks. It had always been that way with Rio: need, need, need. But never in daylight. Never where it could end both of their careers.
Their mouths crashed together, hungry, messy, desperate. Agatha pushed forward, grabbing Rio by the waist and backing her into the wall with a thud that echoed off the monitor screens. Rio gasped into her mouth, but it was swallowed, devoured, Agatha’s hands already everywhere, pulling at her waist, sliding up the back of her dress, tangling in her hair. Taking, taking taking. That's what Agatha always did. Rio was too gone to care.
Rio clutched at Agatha’s blazer, fingers knotting in the fabric, dragging her closer, pulling her down. She kissed back like she was starving, like this was her only language left. Agatha caught Rio’s lower lip between her teeth, biting down until it was flushed and swollen, then soothed the sting with her mouth, tongue tracing over spit and the faint tang of blood, sharp and electric on her tongue. Rio moaned at the feeling.
Agatha broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, then dipped to her neck, kissing hard, biting a little, possessive, territorial. Hers.
“Agatha” Rio whispered, somewhere between a warning and a moan.
But Agatha didn’t stop. Her tongue made its way just beneath Rio's jaw, then again lower, the point of her teeth grazing the skin there. Her hands slid along Rio’s sides, pressing into her hips like she could mold her into the wall.
Agatha’s mouth was at Rio’s throat again, rougher now, teeth grazing skin as her hand moved down, her fingers pinched the tip of Rio’s nipple through the fabric of the dress. Rio whined at the feeling.
Agatha’s lips parted from Rio’s neck, her gaze locking onto hers. Her blue eyes now darkened, pupils blown as she drew closer.
“Lift your dress up for me, doll” Agatha’s voice was a low, velvet command. It wrapped around Rio like silk, impossible to resist, pulling at something raw and hungry deep inside her.
Rio’s breath caught, a shiver tracing down her spine as a warm flush spread from her chest to the tips of her fingers, heat pooling deep inside her. For a heartbeat, she hesitated, caught between the urge to obey and the sudden thrill of anticipation.
Slowly, deliberately, her fingers slid over the smooth fabric of the dress, tracing the curve of her thigh before gathering the hem. The soft material slipped through her hands as she lifted it with a careful, deliberate motion just enough to reveal the bare skin beneath, delicate, unguarded; enough for Agatha’s eyes to trace, for her hands to find what they wanted.
The space between them seemed to disappear. Rio could feel the heat of her gaze like a touch, stirring nerves alive and raw. The weight of Agatha’s presence pressed against her, a tether she both resisted and longed for.
Rio’s pulse quickened, every nerve alive with anticipation under Agatha’s gaze.
“Good girl,” Agatha murmured, her voice thick with promise.
Agatha’s hand slid down Rio’s thigh, warm and steady, until it reached the tender, sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Her touch was deliberate, slow, teasing the heat that pooled just beneath the surface, inching closer to where Rio needed her most. Rio moaned at the feeling.
Agatha’s fingers grazed Rio’s slit through the thin fabric of her underwear. Rio’s eyes fluttered shut, a low, deep groan slipping past her lips as the sensation washed over her, hands grabbing her dress to steady herself.
“Jesus doll…already?” Agatha teased as her finger continued to tease Rio’s slit, pressing gently over the delicate material of her underwear, avoiding her clit.
Agatha's hand slid between Rio’s thighs, hooking into the fabric and tugging it aside with practiced ease, exposing Rio with a slow, deliberate motion.
Rio’s breath hitched, her hips shifting instinctively toward her, hungry.
But then—
Agatha stopped.
Her fingers stilled, just shy of where Rio needed her most. The absence was electric. Punishing.
Rio whimpered, frustration raw in her voice. “Agatha. Please.”
Agatha lifted her head slowly, face inches from Rio’s, fury barely veiled in the clench of her jaw. Her eyes burned.
“Did you fuck her?”
The question cut through the air like a blade.
Rio froze, lips parted, breath heavy. She could lie. Pretend. Twist the truth into something half innocent. Or she could go nuclear.
Her lip curled, bitter and defiant. “What if I did?”
Agatha reeled back half a step, as if the words had struck her across the face. The distance between them snapped tight and dangerous. Her breath hitched once. Rage rippled through her frame, so tightly controlled it looked like she might shake apart.
Her voice came low. Deadly. “Don’t test me.”
Rio gave a cold, hollow laugh. “Why do you care?”
The silence that followed was sharp and unbearable. Agatha’s hands clenched at her sides, every muscle in her jaw taut, her nostrils flaring as she fought for control.
She leaned in close again, Agatha’s left hand wrapped around Rio’s neck, her right never letting go of the thin fabric still in her grip, her index finger found the sensitive nub, drawing a gasp from her, teasing, deliberate.
“Because she’s not allowed to touch what’s mine.” Agatha said, her voice low and seething
Her finger stopped moving again. It was all too much.
She tried to hold back, but the whimper slipped free. “Please. I- I need you.” Rio’s plea came out in a hushed whisper, full of aching need.
Agatha’s left hand tightened around Rio’s throat, her right remained tangled in her underwear.
Agatha stared at her for a beat longer, breath sharp, jaw tight. The heat between them had curdled into something darker, possessive, wounded, feral.
Then, quieter this time, but no less cutting: “Did you fuck her?”
“Please,” Rio gasped, voice trembling. “I need you. I- I didn't. It's been only you, always you” she cried.
“You’re mine,” Agatha said, low, as she entered with two fingers without any warning.
“Fuck” Rio lifted her chin, jaw tight. “Yours” she panted ” You made sure I couldn’t be anything else.”
Agatha’s mouth found Rio’s again, her left hand sliding down from Rio’s neck to brush gently against the fabric covering her chest, fingers teasing softly her nipples. Meanwhile, her fingers thrusted into her cunt, tracing slow, purposeful rhythms that sent shivers through Rio’s body.
Agatha pulled back just enough to break the kiss, her breath warm against Rio’s lips.
“Open wide baby,” she murmured, her voice low and commanding.
Without hesitation, Rio parted her mouth and took two of Agatha’s fingers inside, sucking them slowly, deliberately, hungry and unrestrained, moaning against her fingers. It was all too much.
Agatha slowly withdrew her fingers, the teasing tension lingering in the air as she slipped her hand into the pocket of her jacket. Her fingers rifled through the fabric with deliberate ease, the slight rustle breaking the heavy silence between them. She glanced back at Rio, a smirk curling at the corner of her lips, equal parts amusement and challenge.
“Open again, doll.” Agatha’s voice was soft but firm, an unyielding command that left no room for hesitation.
Rio’s breath hitched, eyes dark with anticipation as she parted her lips obediently.
Agatha drew out a sleek black card, holding it up between them like a silent provocation. The embossed letters gleamed under the dim light. Hela’s card.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Rio’s voice broke through the charged silence, sharp and incredulous, disbelief slicing through the tension like a knife.
Agatha’s gaze never wavered; she held the card carefully between her fingers, eyes locking onto Rio’s with a razor sharp edge. Her voice dropped to a low, serious murmur, thick with warning and something darker beneath it.
Agatha’s fingers paused their movement, refusing to push deeper into Rio, and a low, frustrated growl rumbled from Rio’s throat.
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” she murmured, voice low and serious.
Rio whimpered softly “Please…” Her voice trembled with need and hesitation, eyes searching Agatha’s for mercy.
Agatha’s smirk deepened, the corner of her mouth curling into a wicked smile. Her eyes darkened, sharp and unapologetic, locking onto Rio’s with a daring challenge.
“If you want me to keep going,” she said, her voice a low, teasing growl, “you’re going to have to take this” she lifted Hela’s card slightly “in that pretty little mouth of yours”
Rio’s breath hitched, a mix of defiance and desire swirling inside her as she hesitated just a moment longer.
Fuck it.
Then, with deliberate care, she parted her lips, allowing the card to slide past her teeth and rest softly against her tongue. The cool surface felt oddly intimate, a silent surrender wrapped in the tension between them.
It should’ve been off putting, something strange and crazy, but it wasn’t. Oh, it wasn't.
Instead, it sent a shiver of something darker through her, something hungry and raw. She was soaked right now. And Agatha knew it too while her fingers were still buried deep inside her.
Agatha’s eyes darkened, watching every small movement with a hunger that made Rio’s skin prickle. Her voice dropped, thick and husky.
“Good girl,” she murmured, the praise like fire against Rio’s ear, fueling the heat that already burned between them as she began pumping her fingers again at a maddening pace.
Agatha’s gaze sharpened, a teasing edge curling at the corner of her mouth.
“Now, chew it,” she commanded softly, her voice low and irresistible.
Rio’s pulse quickened, the audacity of the request sending a thrill straight through her.
She obeyed without hesitation, her teeth gently grazing the edge of the card as she chewed slowly, every motion charged with a mix of defiance and desire.
“She's not allowed to touch what’s mine,” Agatha said, her voice low and seething. “I don’t care who she is, or what she thinks she can take, you belong to me. Every inch of you. And no one touches what’s mine.”
Rio gathered the card into a small ball inside her mouth, the smooth edges pressing against her tongue and teeth. Agatha’s eyes darkened with satisfaction as she leaned closer, her palm cupping Rio’s cheek gently.
Rio smirked mischievously, then, instead of sipping, she rolled the card ball around her mouth for a moment before, just for a flash, spitting it straight into Agatha’s waiting palm.
Agatha’s eyes flickered with surprise, then amusement, a slow, teasing smile curling her lips. She caught the card effortlessly and slid it into the pocket of her jacket with a deliberate, slow motion.
Rio gasped, her eyes wide and fixed on Agatha’s expression, a mix of triumph and something darker that sent a shiver straight through her.
Rio kept riding Agatha's fingers like her life depended on it. Agatha’s hand slid down to Rio’s right leg, gripping it firmly. With a swift, confident motion, she lifted and wrapped it tightly around her waist, pulling Rio closer, no space left between them.
Her thrusts grew deeper, Rio moving almost imperceptibly, riding Agatha’s fingers as their mouths collided in a desperate kiss. Every thrust and curl of Agatha’s fingers pushed Rio closer to unraveling, her whole body trembling under the skilled rhythm of Rio’s hand.
Rio’s mind flickered with a dark, undeniable truth.
Agatha knew her body better than anyone else, maybe even better than she knew herself. In those three years thet theyve know each other adn starter to fuck eachother Agatha had pushed her to the edge, broken through every barrier, left her breathless and senseless more times than she could count. This time wasn't different.
“That’s it, love, you're being so good to me” Agatha murmured against her lips as Rio began to tremble, her soft whimpers rising into desperate, ragged gasps.
Agatha’s phone buzzed insistently in her pocket, the sharp vibration cutting through the charged silence between them.
“Fuck seriously?” she cursed.
Slowly, her left hand slid away from Rio’s leg, though her right hand remained glued to her, fingers moving in a steady, teasing rhythm.
“Don’t make a sound,” Agatha whispered, her voice low and dangerously calm.
Rio whimpered softly, frustration and longing tangled in the small sound.
Agatha’s fingers paused for a heartbeat before she pulled the phone out and hit answer, pressing it to speaker without breaking contact. The unmistakable sharp tone of Jenn’s voice filled the space.
“Jenn, didn't I tell you that I didn't want to be bothered tonight” came the sharp voice through the speaker; Agatha’s assistant.
“Agatha,” Jenn’s voice was clipped, urgent and already tense. “Some investors are asking for you. They’re here, and they want to talk. They’re getting impatient.”
Agatha's thumb finally found Rios clit.
Rio’s fingers slipped away from the hem of her dress, surrendering to the heat pooling between them. A soft whimper threatened to escape her lips, as Agatha's thumb began pressing and circling with devastating precision. Rio, desperate to keep quiet, bit down hard on her own hand, the sudden sharp pain grounding her and muffling the whimper that was threatening to escape.
Agatha’s brow furrowed in annoyance. “I pay you a lot of money to keep them off my back. What the hell are you doing letting them through?”
Agatha mouthed the words “good girl” silently, careful not to break the flow or make a sound. Her eyes locked on Rio’s, the teasing promise clear even without a whisper.
Jenn’s voice sharpened. “They’re looking for you again. And again. It’s like you think I have some kind of magic button to make investors disappear out of thin air. I’m not a miracle worker, Agatha. Maybe I could be if you actually paid me more”
Agatha sighed, running a hand through her hair, her irritation barely contained. “Fine. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Just keep them waiting a little longer.”
Before Jenn could respond, Agatha ended the call with a sharp tap, the abruptness of it echoing in the sudden silence.
Rio let out a sharp, involuntary whimper, her restraint slipping as the tension inside her built, raw need in her voice unmistakable.
“I’ve got you,” Agatha whispered, her voice calm and steady, anchoring Rio in the moment. With a sudden, overwhelming rush, her body arched, a low moan escaping as she tumbled over the edge, utterly undone.
Her whole frame trembled, waves of pleasure pulsing through her, every nerve ignited. Agatha held her close against the wall, fingers still moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm, coaxing out every last shiver.
Rio felt weightless, adrift in the intensity, suspended between sensation and stillness.
Agatha’s other hand rose, fingers tracing a gentle path along Rio’s cheek, her thumb circling soothingly. The tender touch pulled her back from the edge, grounding her. She could feel Agtha’s gaze locked on her.
Agatha’s fingers slid out slowly, the heat of her touch lingering as Rio’s lips instinctively closed around them, sucking gently. The taste was intoxicating, salt and desire mingled with the lingering fire between them. Rio’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, savoring the connection.
“You did so good, doll,” Agatha murmured, her voice low and thick with satisfaction, barely more than a breath. Her fingers twitched at the memory of Rio’s skin beneath her touch. “But I’ve got to go.”
She straightened slowly, every movement deliberate, eyes darkening with a fierce sharpness that sent a shiver down Rio’s spine. “This isn’t over. Not even close.”
For a heartbeat, her gaze softened just enough to hint at something beneath the surface, a flicker of tenderness wrapped tightly in steel. Then a sly smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“I’ll see you in rehearsals for Giselle tomorrow. And seriously, you might want to put yourself together before you come back to the fundraiser, you look like I did a pretty good job tearing you apart.”
The faintest smirk ghosted her lips, almost fond, almost cruel.
Her heels clicked against the polished floor as she moved toward the door, each step measured, the kind of exit only someone in control could pull off. Her back to Rio, posture impeccable, unshaken.
Rio watched her go, the heat still humming under her skin, but now tangled with something sharper. Her hands clenched at her sides. Her heart beat louder than it should have.
Just as Agatha reached the door, Rio’s voice broke through the thick quiet, raw and too honest.
“Did you fuck her?”
It hung there. Not a whisper. Not an accusation. Just the question.
Agatha stopped.
One hand on the doorframe, her back still turned. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. A beat passed. Then another.
But she never looked back.
And then the door clicked softly shut behind her.