"Three years, Elaine. One broken leg. A stray with no home, and you still haven't learned how to be a good, obedient dog?"
That voice, carved into my bones and haunting every single day of my life, slammed me right back into the present.
Dylan's grip on my wrist was brutal, sharp enough to make my eyes water, but I couldn't help it.
I smiled.
With my free hand, I tapped the cold, metallic surface of my prosthetic leg, which was concealed under my trousers. The sharp tapping sound cut through the quiet banquet hall, slicing through the air like a knife.
"Dylan," I said, my voice calm and even, "now that I think about it, I should thank you. The leg you destroyed back then? It's stronger now than your life."
Before he could even process my words, I swung my prosthetic into his shin with all the force I had.
A dull thud echoed through the room, followed by the sickening crack of bone.
Instantly, the color drained from his face. Dylan's expression turned to disbelief, and for a moment, the entire hall fell into an eerie silence.
Then the crowd went wild.
"Oh my God! Who is she? Is she crazy? She actually hit Dylan!" someone shouted.
The woman next to her leaned in, whispering loud enough for everyone to hear. "Wait… Miss Ridley just reminded me. I remember now! That scandal three years ago shook the whole city. Wasn't Mr. Hartman's ex-wife, the lead ballerina, supposed to have pushed someone out of a building because she was jealous that Miss Ridley was pregnant? And then Mr. Hartman broke her leg himself? Could this really be her?"
"Yeah, didn't she get kicked out of the Hartman estate after that?" another voice added. "She just… vanished, right?"
Instantly, Dylan staggered, his face pale and sweat dripping down his brow. He clung to the floor, barely keeping himself upright.
Meanwhile, Amara screamed, ignoring the pain in her fractured wrist. She rushed to Dylan's side, positioning herself in front of him like she was protecting him from some threat.
"Elaine, you're insane!" she shouted. "Dylan gave you everything—resources, opportunities! He raised you from nothing to lead the ballet company, and this is how you repay him?"
I didn't even glance in her direction. Instead, I kept my gaze locked on Dylan, whose face had darkened with fury.
"Dylan," I said, my voice thick with sarcasm, "you're still clueless—calling a squawking chicken a swan."