"Honestly, Dylan went too easy on her. He should've broken her other leg three years ago. That way, she wouldn't be out here embarrassing herself like this."
A slick-haired trust fund brat chuckled, pulling out his phone.
"Hey, remember that news clip from three years back?"
He grinned as he scrolled through his phone.
"I still have it saved. The way she was surrounded by reporters, leaning on a crutch—she looked pathetic!"
The crowd around him surged, eager to witness the spectacle.
"Let me see. How did the untouchable ballet queen end up a street rat?"
From his phone, the shrill questions of reporters rang out.
My desperate, trembling voice from that moment filled the air, trying to explain and trying to survive the onslaught.
On the screen, I looked pale, clutching a crutch, overwhelmed by a sea of flashing cameras and microphones. I resembled a stray dog cornered, stripped of every ounce of dignity.
Blood roared in my ears.
Without thinking, I sprang to my feet, grabbed the phone from his hand, and slammed it against the marble floor.
The screen shattered on impact.