But that peace didn’t last long.

Ginger started redecorating the villa as if she were already the wife.

My favorite oil painting? Gone. She swapped it for some postmodern installation art she loved. She even installed security cameras in every corner of the villa.

The dining room got a fancy new set of bone china, but the home-cooked meals I grew up with? Those were history.

“You’ve all been eating way too carelessly these past few years,” she said, directing the chef. “From now on, you should be more particular. Darcey, you should learn to develop some taste.”

I stared at the exquisite but soulless dish in front of me and found myself missing Miss Merrill’s simple bowl of mac and cheese.

But Miss Merrill got fired. Ginger’s reason? “She wasn’t professional enough.”

And Ulysses turned a blind eye to all these changes.

He was getting busier, leaving early and coming home late. And when he was home, all his time was spent with Ginger.

“Lee, don’t you think this painting looks good here?”

“Sure.”

“Darling, will you come with me to pick curtains this weekend?”

“Of course.”

He never said no to her. It was like this villa had always been hers to run.

I started hiding out in the rehearsal room out of habit, hoping to escape her, but even there, I couldn’t.

One day, while I was rehearsing, she walked right in without warning. “Darcey, can I use this room for a bit? My friends want to see it.”

I glanced at the clock. The Youth America Grand Prix was just a day away. “I still need to practice…”

“It’ll only take a moment.” She’d already opened the door, letting in a group of women dressed to the nines.

I had no choice but to pack up and leave. As I passed by, I overheard one of them whisper, “So, this is the adopted daughter? She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

“She is,” Ginger replied, her tone smug. “I heard she used to cling to Lee all the time. But it’s fine now—I’m here to keep an eye on things.”

I froze for half a second, then kept walking, saying nothing.

Back in my room, I turned on my laptop to review my rehearsal videos, looking for areas to improve. But as soon as I opened Facebook, I saw a dance video going viral.

Curious, I clicked on it—and my heart dropped.

It was my rehearsal from two weeks ago. But someone else had slapped their watermark on it.

The comments were filled with praise for the creativity of the choreography, but no one mentioned my name.

I immediately looked up the account that posted it. It belonged to one of the competitors in tomorrow’s competition.

My stomach sank. Plagiarism like this wasn’t new in the dance industry, but I never thought it would happen to me.

As I was preparing to gather evidence to defend my rights, there was a knock at the door.

“Darcey, come out for dinner,” Ulysses called.

I wiped my eyes. “I’m not hungry.”

There was a pause. “Don’t stay holed up in your room all the time.”

“I’m fine. You mans eat without me.”

Another moment of silence passed. Then, his footsteps finally faded away.

I stared at my laptop screen, debating whether to tell him about this. In the past, I would go to him right away whenever I ran into trouble.

But now? I didn’t even know how I should speak to him.

As his sister? I certainly had crossed that line long ago.

As his friend? We’d grown so distant that even casual conversations felt strained.

Just then, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

[Want that video taken down? Then drop out of the competition.]

I stared at the message for a long time until I laughed.

Maybe this is the price I have to pay—losing the family that adopted me, losing the man I still secretly love, and now, losing the chance to chase my dreams.

It was late at night when I heard piano music coming from downstairs. Ginger was playing Moonlight Sonata, the piece she’s best known for. As the elegant notes filled the air, I heard Ulysses’s voice, filled with admiration.

This must be what a perfect match looks like.

They both came from prominent families, had the best education, and knew all the high society rules—things I could never learn.

And me? I’m just an orphan raised on charity, foolishly falling for someone I should never have loved.

I opened my closet and stared at the dress I’d bought for the competition. It took me forever to save up for it, but now it felt like it was all for nothing.

At least I still had Royal Ballet School. At least I still had a shot at starting over.

I grabbed my phone and typed a message to the number: [Alright, I’ll withdraw. But you need to delete the video and promise never to use this choreography.]

The reply came almost instantly. [Deal.]

I set my phone down and walked to the window.

The moonlight poured down like water, lighting up the roses in the yard. Ginger had planted them after she moved in, saying they were her favorite.

Once upon a time, this yard had my favorite Carolina jasmine flowers. When they bloomed, the whole garden smelled sweet. But now, like me, those Carolina jasmine flowers didn’t belong here anymore.

The piano music downstairs faded away. I could hear their laughter, her playful voice, and his sweet replies.

Everything was so perfect—so perfect that it made me feel like an outsider.

Or maybe I was always an outsider. From the beginning, it was just me forcing myself into this family’s picture. Now, it was time to walk away.

I picked up a pen and started writing my withdrawal letter. My hand shook slightly as I wrote.

Before I left, I had to protect what was mine. Even if I couldn’t dance this piece in public, I would never let anyone steal it.

This was my pride—my final act of defiance in this villa.

But I never expected the world to take even that last bit of pride away.

I stood backstage, listening to the applause echoing outside.

I had already submitted my withdrawal letter, but at the last minute, I was told the judges had rejected it.

“The competition’s about to start. Withdrawing now would mess up the whole schedule,” they said.

What shocked me even more was that Ginger, as the Vice President of the YAGP, was one of the judges.

This news shook the other contestants—after all, everyone knew she was Ulysses’s fiancée.

“Next, Darcey Lynn,” the staff member called, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I took a deep breath and adjusted my dress. It was one I’d designed myself meticulously, incorporating classic water-sleeve elements. Each spin would create a graceful arc.

The moment I stepped onto the stage, I felt strangely calm. The spotlight illuminated me as I assumed my starting pose, waiting for the music to play.

But as soon as the first note rang out, I knew something was wrong. This wasn’t the music I had prepared.

I glanced up at the judges’ table and locked eyes with Ginger. She gave me a faint, mocking smile, casually flipping through her scoring sheet like none of this had something to do with her.

Before I could react, the big screen on stage suddenly lit up.

It was a video—footage of me practicing the stolen choreography.

Then, the lights in the venue came on, abrupt and blinding.

Ginger stood up, wearing a long, flowing white dress, and walked gracefully onto the stage. The music started again—it was the piece for my dance.

“Judges, audience, before we begin, I have something to reveal.” Her voice carried through the entire hall, amplified by the mic. “This contestant’s performance? It’s actually plagiarized from my original work.”

The crowd erupted. I stood there, frozen, watching the scene in disbelief.

“This dance,” she continued, “is something I created last year during my study trip in Paris. And to prove it, I’ll perform the original version right now.”

The music began again, and she started to move. Every step and every expression… matched mine perfectly. Because it was mine—my dance, my hard work, my creation.

I looked toward the other judges, desperate for someone to see through this. But all I saw on their faces was doubt and disgust.

The worst part? Ulysses was sitting in the front row, head down, not even glancing in my direction.

“This isn’t true…” My voice shook. “This is my work. I can prove it…”

“Oh?” Ginger stopped mid-dance, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “And how will you prove it? With your rehearsal videos? Those videos were all recorded after I publicly released my piece.”

She wasn’t wrong. Every shred of evidence I had was useless, thanks to the trap she’d set. Whoever threatened me to drop out of the competition? It had to be her accomplice!

My vision blurred, and I staggered back a few steps. The whispers in the audience became louder and louder, and I heard what some of them said.

“So it’s true—she really plagiarized.”

“No wonder she’s been freeloading off the d'Amboises! What kind of person does that?”

“Poor Mr. d'Amboise, taking in someone so ungrateful!”

Each word cut deeper than the last. I looked at Ulysses, silently begging him to step in and say something. But he just sat there, unmoving.

Then, out of nowhere, a voice rang out. “Hold on!”

I turned and saw my coach Debra Jasinski rushing onto the stage.

“This dance is Darcey’s original work,” she said firmly. “I can vouch for her. I’ve witnessed every step, from her initial concept to the choreography!”

Ginger didn’t even flinch, just smiled faintly. “Miss Jasinski, are you sure about that? You do realize giving false testimony is a serious legal offense, right?”

Miss Jasinski hesitated for a moment but quickly firmed up her stance. “I’m only telling the truth.”

“Well then,” Ginger said, pulling out a document from her assistant’s hand. “This is the creative registration from the Paris Opera Ballet School, dated October of last year. Miss Jasinski, can you prove Darcey Lynn was working on her piece before that?”

Miss Jasinski went silent. She couldn’t. I had only started creating this dance earlier this year.

“That’s enough,” I blurt out, my voice strangely coming out steady. “I’m withdrawing from the competition.”

With that, I turned to leave the stage.

But Ginger wasn’t done. “Can withdrawing erase the fact that you plagiarized?” she said coldly. “I suggest the judges take this matter seriously as a warning to the other contestants.”

I stopped and stared back at her. This woman wasn’t satisfied with just taking my love—she wanted to destroy my dreams too.

But what was the point of arguing? No matter how many explanations I’d make, they would appear powerless against her carefully made-up story.

One last time, I looked at Ulysses. Finally, he raised his head, and our eyes met.

For a brief moment, I saw hesitation and pain in his gaze.

But in the end… he chose to stay silent.