The Broken Crown

The next morning, I slipped into a wrinkled dress and forced my feet into high heels before stepping into the Celestia Ballet.

As I walked down the hallway, people turned their heads and whispered to each other.

One voice rose above the murmur, deliberately sharp. "A certain someone really has no shame. Got dumped and still dares to show up at work."

I pretended not to hear a thing and kept going straight toward my office.

But when I opened the door, I froze.

The desk was bare. The chair was gone. Even the framed awards that had hung on the wall had vanished.

"Ms. Lynelle." The receptionist hurried over, avoiding my eyes. "Your things have been moved to the small room beside the storage closet." Her voice dropped lower. "It was Mr. Ashford's decision."

The small room beside the storage closet—the one without a single window.

Dragging my tired body down the hall, I pushed open the door. A damp, musty smell rushed out to meet me.

The room was barely fifty square feet, and all my belongings had been tossed carelessly on the floor.

My choreography notes were trampled and smeared with dirt. The glass frame around one of my award certificates lay shattered across the ground.

Then music drifted out from the rehearsal hall.

I followed the sound and peered through the narrow crack of the door. Lucian was there, his arm looped firmly around Elara's waist, the two of them pressed far too close.

"Elara, make the movement softer," he said, his voice so tender I almost didn't recognize it.

"Lucian, I can never get it right. Teach me again, please?" She pouted playfully, her tone dripping with sweetness.

Lucian chuckled and demonstrated once more, his hand sliding across the small of her back, the intimacy of the gesture stinging my eyes.

My heart clenched as though someone had seized it in a merciless grip.

Just then, Gregory Ashford hurried over, his voice pitched with urgency. "The judges have arrived early! Everyone, get ready!"

Wearing a practiced smile, Gregory ushered several stern-faced judges in dark suits into Studio One—the very studio that once belonged to me, but now was Lucian and Elara's domain.

"Ms. Lynelle, you're here too?" The panel's chair, Edmund Harrington, caught sight of me, a spark of delight flickering in his eyes. "We came especially to witness the brilliance of the original director of 'Eternal Crown.'"

Lucian's expression shifted ever so slightly.

Elara immediately chimed in, her tone sugary and coy. "Mr. Harrington, actually, the choreography of 'Eternal Crown' is now handled by Lucian and me together. Ms. Lynelle no longer—"

"That's not correct." Edmund cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand. "What we came to see is Astraea's original style. Elara, your technique is commendable, but you lack the depth, the essence."

For the first time in days, a flicker of hope stirred in my chest.

Gregory shot a panicked glance at Lucian. "Well…"

Lucian gave a cold, measured smile. "Then, let Astraea perform." He paused deliberately before adding, "Though the other dancers are busy rehearsing the new version, none are available to partner with her. Astraea, why don't you dance alone? That way, everyone can see whether your unique style is still intact."

The fragile hope crumbled at once.

Alone? For a group sequence? He wanted nothing more than to humiliate me.

"For the sake of the company, Astraea," Gregory pressed, cloaking his coercion in moral righteousness, "why not push through? This is also your chance to prove yourself."

I was trapped, cornered with no way out.

"Fine." I clenched my jaw and forced the word past my lips.

But when I went to change into my costume, I discovered my dance shoes were gone.

"Ms. Lynelle, you can wear my spare pair." Elara appeared at just the right moment, holding out a pristine set of shoes identical to mine. "They've just been sanitized," she added sweetly.

The instant I took them, our eyes met.

Her gaze was wide, innocent, almost saintlike.

Maybe she really was only thinking about the company's reputation.

I slipped the shoes on.

The music swelled, and I began to dance.

The intensity of the choreography soon drenched my socks in sweat.

Then, a sudden searing pain shot through the soles of my feet.

It was as if red-hot needles were stabbing, burning, eating their way into my flesh.

Something hard and gritty pressed beneath me, grinding against my skin with every turn and leap, tearing deeper with each movement.

Lime. She had filled the shoes with lime powder.

Agony surged through me in waves. My face drained of color, sweat beaded at my forehead, and my body trembled under the torment, but the judges were watching, their eyes fixed on me.

So, I clenched my teeth, forcing every ounce of pain into my movements.

Desperation twisted into beauty. Anguish erupted into raw, explosive power. Each step struck with more force than I had ever summoned before.

Edmund nodded again and again, admiration blazing in his eyes.

Lucian watched me with an expression I couldn't decipher, shadows flickering across his face.

Elara's gaze, however, stayed locked on my feet, her eyes flashing with venom.

The finale had arrived.

The last crescendo—the relentless whirl of spins followed by a soaring grand jete.

I forced my body through it, grinding my bones against the searing agony in my feet, pushing every shred of strength into that final leap.

And at the precise moment my body rose, suspended at the apex of power and grace, the massive stage spotlight above me tore free and came crashing down without warning.

There was no time to dodge.

The heavy fixture slammed onto my right shoulder and back, driving me into the floor with brutal force.

The air split with a cacophony of sounds: the shriek of metal breaking, the shatter of glass, and the sickening snap of bone.

Blood gushed from my mouth and nose in an instant.

I didn't even manage a cry of pain before my body collapsed into a grotesque angle, sprawling in a widening pool of red.

The hall froze in horrified silence, then erupted in screams.

Lucian bolted toward the stage, but when his eyes caught the spreading blood beneath me, his steps faltered. The color drained from his face, his body paralyzed.

Elara, right on cue, let out a high-pitched scream. She threw herself into his arms, clutching him tightly. "Lucian! There's so much blood! I'm terrified!"

Instinctively, he wrapped his arm around her trembling frame, his voice quivering. "Call an ambulance! Now!"

A stagehand moved toward me, but Lucian barked, "Don't touch her! Get Elara out first. She can't handle this!"

Even now, at the edge of my life, his first thought was Elara's feelings.

I lay in the blood soaking the stage floor, listening to his words, and in that moment, my heart died completely.

Gregory, ashen-faced, rushed to reassure the panel of judges. "An accident! Nothing but an accident! The equipment must have been too old."

But the judges only shook their heads and filed out, grim and disappointed.

Amid the chaos, I caught sight of Elara casting a quick, deliberate glance toward a stagehand.

I knew what would come next: whispers that I had suffered a breakdown, that I had sabotaged the equipment myself.

The wail of sirens grew louder, closer.

Broken like a discarded doll, I was lifted onto a stretcher—my feet shredded and bloody, my shoulder and back a raw crimson mess, my fate hanging by a thread.

From a distance, Lucian held Elara as she sobbed, watching silently as the ambulance carried me away.

The Swan Queen's Requiem

The sharp stench of antiseptic clung to the hospital room.

I lay on the cold, unyielding bed, my body torn apart by pain—but the deeper agony was the hollow wound in my chest.

My right foot was wrapped in thick bandages, the blood seeping through in blotches shaped like bruised blossoms.

A plaster brace locked my left shoulder and back in place, leaving me motionless.

The monitor beeped steadily, as if mocking me by reminding me I was still alive.

The door clicked open.

Elara walked in, her heels striking the floor like deliberate taunts. Two women, dressed in gaudy, overdone outfits, trailed after her.

Lucian followed last, his expression grim, his eyes darting anywhere but toward me.

She stopped at my bedside, looking down at my bandaged foot with a cruel, almost curious smile.

"Well, well, Ms. Lynelle. What did the doctors say about this foot of yours? Don't tell me you're going to be a cripple for the rest of your life."

The women at her side broke into laughter.

"What a shame! For a ballerina, her feet are everything. Ruin them, and you might as well be dead.

"Wasn't a certain someone used to be touted as the 'Swan's Spirit'? Look at her now—she doesn't even measure up to a limping duck."

The other one waved her phone in front of me with a theatrical flourish.

"Almost forgot to share the news. The final performance of 'Eternal Crown' was a massive hit! The media is calling Lucian and Elara's adaptation a stroke of genius, saying it surpassed the original.

"The internet's buzzing—praise everywhere. Your name? Not even mentioned. Apparently, the 'original version' is just too outdated to matter."

"Eternal Crown" was my life's work, the creation I had poured countless sleepless nights into.

And now they had stolen it, then had the audacity to laugh in my face.

Lucian avoided my eyes, his voice dry. "Astraea, given your condition, we're very sorry, but we have to face reality. We'll terminate your contract in accordance with the law, and you'll receive the standard compensation."

He paused and produced a copy of the agreement.

"Also, we'd like to purchase the copyright to 'Eternal Crown' outright. It's for the continued life of the work and to avoid unnecessary trouble. If you sign, we can negotiate the price."

They were trying to strip away the last piece of my artistic legacy.

Darkness swam at the edges of my vision.

Elara stared at my immobilized, bandaged foot, then slowly lifted her heel. The sharp stiletto tip pressed and dragged across the gauze-wrapped wound.

"Argh!"

A hot, searing pain curled me forward; cold sweat soaked the hospital gown. This wasn't just physical torture. It was the cruelest trampling of a dancer's dignity.

Elara withdrew her foot and smiled, syrup-sweet and poisonous. "Oh, sorry. I didn't see your useless foot."

She leaned down until her face was close to mine, delighting in the distortion pain had carved into my features. "Astraea, you look so pathetic, like a maggot in the mud. I'll give you a chance. Right now, kneel and beg me loudly. Beg me to have mercy. Then…"

She snapped upright, swept her skirt up to her thighs, splayed her legs, and jabbed a finger at herself with a shrill, derisive voice.

"Crawl through here like a dog! Do that, bark like a dog, and maybe I'll be charitable. I can put in a good word for you in front of Lucian so that he'll ask Mr. Ashford to get you sent back to Celestia Ballet to clean toilets. Trash like you can still be reused! Ha!"

Her friends erupted into cruel laughter.

Lucian's fists clenched, and his breathing quickened. "Astraea, it's still an opportunity. Maybe you should agree."

Tears mixed with cold sweat as they slid down my face. I bit my lower lip and tasted blood.

With a single, brutal kick, the heavy oak door flew off its hinges. It slammed against the wall, splinters spraying everywhere.

A voice thundered through the room—cold, furious, like a clap of lightning, wrapped in an implacable chill. "Who has the nerve to lay a hand on my Swan Queen?!"