Blackmailed by My Ballet Coach

The instructor's voice cut through the studio, sharp and commanding. His large hand pressed between my legs, fingers skimming the edge of my leotard under the guise of "posture correction."

I flinched. This wasn't instruction—it was a violation. I was his student, not his plaything. What gave him the right?

A month ago, I'd fallen in love with ballet and signed up for a Groupon class. Big mistake. The studio had only one instructor: Sullivan Royston.

At first, his behavior seemed harmless—just an overly hands-on teacher. But week after week, his "adjustments" grew bolder.

Like today. When I struggled to position my legs as a beginner, he didn't show me—he grabbed.

"Coach Sullivan," I snapped, my voice icy. "Is this how you treat women?" The memory of his "accidental" brush against my chest last week still burned.

He smirked, unfazed. "Don't be dramatic, Luna. Ballet requires physical contact. Ask Jade—I correct all my students this way."

My jaw tightened. That smug grin made my skin crawl, but arguing felt pointless.

Emboldened by my silence, his gaze turned hungry. "Your form's improving," he murmured, eyes lingering on my hips, saliva glistening at the corner of his mouth.

Disgust twisted in my gut. I turned on my heel. "Class is over."

"Luna!" he called after me. "You're being ungrateful! I even set up private training for you!"

A lie. I'd signed up for group lessons—he was the one who'd pushed for "one-on-one sessions." We both knew why.

Inside the locker room, Jade Laurent was changing. At twenty-six, with sleek dark hair and effortless grace, she'd joined ballet to refine her poise—just like me.

"Who pissed you off?" she asked, adjusting her leotard straps.

I pointed to my inner thighs. "Sullivan touched me here. Tell me that's normal."

Jade hesitated. "He does it to everyone. Maybe it's just—"

"I saw him hard," I interrupted. "Visibly."