He Broke My Wings, Now He Begs on His Knees

In the dim VIP massage room, I dragged my crippled right leg. Once a prima ballerina, I was now reduced to massaging clients just to survive.

Until I realized the man lying on the table was my so-called "penniless" boyfriend.

Right now, he was laughing and bragging to a friend. He had paid a top surgeon $300,000 to intentionally sever my Achilles tendon. As long as I remained a cripple, the national ballet championship would safely belong to his mistress.

For two whole years, he faked bankruptcy and crushing debt.

I gave up on my medical treatments and my ballet dreams, working two grueling jobs day and night just to support him.

But all of my suffering... was just to clear the obstacles for his lover.

My hands froze mid-air.

He had no idea that the disabled masseuse standing behind him in a mask was me.

That very night, I packed my only bag and boarded a red-eye flight out of the country.

Two years later. The International Ballet Finals.

The blinding spotlight hit the stage. I stepped out in my Black Swan tutu, letting the horrific surgical scars on my right leg be exposed to an audience of thousands.

As the heavy bass dropped, I leaped with absolute power, executed a flawless rapid pirouette, and landed perfectly.

In the VIP front row, my ex-boyfriend—who had long dropped his fake poverty to inherit his family’s billionaire empire—stumbled, knocking over his chair in absolute shock.

The moment the competition ended, he tore through the security line like a madman.

He fell to his knees at the edge of the stage. With bloodshot eyes, he reached out with a trembling hand, trying to touch my ankle.

"I'm so sorry... please, come home with me..."

————

In the dim massage room, I—once a prima ballerina—was forced to drag my crippled right leg as I massaged a client.

To my shock, I discovered that the VIP lying on the table was none other than my allegedly destitute boyfriend.

Right now, he was smugly boasting to a friend about how he had paid a surgeon $300,000 to purposely sever my Achilles tendon. As long as I remained a cripple, he laughed, the ballet championship would undoubtedly go to his mistress.

For the past two years, he had faked being absolutely broke and drowning in debt.

I had to give up my medical treatments and my ballet dreams, working two exhausting jobs just to support him.

Yet, all of my sacrifices were just to clear the path for the other woman.

My hands froze mid-air.

He had no idea that the crippled masseuse standing right behind him, hidden by a surgical mask, was me.

That night, I packed my only duffel bag and boarded a red-eye flight out of the country.

Two years later, at the International Ballet Finals.

The spotlight hit. I walked onto the stage in my Black Swan tutu, letting the raw surgical scar on my right leg be completely exposed to an audience of thousands.

On the heavy downbeat, I jumped with everything I had, spun flawlessly, and landed steady as a rock.

In the front row, my ex-boyfriend—who had finally taken over his billionaire family empire—knocked over his chair in shock.

The second the competition ended, he tore through the security guards like a madman. He dropped to his knees at the bottom of the stage steps, eyes bloodshot, reaching desperately for my ankle. "I'm so sorry... please, come home with me..."

The lighting in the spa’s VIP room was dim, the humidifier quietly spewing a steady mist into the air.

Wearing a surgical mask, I stood beside the massage table.

Due to the dull ache throbbing from my right ankle, I had to shift my entire body weight onto my sound left leg.

I rubbed the massage oil between my palms to warm it up, then pressed down firmly along the tense muscles of the man’s neck and shoulders.

"Did the doctor handle it cleanly? Aria didn't get suspicious, did she?" the man on the adjacent table asked casually.

The man lying under my hands idly shifted his shoulders, settling into a more relaxed position.

"Three hundred thousand dollars in hush money is more than enough for him to smooth out the medical records," his tone was entirely unruffled. "Even if something did go wrong, he’d be the first one to go down. After all, he was the one who intentionally severed Aria's Achilles tendon on the operating table."

My fingers froze.

It felt as if a bucket of ice water had been poured directly over my head. A harsh ringing erupted in my ears.

I stood there paralyzed, my stomach cramping uncontrollably.

It was Julian’s voice.

And the Aria they were talking about was me.

I thought he was supposed to be washing dishes at a run-down fast-food diner in Brooklyn right now.

Just this morning before he left, wearing a faded collared shirt, he had gently told me to rest more if my leg was hurting.

Neither he nor his friend knew that the masked masseuse standing right here in this room was me.

I bit down hard on my jaw, forcing myself to continue pressing down along his spine.

Half a year ago, a metal lighting rig fell from the ceiling of the theater's rehearsal room, crushing my right ankle.

To pay for my astronomical medical bills, he not only drained his savings but also took out a high-interest loan.

Tragically, my foot couldn't be saved.

The doctor had signed the diagnosis right in front of me, telling me that there was permanent damage to my right leg. He said I would walk with a limp for the rest of my life and would never be able to return to the stage.

After I was discharged, that exorbitant loan suffocated us.

I didn't abandon Julian.

I took off my ballet shoes and started working two jobs a day to help him pay it off.

During the day, I waited tables at a cheap diner, standing on my feet for eight hours straight; at night, I dragged my crippled right leg to this spa to work as a masseuse.

I gave him every penny I earned to pay off his debts, truly believing he was the only person in the world who would still accept me.

"To be honest, Aria's talent is incredibly rare."

The friend on the adjacent table shifted.

"But Chloe's competition is already over. Can't Aria stop taking those pills now? If she keeps taking them, she might end up completely paralyzed."

My fingers stopped tracing the edge of Julian's shoulder blade.

Every single night over the past six months, no matter how late I got off work, Julian would give me two pills.

He told me they were special neural painkillers he had pulled strings to get, meant to ease the agony in my damaged leg.

Every time I took them, a persistent numbness and weakness would spread through my calf.

Whenever that happened, he would hold my leg, massaging it while blaming himself for being utterly useless.

Only now did I realize those weren't painkillers at all.

They served only one purpose—to make my leg continuously deteriorate.

"She can't stop."

Julian’s voice drifted up through the face cradle of the massage table, completely devoid of emotion.

"What if her leg gets better? I can't take that risk. For the longest time, as long as she was around, Chloe was always the understudy. Do you know how many times Chloe cried over that? Aria stole so many roles from her; it’s about time she paid the price. It's what she owes Chloe anyway. Besides, Aria is with me now. She has food, water, and a roof over her head. She should be content with that."

My hands shook uncontrollably. The bottle of essential oil slipped.

More than half the bottle spilled directly onto Julian’s bare back and the sheets.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Julian raised his head sharply, his voice raised in anger.

Because the room was so dark, and with my face half-covered by the mask, all he saw was the silhouette of a woman in a uniform.

A female colleague standing nearby heard the commotion and immediately rushed over with a dry towel.

As she wiped the oil from his back, she bowed and apologized profusely: "Sir, I am so sorry. She's new here, and she has a problem with her leg, so she can't stand very steadily. Please forgive her."

Hearing that I had a "problem with my leg," Julian grabbed a towel to cover his shoulders, his brow furrowing deeply.

He shot a glance at my right leg, which couldn't quite straighten, and undisguised disgust washed over his face.

In the six months we had lived together in that basement, he had never once looked at me like that when watching me limp around.

"Does this spa just hire anyone now?"

His tone was dripping with impatience.

"I can't stand looking at pathetic cases like her. It's bad luck. Get someone else in here immediately."

My colleague kept nodding and apologizing.

I stood by the bed, staring at his profile as he turned his head away.

Slowly, I picked up the oil bottle and wiped the spilled oil off the floor.

From beginning to end, I didn't make a single sound.

Then, I turned around in silence and walked toward the door.

Limping, I pushed it open and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway.