“You were born to dance,” she’d whispered. “One day, the world will watch.”
Then the sound of a drawer slamming shut.
A coffin. Fourteen years old. “Car accident,” they said. “Instant.”
Nothing was instant. The grief took months to hollow her out.
And then her father, voice flat, eyes empty.
“I can’t do this anymore. The debts. You. I’m leaving.”
“What about dance school?” Sofia had asked.
“Forget dancing. You need to work now.”
The door closed. Permanently.
“Daydreaming?” Leonardo sneered.
The laughter returned. Tears burned—but they weren’t fear.
They were fury.
Sofia placed the tray on a nearby table. The clang rang out like a bell.
“I accept,” she said.
The room gasped.
“But,” she added calmly, “I need to finish my shift.”
Leonardo blocked her path. “Your shift ends now.”
From the sidelines, the manager, Mr. Azevedo, watched stiffly.
“Sir,” Sofia approached him, “may I—”
“You’re embarrassing us,” he hissed, dragging her aside. “He’s a sponsor.”
“But he—”
“I don’t care. Either leave quietly or play their game.”
Dignity. The word tasted bitter.
She returned to the floor.
Camila circled her, examining her uniform. “Is this cheap cotton?”