The broken pieces of my mother's bracelet were still clutched in my palm when Vance hauled me to my feet. The sharp edges cut into my skin, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the devastation tearing through my chest.

"You want forgiveness?" His voice was ice. "Then you'll earn it."

I stared at him, this stranger wearing a face I'd loved for ten years. "What?"

"St. Augustine Cathedral. Five miles from here." He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. "You'll walk there barefoot and confess what you did to Aubree. Every sin. Every cruel word. Every moment of bullying."

"But I never—"

"Save it." Aubree's voice dripped with false sweetness as she perched on Vance's desk, examining her perfect nails. "The whole city will finally see you for what you really are."

Zen stood silent in the corner, his eyes fixed on the floor. For a moment, I thought I saw conflict flash across his features, but he said nothing.

Vance dragged me toward the door. When I instinctively reached for my shoes, he kicked them aside. "Barefoot. Like the beggar you are."

The lobby security didn't meet my eyes as Vance pushed me out onto the sidewalk. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, and the concrete was already hot beneath my feet. I took one step, then another, each movement sending shockwaves of humiliation through my body.

People stared. Of course they did.

A woman in designer sunglasses whispered to her companion, both turning to watch me pass. A businessman paused mid-call, his expression shifting from curiosity to disgust. Two teenage girls giggled behind their phones, probably already posting to social media.

"That's her," I heard someone say. "The Wright girl. Always knew she was trouble."

My feet burned. The rough pavement scraped my soles with each step, small cuts opening and beginning to bleed. I clutched the broken bracelet pieces tighter, feeling my mother's love in the twisted silver, the only real thing left in my shattered world.

One mile became two. My vision blurred—from tears or exhaustion, I couldn't tell anymore. The cathedral's spires appeared in the distance, wavering like a mirage.

"Look at her feet," someone gasped nearby. "Is she bleeding?"

"Probably deserves it," another voice replied. "I heard she's the one who bullied Aubree Wright for years."

The whispers followed me like a swarm of insects, each word another sting. My legs trembled with each step. Sweat soaked through my clothes. The sun seemed to press down on me with physical weight.

I thought about stopping. About collapsing right there on the sidewalk and refusing to move. But what would that accomplish? Vance would find another way to torture me. Aubree would smile that victorious smile. And I would still be broken, still be nothing.

So I kept walking.

The cathedral steps finally materialized before me. Fifty marble stairs leading up to massive wooden doors. I stared at them, my body swaying. People gathered at the bottom, phones out, capturing my humiliation for posterity.

"She's really going to do it," someone breathed.

I placed my foot on the first step. Blood smeared across the white marble. My leg buckled, but I caught myself against the railing. Second step. Third. Each one required every ounce of will I had left.

Fifteenth step. My vision tunneled, darkness creeping in from the edges. Twenty-third step. My knees gave out, and I caught myself with my hands, the bracelet pieces cutting deeper into my palm.

"Someone call an ambulance," a distant voice said.

Thirty-first step. Almost there. I could see the cathedral doors now, could almost feel the cool darkness inside. But my body had reached its limit.

The world tilted sideways. The marble steps rushed up to meet me, or perhaps I was falling. The crowd's voices faded to a dull roar. Someone screamed. Strong hands caught me before I hit the ground, but I was already gone, consciousness slipping away like water through my fingers.

The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was the broken silver scattered across the steps—my mother's bracelet, the final piece of love in my life, now just glittering fragments mixed with my blood.

Then nothing.

The spotlights burned against my skin as I moved across the stage at The Palace. My body twisted and turned to the pulsing music, each movement a mockery of the dance I once loved. The sequined costume they'd forced me into barely covered my body, the fabric scratching against my skin with every step. Around me, businessmen in expensive suits leaned forward in their chairs, eyes hungry, glasses clinking as they watched my humiliation unfold.

This was my punishment. My passion turned into a weapon against me.

"Higher leg extensions, Wright!" Mrs. Valdez shouted from the side of the stage, her voice cutting through the music. "And smile! Nobody wants to see your misery."

I stretched my leg higher, feeling the pull in my muscles, and forced my lips into what I hoped resembled a smile. It didn't matter that my soul was crumbling inside; the show must go on.

Three weeks. I'd been at The Palace for three weeks now, each day worse than the last. After the hospital, after Aubree's final cruelty with Max, I thought nothing could hurt me anymore. I was wrong.

The music crescendoed, and I spun across the stage, my bare feet sliding against the polished floor. As I turned, my eyes caught a familiar face in the crowd. Zen Black sat alone at a table near the back, his face pale in the dim light. For a moment, our eyes met, and I saw something flicker across his features—was it guilt? Regret? It didn't matter anymore.

I finished my routine to scattered applause and catcalls, taking a mechanical bow before retreating backstage. My dressing room—if you could call the tiny closet with a cracked mirror that—offered the only moments of solitude in this hell.

I slumped onto the rickety chair, staring at my reflection. The woman looking back at me was a stranger—hollow eyes, too-thin face, a body that moved without soul. I reached for the makeup remover, desperate to wipe away at least one layer of this nightmare.

A knock at the door made me freeze.

"Nala?" Zen's voice. Soft, hesitant.

I didn't answer. Maybe if I stayed silent, he would go away.

The door opened anyway. He stood in the doorway, looking uncomfortable in his expensive suit, so identical to his brother yet somehow different in ways I should have noticed years ago.

"I—I needed to see you," he said, closing the door behind him. "This... this has gone too far."

I continued removing my makeup, my movements mechanical. What was there to say to the man who had helped destroy my life?

"I never thought it would go this far," he continued, his voice breaking slightly. "The club was supposed to be the end of it. Not this... not The Palace."

I looked at him then, really looked at him. His face was drawn, eyes shadowed. He looked almost as haunted as I felt.

"Did you take turns being disgusted by me too?" My voice was flat, emotionless. "Or was that just Vance's role?"

"Nala, please." He took a step forward, then stopped when I flinched. "I'm trying to apologize."

"For what part?" I turned back to the mirror. "For pretending to love me? For watching me degrade myself for three years to save a man who never existed? Or for standing by while your brother and my sister destroyed everything I had left?"

He had no answer for that. We both knew there was nothing he could say that would matter now.

"I'm sorry," he finally whispered. "I truly am."

I stared through him with empty eyes. Once, those words might have meant something. Once, I might have had enough heart left to feel anger, or pain, or even forgiveness. Now there was nothing but a hollow space where my emotions used to be.

"Are you finished?" I asked, turning back to the mirror.

He lingered for a moment longer, opened his mouth as if to say something else, then closed it again. When the door clicked shut behind him, I didn't feel relief or satisfaction. I didn't feel anything at all.

Tomorrow would be another day at The Palace. Another dance. Another death of the person I used to be.

I picked up the tube of red lipstick Mrs. Valdez insisted I wear—"Men like their dancers to have cock-sucking lips," she'd told me with cruel amusement. As I applied it to my trembling lips, I wondered how much longer I could survive this before disappearing completely.