chapter 1

Grace White's POV:

The ballet studio's fluorescent lights hummed overhead as I peeled off my sweat-soaked leotard, every muscle in my body screaming from three hours of relentless practice.

My reflection in the mirror showed what I'd become—Grace White, the fallen swan, the criminal's daughter, the girl who'd traded Chanel for clearance-rack leggings.

The other dancers had already scattered, their designer gym bags swinging from manicured hands, leaving me alone with the ghosts of who I used to be.

I was stuffing my worn pointe shoes into my backpack when voices drifted through the half-open door, sharp and deliberately loud enough for me to hear.

"Did you see her grand jeté today? Pathetic. Honestly, I have no idea how she even made principal dancer."

Jessica Walker's nasal tone was unmistakable, followed by the cruel laughter of her sidekicks.

"Not nearly as good as you, Jess. At this rate, that position won't be hers much longer."

Jessica laughed, a sharp sound like breaking glass. "And look at those pointe shoes—completely shredded. How pathetic that she still wears them. What happened to the precious white swan princess?"

"I heard her dad's serving twenty years for fraud. Something about embezzling pension funds and running drugs out of his downtown penthouse."

That was Sophia Miller, my ex-roommate who'd requested a transfer the day news broke about my father's arrest.

"Honestly, I don't know how she still has the nerve to show her face here. If my father were a disgusting criminal, I'd have died of shame and dropped out already."

"Right? Like, some of us actually earned our spots here," Jessica added with a sneer. "Must be nice coasting on daddy's dirty money for twenty years."

My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag, but I kept my face carefully blank as I emerged from the changing room.

They wanted a reaction—tears, anger, anything to validate their narrative of my humiliation. Instead, I met their gazes with the same serene expression I'd perfected during countless society galas, back when the White name still meant something beyond tabloid fodder.

I said nothing, slipping past them toward the exit with my eyes fixed straight ahead.

"Wait." Jessica's hand shot out, blocking my path. Her lips curled into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "We need a favor."

"Not interested," I said flatly, moving forward without breaking stride.

I remembered that nothing good ever came from engaging with wolves who'd already tasted blood. Their voices were just noise—background static I'd learned to tune out.

"We heard you're pretty desperate for cash these days." Their voices drifted after me, unhurried and deliberate. "We can offer you a chance to make some money."

My feet stopped before my brain could override the impulse.

I turned slowly, finding Jessica's face split by a triumphant grin. She knew precisely which words would make me stop.

Money—something I'd once spent without a second thought on designer shoes and spa days—now meant everything. It meant my mother's medication, the overdue rent on our cramped attic apartment, the difference between eating and starving.

After federal agents had dragged my father away in handcuffs, our family had plunged into chaos—complete, suffocating chaos that left us all reeling and directionless.

The arrest had struck our family like lightning from a clear sky—sudden, devastating, incomprehensible.

My mother had collapsed that same night, her heart giving out under the weight of shame and terror, and now she lay in a hospital bed with machines keeping her alive while bills piled up like accusations.

My brother Noah had taken a leave of absence from school to work full-time, earning what little he could to keep us afloat, while I balanced my classes with multiple part-time jobs.

Every night I stared at my worn pointe shoes and wondered if I should give up ballet entirely—one less expense, one more shift I could pick up at the diner or the campus bookstore.

"So?" Jessica's voice cut through my thoughts like a blade. "Are you interested now?"

The question yanked me back to the present, to the studio that suddenly felt suffocating, to the three girls watching me with predatory anticipation.

I knew Jessica and her pack wouldn't hand over cash out of kindness. Whatever they wanted would humiliate me, degrade me, strip away another layer of the dignity I'd once worn like armor.

But dignity didn't pay for medical expenses or keep the lights on. In the face of survival, pride was a luxury I could no longer afford.

"What do you want?" The words tasted like ash in my mouth.

"The Ice Hockey Friendly starts in an hour," Sophia continued, examining her acrylic nails with studied disinterest. "Sebastian Thorne needs water delivered to the team bench. We're willing to pay... say, five hundred dollars?"

Five hundred dollars. The number hung in the air between us, obscene in its casualness. For me, drowning in debt and desperation, it was a fortune.

Delivering water to a hockey team shouldn't have been difficult at all, just a simple errand that would take fifteen minutes at most.

But I understood the real price immediately: no one wanted to be associated with me anymore, not since my father's arrest had turned our family name into a punchline.

This wasn't about the water. It was about watching me grovel, about seeing Grace White—former princess of St. Jude's social scene—reduced to an errand girl for their entertainment, enduring their mockery and contempt with a smile plastered on my face.

The smart move would have been to tell them to go to hell, to walk away with whatever dignity I had left. But dignity didn't pay medical bills. Dignity didn't keep my mother's heart monitor beeping.

So I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth and extended my hand.

"A thousand," I countered, my voice flat. "Half now, half after."