Who Decides?

Sebastien walked closer, his face as cold as ever, though I noticed a bit of warmth in his eyes. He leaned over and held my foot again.

I tried protesting once more, but a warning glance from him made me change my mind.

He inspected my ankle like it was a project, his touch contrasting sharply with his personality. His long fingers trailed gently around the swelling.

“Not as noticeable as before,” he murmured, bringing out the ointment. “Hold still.”

He instructed quietly and rubbed the ointment onto my swollen ankle. His touch wasn’t… the normal aid type. It was different in a way I didn’t understand.

His dark eyes pierced into mine.

This time, I didn’t see the Uncle Sebastien I once knew as my father’s friend. I saw a completely different man.

And the thought of him being my mother’s husband made my blood boil.

“Let go,” I whimpered softly, trying to pull my foot away from him. “Betrayer… fake…”

I muttered bitterly, “Fake friend. Marrying your own friend’s wife.”

“Ex-wife,” he corrected calmly.

I wasn’t satisfied. His cold indifference only made me angrier. I grabbed the bedsheet tightly.

I wanted to hear him apologize. I wanted him to explain why he did it.

But he wasn’t.

He didn’t even look sorry.

“You hated my mom,” I pointed out. “You were always against her whenever she tried talking to you around my father.”

“Now you married her.” I chuckled in disbelief. “Isn’t that ironic?”

He stared at me, his posture tall and perfect. No slouching.

He looked down at me intently, indirectly daring me to say more. Or less.

A strange heat crept beneath my cheeks.

“Say something,” I urged, fiddling with the bedsheet tighter. “Why? Do you think my father will be happy?”

“You sound like a child,” he said in a low, deeper tone. “Why don’t you call your father and ask him if he’s happy or not?”

A sharp pang hit my chest.

I hadn’t spoken to my father in four years. I hadn’t seen him either, or even spoken to him over the phone.

My mother deleted his number from her phone and only gifted me my own phone the moment I turned eighteen.

I remained dumbstruck. I couldn’t think of anything to say in defense.

His eyes glinted with satisfaction at my sudden defeat.

He turned and walked slowly toward the door, then paused.

“Maria is bringing you an herbal detox.”

“I don’t want dirty stuff running in your veins.”

Before I could protest or fully understand what he meant, he left.

“What’s with him?” I muttered, rubbing my aching ankle as the ointment’s cooling effect slowly settled in.

The door opened, and a short plump woman in uniform walked in with a soft smile on her face. In her hands was a porcelain bowl.

“I’m sorry to startle you, miss,” she said gently, standing beside me. “I’m Maria. I brought the detox Sir Dmitri asked for.”

I smiled politely in return.

“Do you want me to help you with this?” Maria asked carefully, holding the bowl like it could spill at any second.

“No, it’s fine.” I took the bowl from her with a polite smile. “I have hands.”

“Very true, miss.”

I stared at the bland liquid, my stomach rumbling in disgust.

“Is this bitter?”

Maria chuckled at my expression.

I hated medicine. Herbal mixtures, bland herbal tea… all of it. And I only ever took them when Mom forced me to while watching.

As I was about to bring the bowl to my lips, the door barged open, revealing my mother.

Maria straightened instantly, bowing her head.

“Madam…”

“Out.”

Mom pointed toward the door, her voice laced with anger and disgust.

Maria didn’t waste a second. She immediately left the room, leaving the two of us alone.

I sat straighter, the bowl resting on my thighs, my throat drying instantly.

Mom paced back and forth, her brown eyes fixed on me.

Neither of us dared break the uncomfortable silence.

Well, not until—

“Stand up.”

“Mom?” I questioned softly, glancing at my ankle.

She followed my gaze toward it but sneered instead.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Dorothy.”

“Stand up.”

I hurried to my feet, biting my lip against the sharp sting in my ankle.

She walked closer, her hands resting on my shoulders.

It wasn’t motherly. It wasn’t sympathy.

Her fingers dug into my skin instead.

“No slouching.”

I corrected my posture instantly, unable to meet her eyes. My hands trembled slightly as anxiety crept through me, wondering what she would do next.

She stepped back and stared at me from head to toe, the harsh expression still fixed on her face.

“Mother… I’m sorry… I didn’t—”

I couldn’t finish my sentence before she struck me hard across the face, sending me to the floor.

My ears rang.

The room spun around me.

My eyes blurred with unshed tears as I touched my cheek, still burning from the slap.

“You apologize over every silly mistake, Dorothy!” she yelled. “Do you know what I had to do to clean up your stupid mistake?”

I cowered in pain, physically and emotionally.

I tried standing, but I couldn’t.

“Stand up when I’m talking to you.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Stop making me hurt you.”

I forced myself back onto my feet, rubbing my cheek and swallowing back the tears threatening to fall.

She hated tears.

She hated seeing any sign of weakness on my face.

“My own daughter?” she scoffed emotionally. “Smoking outside with a stranger?”

“Dorothy, have you gone insane?”

I shook my head, my bottom lip trembling as I tried explaining myself.

But I couldn’t.

Instead, I lowered my head, holding my burning cheek.

If my father had been here and saw this, he would have fought with Mom for hitting me.

“The guests,” she continued, turning her back toward me, “they were talking. They were laughing. My daughter running away from my wedding when she was supposed to be there proving how happy she was for me.”

She turned around suddenly and grabbed my chin aggressively.

“Yet you ran away and smoked trash with a street rat?”

I shook my head again, silently begging her to at least ask why I did it.

“Stop with your self-pity. I don’t like it,” she hushed, brushing her thumb roughly against my chin. “I had to convince the reporters that you stepped out because something urgent came up and you were just overwhelmed with happiness that I got married again.”

Mom withdrew her hand from my chin. The slight vulnerability in her eyes vanished instantly.

“I always wanted the best for you. I want people to adore us. Adore you. Adore me for being perfect. I want people to look up to you the same way they look up to me.”

I sniffled softly, my chest aching at her words.

I had always loved people admiring Mom. Admiring me because I was her daughter.

I never wanted to fail anyone. Never wanted to disgrace myself over something reckless.

“I… didn’t mean it, Mom,” I whispered apologetically.

She dismissed it with a tiny wave of her hand.

“Everything I’m doing is for your own good. I don’t want failure. I don’t want shame. I’ve gone too far to bring us where we are.”

She turned toward the door, her heels echoing through the silence.

“I’ll discuss your punishment later with your stepfather. From now on, I don’t care if your ankle is swollen. You’ll go to that studio and practice eight hours every single day. And when you’re done, you’ll perform for me and your stepfather.”

My eyes widened in disbelief.

How could I do that with my ankle still hurting? Dancing more without breaks would only worsen it.

She sensed the silent argument in my head and smiled coldly.

“In our family, pain is a drive to do more. Prove to me that you won’t drag my name through the mud. Make people adore you instead.”

She walked out, then paused at the door.

“Your punishment will be discussed tomorrow at breakfast. For now, you’ll remain in this room. Your food will be brought to you.”

The door slammed shut after her.

I finally released the deep breath I had been holding in.

My hands shook, the sting on my cheek mocking my earlier stupidity.

And then the dam finally broke.

“Wh… why?”

I whimpered, collapsing onto the floor and hugging my knees to my chest as the tears I had tried so hard to hold back finally spilled freely.

The pain in my ankle still lingered, but it didn’t compare to the ache deep inside my chest.

Throughout the night, I remained alone, locked in the room with my phone and gadgets confiscated.

I lay on the bed staring at the window while everything replayed over and over in my mind.

Would I really be going through this if my father had taken me with him?

I doubt it.

“Miss, you haven’t touched your food,” Maria muttered softly as she unlocked the door and walked in.

I slowly shook my head. My appetite was gone.

“Should I tell Madam you didn’t eat?”

I turned toward her, revealing my flushed face.

She froze for a moment, speechless, then nodded in understanding.

Without another word, she left me alone in the cold room again.

It looked beautiful, but it lacked everything I wanted.

Comfort. Familiarity.

And all it did was remind me of my mistake.

…

Breakfast wasn’t any better.

I was already dressed in my ballet wear, adjusting my slippers as I made my way downstairs.

Mom sat at the table staring at her phone with a fork in her other hand.

“Good morning,” she greeted flatly, her eyes never leaving the screen.

“Morning,” I replied without enthusiasm, sitting down without waiting for her permission.

My head pounded from yesterday’s emotional exhaustion.

She cleared her throat and tilted her phone slightly to look at me.

“Good.”

“You’re impressive at applying light makeup to hide the smudges under your eyes,” she commented casually. “I instructed the chef to prepare your favorite.”

My eyes instantly lit up.

I only got my favorite food whenever I did something good or made her proud.

But after yesterday… why would she suddenly do this? I parted my lips in excitement.

Omelets and pancakes were my favorite breakfast. Dad used to make them for me every morning before Mom stopped him, claiming they would make me fat.

“Eggs with truffle,” she continued with a small smile.

The excitement in my eyes dimmed immediately. That wasn’t my favorite. I hated truffle eggs. They tasted weird, but she loved it. All I had to do was agree, giving no energy in argue with her.

She didn’t even know my actual favorite.

That disappointed me more than it should have. But what did I expect?

“Sebastien is quite busy with some things,” she added slowly. “He’ll join us soon.”

Whatever.

I didn’t care whether he joined us or not. He contributed to this whole mess. I tapped my foot impatiently against the marble floor. All I wanted was to eat and leave.

“Sorry for the delay, Madam,” a chef said as he pushed in a food trolley, every dish covered elegantly. “I also made Sir Dmitri’s coffee. Strong, just as he likes it.”

Chef Klein smiled politely, but Mom’s glare immediately made him straighten himself. He placed the dishes neatly on the table, setting a jug of orange juice beside me and a bottle of wine beside Mom.

“Eat.”

Mom ordered sharply without touching her own food. I slowly lifted the lid from my plate. The aroma hit me instantly, making my mouth water.

“No way…” I gasped, grabbing my knife and fork, completely forgetting the table etiquette I had been forced to learn.

“Klein,” Mom snapped, her eyes widening. “Take that away. How could you bring that?”

Chef Klein looked confused, his gaze shifting between me, Mom, and finally the food.

“Is there something wrong with the food, ma’am?”

“Everything is wrong,” she snapped, pushing her plate toward him. “This food is unhealthy for Dorothy. I asked for truffle eggs and spiced broccoli. Why did you serve omelets and pancakes?”

“Oh, ma’am…” he stuttered nervously, removing his hat to fan himself. “It wasn’t my order. It was Sir Dmitri’s order. He mentioned it was one of his favorites and didn’t specify whether it was only for him or…”

He glanced awkwardly at me before looking back at Mom.

“I can’t take it away.”

Mom’s face reddened with anger and something darker. She stood up, smoothing down her designer dress before snapping again.

“Throw this away. You can leave Sebastien’s here. Dorothy doesn’t need unhealthy food.”

I wanted to interrupt, but I was too exhausted for another argument.

All I wanted was to eat and get to the studio. But Mom wasn’t sparing even the poor chef, who was already sweating profusely.

“But I can’t, ma’am. We don’t throw prepared food away,” he replied weakly.

“Says who?” she growled, biting the inside of her cheek. “I decide Dorothy’s diet.”

Before she could continue, heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. A scent of cashmere, sandalwood, and something expensive filled the air.

“All food served should be eaten,” a deep voice interrupted from the hallway.

“I don’t tolerate waste.”