Hanna Butler POV:
The shrill ringing of my phone startled me, pulling me from the shallow depths of a restless sleep. My head throbbed, a dull ache throbbing where Alexander' s ashtray had connected with my temple. I fumbled for the device, my eyes still heavy with exhaustion, and saw the ballet company' s number. My heart sank. Even now, with everything shattered, the dance still called.
I dragged myself out of bed, the silk scarf wrapped around my head feeling heavy and restrictive. I showered quickly, the warm water doing little to ease the tension coiling in my muscles. I dressed in my practice clothes, a second skin that usually brought comfort, but today felt like a uniform for battle.
When I arrived at the studio, the air was thick with anticipation, but not for me. Cassie Atkinson, Alexander' s latest obsession, stood center stage, basking in the glow of the spotlights. The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth. My stage. My world. Now, hers.
She caught my eye, a smug smile stretching across her face. "Took you long enough, Hanna. Some of us actually value punctuality." Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard, grating and artificial.
I ignored her, walking towards my usual spot at the barre, a silent protest against her audacity. But Cassie wasn't done. She stepped in front of me, blocking my path, her hand outstretched. "Actually, darling, that' s my spot now. Alexander said I need to be in the best position to… develop." She emphasized the last word, her gaze dropping to my still-bandaged temple.
A cold shiver ran down my spine. Alexander. He had done this. Placed her directly in my path, a constant, irritating reminder of his betrayal. He delighted in making me suffer, in watching me squirm under the weight of his favoritism.
I felt a surge of rage, hot and fierce, but I pushed it down. What good would it do? He would only defend her, make me look like the irrational, jealous wife. He would twist every reaction into proof of my instability.
Alexander walked in then, his suit impeccably tailored, his presence instantly dominating the room. My gaze instinctively went to him, a flicker of something-hope? habit?-ignoring the dark bruise on his arm where the ashtray had bounced off him before hitting me. He hadn't even flinched, not really. He saw me, and a faint sneer touched his lips.
Then his eyes, once so full of adoration for me, landed on Cassie. All the coldness vanished, replaced by an unsettling warmth. A warmth that used to be mine. He walked directly to her, placing a hand on her waist, his thumb stroking her skin. It was the same gesture he used to use on me, a possessive touch that now felt like a violation.
"Cassie, my dear, you look radiant," he murmured, his voice soft, almost tender. He didn't even acknowledge my presence. I felt like a ghost in my own life, an ethereal presence watching the destruction of my world.
Cassie giggled, leaning into his touch. "Alexander, you' re too kind." She threw a triumphant glance my way, a clear message: He' s mine now.
I stood there, a principal dancer in my own studio, feeling utterly superfluous. The other dancers, once my admiring colleagues, now avoided my gaze, their whispers a constant hum in the background.
"Hanna, darling, would you mind fetching me a towel?" Cassie called out, her voice dripping with an exaggerated sweetness. "My throat is a little dry."
I didn't move. She wanted to treat me like a servant, a bitter taste of her newfound power.
"Did you hear me, Hanna?" she pressed, her voice sharper now.
Before I could respond, a group of junior dancers huddled nearby, their voices barely muffled.
"Can you believe it? He' s basically giving her the company on a silver platter."
"I heard he' s even pulling strings for her to get the 'Rising Star' award next month. The one Hanna was practically guaranteed to win."
"It' s a shame, really. Hanna' s talent is unparalleled, but Cassie has… Alexander." A knowing chuckle followed.
My hands clenched at my sides. The shame was a burning inferno in my stomach. To be discussed, dissected, and ridiculed like this, in my own domain, by people I had nurtured. It was a humiliation far deeper than the award itself. Alexander wasn' t just taking my roles; he was systematically dismantling my reputation, my standing, my very identity.
The rehearsal ended, a blur of half-hearted movements and Cassie' s exaggerated preening. Alexander was a constant shadow, offering critiques and compliments only to her. He pulled her aside after the session, their heads bowed close together, his hand resting intimately on her back.
He caught my eye then, a triumphant gleam in his gaze. He straightened, pulling Cassie closer. "Hanna," he called out, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "Cassie has truly astounding talent. Such a natural performer. Don' t you agree?"
I looked at him, my face a mask of carefully constructed indifference. My heart was a stone, cold and heavy in my chest. "She certainly… has potential," I said, my voice flat, devoid of real emotion. I turned, walking towards the changing rooms. My legs felt like lead, each step a monumental effort.
Alexander frowned, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. He probably expected a dramatic outburst, a fit of jealous rage. But I had nothing left to give him. He liked his women passionate, volatile. I was just… empty.
Cassie, sensing his unease, quickly intervened. She tugged on his arm, her lower lip trembling slightly. "Alexander, darling, don' t be cross. Hanna' s probably just tired. You know, from her… injury." She cast a pointed glance at my bandaged head, a subtle jab that only Alexander would understand.
I heard his soft murmurs of reassurance to her, the way he stroked her hair, the intimate laughter that followed. It pierced through the thin walls of the changing room, a constant reminder of the life I was losing, the love that was never truly mine.
I quickly changed into my street clothes, my movements stiff and mechanical. The silence of the empty changing room was a welcome relief from the suffocating sounds of their affection. As I pulled on my coat, my phone vibrated with an unfamiliar number.
A text message. Anonymous.
My fingers, still slightly numb from the blow to my head, fumbled as I opened it. It contained a single audio file. My heart hammered against my ribs. A premonition, cold and sharp, seized me.
I pressed play.
A woman' s voice, thick with tears, filled the small space. It was Cassie. She was sobbing, desperately pleading. "Please, Alexander, you have to help him! Kyle… he got drunk again. He… he hurt someone. They' re looking for him! He' s going to jail! My career will be ruined!"
My blood ran cold. Kyle. Cassie' s brother. The same Kyle who had a reputation for violence, for being a spoiled, entitled brute. The voice continued, a chilling plea.
"It was just a girl, Alexander! A nobody! He didn' t mean to hurt her that badly. Just get him out of the country, please! I' ll do anything! Anything for you!"
Then, Alexander' s voice, calm, controlled, utterly devoid of emotion. "Cassie, darling, calm down. I' ll take care of it. No one will ever find Kyle. And your career, my dear, is just beginning."
My breath hitched. My hands began to shake uncontrollably. The date on the audio file, displayed prominently on my phone screen, screamed at me. It was two years ago. The exact day Grace had been brutally assaulted.
"It was just a girl," Cassie had said.
A cold, horrifying realization washed over me, chilling me to the bone. No. It couldn't be.
The blood drained from my face, leaving me feeling dizzy and sick. Kyle Pickett. Cassie Atkinson' s brother. He was Grace' s attacker. And Alexander… Alexander had known. He hadn' t sought justice. He had brokered a deal. He had helped a monster escape.
He hadn' t just protected Cassie. He had protected him. He had orchestrated the entire cover-up, while I, his wife, mourned my sister' s shattered life. He had held me, comforted me, promised me revenge, all while shielding the very man who had destroyed my family.
My mind reeled. The sickening truth hit me with the force of a physical blow. Alexander wasn' t just a cheating husband. He wasn' t just manipulative. He was depraved. A monster cloaked in charm and power. He had used my sister' s tragedy, her immense pain, as a bargaining chip, a tool to control me, to further his twisted games.
He hadn' t just betrayed me. He had betrayed Grace. And for that, there would be no forgiveness. There would only be retribution.
