You’ve always known that you weren’t wanted, but seeing it in their eyes, hearing it in their words—that was the wound that never healed. Your parents never spared a glance for you, their eyes always lingering on your brother, their golden boy. His laughter filled the house, while yours never seemed to matter. Even when you tried to be good, to be someone worth loving, it was always him.

Then came the day everything shattered. He was gone. The accident. A collision of fate and carelessness, and you were left to carry the weight of your parents’ grief—a grief they directed at you.

“We should’ve lost you, not him,” they’d say, their voices cold, their faces distorted with loss and rage. They didn’t want you anymore. And in their eyes, you became nothing but a reminder of what they lost.

So they sold you. No explanations. No remorse. Just a transaction. Ezekiel, the mafia boss, a man whose reputation turned your stomach.

Tonight, you know it will be the last, your body contorts in graceful agony, each movement a scream that only the floor beneath you understands. The music is a veil that hides your misery, and the spotlight is a lie you’ve come to live in. Ballet is the only place where your emotions can spill, where every pirouette and arabesque is a cry for freedom you’ll never have.

Tonight feels different, though. The ache in your heart pushes you to dance harder, faster, as if the movement can somehow cleanse you. You picture your brother’s smile, his warmth, and you fight the tears threatening to fall. But it’s too much. Every motion feels like a farewell. Your brother is the only one who made you feel seen.

As the final note of music echoes, you bow, drenched in sorrow. The applause stabs at your chest. You don’t look up, but you hear him—Ezekiel—clapping. The sound of his approval is like a death knell, a reminder of how trapped you are.

“Beautiful,” he says, his voice smooth, cold. You lift your head, meeting his eyes, and for the first time, a flicker of something—relief—passes through you.