Being Forced To Wear The Broken Ballet Shoes

"Olivia, the Wentworth family has no use for a pathetic excuse-maker like you."

My stepbrother, Dorian, watched with dead eyes as I tumbled down the second-floor stairs.

The agonizing pain of my shattered legs sent cold sweat pouring down my body.

"Dorian... save me..." I reached out to him in complete despair.

He just frowned in disgust, turned his back, and shut the door.

From inside, I could hear Mia's smug giggles.

Three days later, Mia stole my name and triumphantly took my guaranteed admission spot at Juilliard.

As for me, Dorian told the public I had "committed suicide from a mental breakdown after failing the audition."

In excruciating pain and sheer hopelessness, I took my last breath.

When I opened my eyes again, I shot up from the sofa.

I was reborn.

Back to exactly three days before the tragedy struck.

——

Six years ago, my mom brought me to live at Wentworth Manor.

All this time, I played the obedient girl, desperately trying to win my stepbrother's affection.

Then Mia, a ballerina Dorian sponsored, moved into our home.

She constantly used New York's thunderstorms as an excuse, knocking on Dorian's door looking utterly pathetic.

She even volunteered to "tutor" the isolated stepdaughter—me—in ballet.

I never told a single soul about my secret crush on Dorian.

But Mia saw right through me from day one.

Every word out of her mouth was a veiled insult, hinting that I didn't deserve the Wentworth name and mocking my taboo feelings.

Dorian spoiled her rotten and took her side without hesitation.

I spent three sleepless months writing out my solo choreography, only for Mia to "accidentally" spill coffee all over it.

Dorian just brushed it off coldly: "She didn't mean it. Just rewrite it, why are you making such a big deal out of it?"

When my ankle was swollen and red, Mia used the excuse of "practicing together" to force me into doing endless grand jetés.

When I collapsed on the floor in agony, Dorian looked at me with pure impatience: "If you can't even handle this little bit of pain, just quit the troupe."

To please him, to maintain the family's perfect image, I always gritted my teeth and endured it.

I kept lying to myself that Dorian just pitied her.

An old-money heir like him, with class hierarchy carved into his bones, would never touch a girl from the slums.

Until that rainy night.

I watched with my own eyes as Mia, wearing nothing but a silk nightgown, walked right into Dorian's bedroom.

Dorian glanced up and saw me standing in the hallway.

His expression didn't even flicker as he calmly ordered: "Olivia, shut the door."

My entire world fell apart that night.

The next day, I noticed something wrong in the dance studio.

My custom pointe shoes for the Juilliard finals had their shanks sawn in half, with crushed glass hidden in the toe boxes.

I took those ruined shoes straight to Dorian for help.

But he rejected me with absolute coldness.

"Mia is right. You always find excuses to back out."

"The Juilliard finals are in three days. If you mess up because of nerves, the Wentworth family can't afford the humiliation."

His words stabbed into my heart like a knife.

But the truth was, I had already secured a guaranteed spot at Juilliard.

I just held back my excitement and kept it a secret so I wouldn't trigger Mia.

That night, I packed my bags to move out of the manor.

At midnight, my bedroom door was kicked open.

Mia and my male dance partner, Arthur, dragged me out by force.

Mia forced my feet into those sabotaged, blood-stained pointe shoes and made me do pirouettes on the second-floor landing.

I fought back desperately, but the shoe soles snapped instantly.

I lost my balance and plummeted hard down the stairs.

The sheer agony of my legs shattering hit me.

When I looked up, I saw Dorian standing on the second-floor balcony, watching coldly.

"Dorian... save me..." I reached out my blood-soaked hand to him.

Dorian turned his back without an ounce of mercy and shut the door.

I bled out in excruciating pain and absolute despair.

For three months after my death, my soul refused to leave, wandering around the Lincoln Center.

I saw Mia wearing a pristine white tutu, soaking up the applause that was supposed to be mine.

Under the spotlight, Dorian gently kissed Mia on the forehead.

That's when I realized everything had been Dorian's scheme all along.

He even told the press I had "suffered a mental breakdown and committed suicide because I couldn't handle being a cripple."

This time, I'm going to make them pay back every ounce of pain they inflicted on me, a thousand times over.

"Olivia, drop the victim act. There's an ice pack in the fridge, go apply it yourself."

"Mia is willing to waste her time practicing basics with you, you should learn to be grateful."

It finally hit me—I was back to three days before the final audition.

Tonight was the night they would force me into those broken shoes and shatter my legs!

Dorian was half-kneeling by the sofa, gently massaging Mia's ankle.

All just because Mia had whined about her feet aching from practicing relevés.

But in my past life, on the very night my legs were shattered...

Dorian delayed everything because Mia claimed the smell of blood made her dizzy, so he had to go comfort her in her room first.

He dragged out calling an ambulance for so long that I bled to death on that freezing floor.

Listening to his hypocritical charity now, I lowered my eyes and let out a cold smirk.

"Dorian, I'm meeting Arthur at the theater to run through our routine."

I took a deep breath and stood up straight.

"I'm not coming back tonight."

Good thing I had already sent Arthur my live location.

Dorian glanced up, his dark eyes sinking as he instantly shot me down.

"You're not going anywhere tonight. You and Mia can stay here and discuss audition techniques."

Mia walked over, playing the sweet, considerate girl.

Holding a brand-new pair of pointe shoes in her hands, she gripped my shoulders hard.

"Exactly, Olivia. Stop being so stubborn."

"Dorian gave me a brand-new life, so the least I can do is share his burdens."

She smiled so sweetly, but her eyes glinted with the venom of a viper.

"Let me personally teach you how to get up on pointe perfectly."

I stared right into her eyes, my heart filled with nothing but endless mockery.

Share his burdens?

Since when does crawling into Dorian's bed count as sharing a burden?

Or did she mean using those broken shoes to crush my bones, just so she could logically steal my Juilliard admission?