Mocking. Tempting.

My eyes widened instantly. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

Mother really wanted him to decide my punishment?

“W-what? Him?” I blinked repeatedly. “You’re going to let him do it? You?”

I stared at her, still struggling to believe she would so easily allow Sebastien to decide my punishment. She never even gave Dad the chance to punish me before. She always called him weak and insisted she was the only person capable of straightening me out.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t hear what I just said.”

Sebastien didn’t budge. His long fingers remained wrapped around the coffee mug as he took another slow sip, his eyes fixed on mine. There was something challenging in that stare.

Mom stood up and grabbed a serviette, wiping her lips slowly.

“I’m giving him the honor of deciding your punishment as your new father.”

I tightened my grip around the fork, the metal pressing painfully into my palm unintentionally. My palm began to flush red because of it.

Sebastien lowered his mug steadily, his hand lingering over mine. I paused.

Why was he doing that?

He ignored my look, making my stomach rumble strangely. His fingers gently loosened mine from the fork.

“Hurting yourself won’t do you any good,” he whispered. “Relax your tension.”

The moment his fingers touched mine, the hairs on my skin rose instantly.

Why was I reacting like this?

I hated it.

Hated the way his touch lingered even after he pulled away. Hated how calm he looked sitting there, sipping coffee like he hadn’t turned my entire world upside down overnight.

Yet his eyes… his voice… even the way he touched me so carefully did something strange to me.

Something unfamiliar.

And that only made me angrier.

“Your punishment is still pending.”

Another warning look.

Instead of calming me down, it only made me angrier. I wasn’t going to let him punish me. Not after all the things Mom had fed me over the years. Not after she spent years reminding me that he was the reason everything between her and Dad fell apart.

Mom checked her wristwatch.

“It’s quarter to nine. Hurry up with that food,” she snapped sharply.

The pancakes suddenly tasted bland in my mouth, but I forced myself to keep eating.

Sebastien grabbed a newspaper and opened it slowly, reading through it in silence.

I frowned.

What was this? The nineties?

“Old habit,” he murmured after noticing the questionable look I gave him.

“There’s Punch News online. Who still reads newspapers in 2026?”

Mom suddenly slammed the tumbler onto the table, making me flinch slightly.

“Talk to him with respect, Dorothy.”

“I didn’t raise you to disrespect your elders.”

I badly wanted to protest. I had simply asked a question. Getting scolded for that in front of him only made me hate him more.

But there was no point.

Not because I couldn’t argue back.

Because nothing I said would ever matter to her anyway.

After I finished eating, I pushed the chair back softly and walked toward the door.

“Your eight hours of practice still stand,” he murmured calmly.

I stopped mid-step and turned around slowly. He didn’t look back at me. Instead, his hand flipped through each newspaper page with familiar ease.

“What?”

I thought my ears were deceiving me. Hearing that from his mouth sounded like an insult. I didn’t know why. It felt like every word from him carried some strange weight over me.

“Your eight hours still stand,” he repeated.

He flipped another page slowly, the sound of the newspaper lingering heavily in the air.

“Take that ointment with you.”

He pointed at the same tube he had used on my swollen ankle yesterday. And I hated to admit it, but it had reduced the swelling and pain, even though I could still feel it with every step I took.

“Use it before and after practice. Then when you get back,” this time he looked at me, “we’ll discuss your punishment for that careless act of yours.”

I threw him a glare before walking off.

How dare he?

He wasn’t my father.

The ride to the studio was painfully silent. It was the same car Sebastien had used to take me to the wedding yesterday.

“Why did he do that?” I gasped softly after realization suddenly hit me.

No husband-to-be would waste time picking someone up personally on his wedding day.

I dropped my phone onto my thighs and glanced toward the driver’s seat. It was Antonio, Mom’s driver, but Sebastien’s cologne still lingered inside the car.

Sebastien.

Why couldn’t I get him out of my head?

That man infuriated me. He refused to answer my questions, and Mom clearly never intended to answer them either.

“Miss, are you okay?”

My breath caught in my throat.

Were my thoughts that obvious?

“Yes…” I cleared my throat nervously. “Everything is fine. I apologize for the interruption.”

I couldn’t wait to get out of the car. That familiar sandalwood-musky scent clung to the air, sinking into my lungs. It wasn’t helping my temper at all.

Relief hit me the moment the familiar path toward the studio appeared. The sign, “BALLE-PALACE,” welcomed me warmly.

Without waiting for Antonio, I unbuckled my seatbelt and stepped out of the car. A weak pain shot through my ankle instantly.

I noticed other girls arriving too, some with their mothers walking them in.

One woman hugged her daughter gently, pressing a kiss to the top of her head while whispering something soft to her.

A bitter feeling settled in my chest as I stared at something I never really had… and probably never would.

My eyes began to sting.

I adjusted my backpack over my shoulders and started walking.

“Have a great day, miss,” Antonio called from behind.

I paused.

That alone nearly broke me.

A tear slipped down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away and waved without turning around.

I hated being like this in public.

Practice wasn’t easy either. Mrs. Ivanoski was brutally hard on me. I kept falling each time I attempted the grand jeté in my performance.

I practiced for four straight hours until I started wearing out.

“Teacher, please,” I panted, slumping to the floor.

Some ballerinas nearby laughed quietly while stretching.

“No time to whine, Dorothy,” Mrs. Ivanoski snapped. “On your feet now. Take position two.”

One girl murmured loudly enough for me to hear.

“Did you know her mother got married yesterday?”

“Oh my God, yes. Then she ran away because her mom has eyes for hot men.”

The others burst into laughter.

“She’s so spoiled. If my mom married a wealthy and hot Russian guy like Sebastien Dmitri, I’d eat him instead.”

My ears flushed in embarrassment.

Hearing them say weird things like that sent anger through me. I was used to people talking about my mother’s beauty and comparing us.

But hearing Uncle Sebastien’s name from their mouths made my stomach twist strangely.

“Snap out of your thoughts, Dorothy.”

Mrs. Ivanoski adjusted my shoulder position firmly.

“Focus, or you won’t leave here today.”

I tried my best to focus, but the ache in my ankle was becoming impossible to ignore.

“Teacher, can I at least get a break?” I winced. “Even if it’s just for a minute, please?”

“My ankle hurts.”

Mrs. Ivanoski rolled her eyes, but her expression softened slightly after noticing my swollen ankle.

“Fine.”

“I’ll give you ten minutes to rest.”

She walked toward the others before pausing.

“And ten minutes means ten minutes. Waste extra time, and you’ll spend extra time here.”

I nodded gratefully and rushed toward my water bottle, drinking like I hadn’t touched water in days.

The girls’ laughter reached my ears again.

One of them nudged her friend.

“Imagine living in the same house as Sebastien Dmitri…”

They all glanced at me before laughing together again.

I aggressively slammed my water bottle against the polished floor.

They startled instantly.

“Nose pokers,” I muttered before walking toward the other end of the studio.

…

It was already 5 p.m.

The mansion was silent. Only the sound of the giant grandfather clock ringing five times echoed through the house.

Finally.

I walked toward the kitchen, desperate for something cold to drink. The ache in my feet—especially my toes—was unbearable.

Mrs. Ivanoski had done a wonderful job torturing me. I was the last person to leave the studio simply because I spent an extra five minutes during break.

My fingers curled around the smart refrigerator handle as I opened it slowly.

I lowered my head, searching for something to drink, but my eyes landed on one thing.

Ice cream.

Strawberry flavor.

My breath seized instantly.

Was this some kind of dream?

Why was there ice cream in the fridge?

Mom had banned sweets, pastries, and desserts years ago, claiming they would ruin my weight and health.

She made sure I barely touched sugar.

The last time I ate ice cream was five years ago.

Strawberry flavor.

My favorite.

Dad bought it for me on my thirteenth birthday. Mom hated it, so I ended up eating it secretly while Dad covered for me.

But now it sat there, staring at me.

Mocking me.

Tempting me.

My mouth watered instantly.

Every nerve in my body screamed at me to touch it. To taste it.

Just one bite.

Just one lick.

And I listened.

I stretched my hand toward the bowl, my cheeks flushed with tension.

Thankfully, Mom wouldn’t be back until six.

And Uncle Sebastien?

I had no idea whether he was home or not.

“Dorothy.”

That deep voice resonated through me instantly.

I froze.

Panic surged through my chest.

I slowly turned toward him, hoping he didn’t notice my reaction. Hoping he didn’t see me reaching for the ice cream. Hoping he wouldn’t tell Mom.

“Uncle Sebastien, I—”

He stood against the doorway, his huge frame relaxed against it. His eyes were cold. His face unreadable.

My gaze dropped toward his veiny hands.

The bruises around his knuckles immediately caught my attention.

I slowly looked back at him.

For the first time since yesterday, something about Uncle Sebastien unsettled me.

“Come with me,” he said flatly before turning away. “Let’s discuss your punishment.”