"Actually," he said, voice suddenly colder, "I've changed my mind. A good toy like you shouldn't be broken so easily. I'll lock you up again, make you wear that ridiculous prosthetic leg, and dance like a dog with broken legs right in front of me. Can you imagine how much fun that would be?"
Memories rushed back like a tidal wave.
I remembered the night my leg was destroyed. Lying in that cold storage room, I begged for a single painkiller, but I never received one.
I recalled how he, under Amara's influence, spread lies about me, labeling me as a jealous and twisted abuser. The entire dance world turned against me, shutting me out and making me a pariah.
In one night, I went from being a ballet star to a filthy outcast.
"Dylan," I said, my voice calm but sharp, "your biggest mistake wasn't breaking my leg. It was leaving me alive. Now the game starts again—and this time, I'm taking what's mine."
I clenched my jaw, thoughts racing. 'Dylan, Amara, everyone who stepped on me, everyone who whispered lies about me—they're all going to pay. And they're going to pay twice as hard.'
Dylan's face darkened, his expression shifting into something more menacing than before.