Sarah's ballet teacher shared a photo of the children's performance on Instagram. "Our little Aliya shone with her swan dance today. Give it some love!" My eyes were drawn to the girl in the center. Her ballet shoes looked uncannily similar to the pair I'd had custom-made for my daughter. But why wasn't Sarah in this performance?

I called my husband, Jameson, to discuss it, but he brushed off my concerns. "It's common for things to look similar. As for Sarah not performing, she was just in a mood and didn't want to go."

Later, I noticed that things mysteriously missing from our home often appeared with the dance teacher and her daughter. Something odd was definitely going on!

---

After wrapping up a shoot, I finally had time to check my family's messages. Jameson had left a note saying Sarah had been very well-behaved in her dance class and was asleep from exhaustion. Relieved, I opened Instagram to catch up on everyone else's lives. That's when I saw a post from Sarah's dance teacher. The girl highlighted with star effects wore an outfit that made me raise an eyebrow.

I immediately called Jameson to discuss it. He sounded groggy, his tone dismissive. "You're a star, so of course, you've got an eye for good stuff. But other people might just have similar taste. You can't corner the market on styles for our daughter."

He wasn't entirely off base, so I shifted gears. "Then why didn't Sarah perform? She'd been prepping for it for two weeks, after all."

Jameson's voice was tired and resigned. "Her moves weren't sharp enough. The teacher tried to help, but she threw a fit and insisted on leaving. If she stayed, she would've disrupted the other kids, so I had to bring her back. And Sarah said she doesn't like the clothes and shoes you got her. She asked you not to buy her anything next time."

I wanted to dig deeper, but my agent, Everett, came over to talk about the next day's schedule, so I had to end the call. After work, I reopened Instagram to find the dance teacher had deleted her post and set her profile to private.

Feeling more intrigued, I called her. "Chelsea, calling so late—what's up with Sarah's dance class? She's training hard, quite sharp, and very flexible."

I got straight to the point. "Gwen, there's something I want to ask you. In the ballet photo you posted, the girl in the center had a beautiful costume and shoes. Where did you get them? I'd like to buy a set for Sarah."

Gwen was evasive, saying the quality of both items wasn't great. "Aliya didn't like them at all. She just threw them away out of frustration," she said, adding that her daughter found them ugly and deleted the picture herself.

Who would buy such a flimsy excuse? Could the clothes and shoes have just appeared today without any prior fitting? If she truly disliked them, knowing kids these days, there's no way she'd wear them. Besides, Sarah mentioned the performance was at the Royal Opera House and would be on TV.

As the performance director, Gwen would have meticulously planned the event. Would she really let her own daughter wear a subpar outfit? Her story was full of holes.

After finishing up for the day, I opted not to return to the hotel arranged by the company. Instead, I instructed my agent, Everett, to reschedule all my commitments for the upcoming week. I then drove for four hours, crossing from one city to another, to get back home. The recent business trips had been exhausting, and I had been on the road for two consecutive months.

We've been married for seven years, and our daughter, Sarah, is already six. Thankfully, with Jameson at home looking after her full-time, I could focus on work without any worries.

It was 1 a.m. when I finally arrived home. As I entered, I heard noises from the kitchen and thought we might have an intruder. Grabbing a baseball bat, I cautiously approached the source of the sound, only to find Sarah there. Her hair was a mess, and she was sitting by the fridge, nibbling on a raw carrot stick.

I rushed to her, cradling her little face in my hands, feeling a pang of heartache. "Sarah, didn't you have enough to eat tonight? Why didn't you ask Daddy to fix you a snack?"

Just then, Jameson appeared behind me, his voice filled with surprise. "Chelsea, what are you doing home? I thought you had work tomorrow." He scooped Sarah up into his arms, gently stroking her hair. "The doctor mentioned her digestion's been a bit off lately. We were told to keep her evening meals light."

He planted a kiss on her cheek. "Right, sweetheart? We don't want Mommy worrying." Sarah looked a bit uneasy, her fingers twisting together. "Yes, I can't eat too much; it makes my tummy hurt," she murmured before quickly looking down, avoiding my eyes.

"See how she is," Jameson remarked, "after two months, she’s too shy to talk to you now. You settle her down for the night, and I’ll whip up a bowl of ravioli."

Taking Sarah into my arms, I noticed she felt much lighter, which made me sad. She had lost so much weight. I resolved to personally oversee her meals to ensure she regained her health.

When I laid her on the bed, she suddenly winced, sucking in a sharp breath, her brows furrowing in pain. I quickly lifted her nightdress and saw a patch of bruises on her back, my anger flaring instantly. "Jameson!" I called out, furious.

He hurried in, holding a ladle, concern etched on his face. "What happened?" he asked anxiously.

Pointing at Sarah's back, I demanded, "What are these bruises? I entrusted her to you, and this is what happens?"

My raised voice startled Sarah, and she began to cry, clutching my arm and stammering through her sobs. "Mommy, it's okay. Please don't be mad. It's my fault..."

I quickly embraced her, patting her back gently to comfort her. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Mommy didn’t mean to scare you. Don’t cry, Sarah..."

I then told Jameson to leave the room.

It took over half an hour to calm Sarah down and get her to sleep. I gently wiped away the tears from the corners of her eyes once she was settled.

Heading to the living room, ready to confront Jameson, I was surprised to find him kneeling on a wooden board, looking sheepish. He explained that the bruises were from dance practice and that he'd already taken her to the doctor for ointment, applying it as instructed.

"I didn't want to worry you and disrupt your work, so I didn't mention her injuries," he said. "From now on, I’ll ask the dance teacher to give her easier routines."

His sincerity tempered my anger.

At eight the next morning, the doorbell rang. As I got up to answer it, I glanced at Jameson, still deeply asleep from exhaustion, beside me.

To my surprise, the visitor was Gwen Spencer, Sarah's dance teacher. Her makeup was perfect, and her outfit was stylish and feminine, her neckline even caught my attention. Upon seeing me, she blurted out in surprise, "Chelsea, what are you doing here?"

Look at the way she talks; as if it's not quite normal for me, the lady of the house, to be here. I crossed my arms, feeling slightly taken aback. "Gwen, what brings you here so early in the morning?"

Perhaps sensing the tension in my voice, she replied with a sheepish grin, "Oh, I'm just here to pick up Sarah for her ballet practice. It's on my way to the studio."

My eyes caught a glimpse of her bag, which revealed a pink Hello Kitty bottle that looked exactly like the one I had brought back for Sarah from London.

"For an adult, you've got quite the playful spirit, Gwen."

She shifted her bag uneasily and glanced towards the door. "Chelsea, could you have Sarah come out? I've got more students to pick up today."

Thinking my daughter was probably still asleep, I gestured for Gwen to come in and wait. Just then, a loud alarm went off from the children’s room, and Sarah dashed out, fully dressed with her hair neatly done.

I stood in shock, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was only 8:10. She usually didn't get up until around 8:30. Since when did she become an early bird?

"Morning, Mom, morning, Miss Spencer."

Her young voice rang out, and I didn’t have time to ponder it. I quickly grabbed her little backpack and slipped it onto her shoulders. Then I rushed to the kitchen to grab some milk and a croissant, stuffing them into her bag as she headed out the door.

"Gwen, didn't you bring juice for me today?"

Sarah asked, looking up at Gwen with expectant eyes. Gwen, looking flustered, tugged her towards the elevator. "Uh... I was in such a rush this morning, I completely forgot. I'll bring it next time."

Her guilty expression didn't escape my notice. I quickly changed into something more presentable and discreetly followed Gwen to the dance studio in an old BMW I barely used.

Sarah was at the far end, preparing to change into her ballet outfit and shoes. I immediately spotted a problem!

Last month, for her birthday, I had given her a limited-edition silk dance outfit, which was quite an investment. But now, she had on something rough-textured and dull—a cheap imitation! As for her dance shoes, she winced as she held the stiff, uncomfortable pair, obviously hesitant to wear them.

When she removed her socks, I saw her toes were covered in blisters—red and inflamed!

Throughout practice, Gwen was relentless, treating my daughter harshly with verbal and even physical abuse. She kept swatting her on the back and even kicked her on the backside and thighs.

Barely containing my rage, I recorded five minutes of Gwen's mistreatment on my phone. Then I burst through the studio door, marched up to Gwen, and slapped her hard across the face, leaving her cheek instantly swollen with five distinct marks.

"Who are you? Why are you hitting my mom?" A young girl shouted, rushing over to shield Gwen.

And she was wearing the very dance outfit I had bought for Sarah!

I picked up my daughter, who was miserably curled up behind me, and glared at Gwen. "If you ever mess with my daughter again, you'll regret it!"