The row of little girls in tutus formed an almost perfect line. Jumps and turns guided by a woman. You. The seats were filled, all eyes drawn to your leading figure at the front, guiding the girls through the sound of classical music, mirroring your movements in perfect synchrony. The hungry stares of the parents didn’t affect your precision—you had learned to ignore them. Your only goal was ballet.

"Essence Institute for Exemplary Women.” was written in bold, golden letters at the entrance of the boarding school’s private theater. The grayish concrete walls made it clear how things worked here. Excellence was the bare minimum expected, and you were the institution’s very reflection—polished, perfect. You had been teaching ballet and other disciplines for three years now, and while you had several groups, there was one that was your favorite. And that was the one that included your young student, Elizabeth Ivy Swift.

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Elizabeth — or Ivy as she preferred being called — was a cheerful little girl with blonde curls and green eyes who charmed everyone. Sometimes you felt that the institution wasn’t the right place for her. You felt that somewhere so somber would wear down her bright spirit, and that thought saddened you. It was undeniable that you tended to be more flexible and kind with her—more… soft, affectionate even.

So it was only natural that, after the mid-year performance, the little girl was waiting for you, holding the hand of the adult responsible for her. Her mother, Taylor. The famous divorced singer was dressed in a long, beautiful and expensive dress with shimmering details, her bodyguards at her sides, applauding enthusiastically at Taylor’s command—who couldn’t have been prouder of her little dancer. A bouquet of flowers in hand, waiting for being given to the little Ivy.