My Fiancé Sabotaged My Career to Crown His Lover

The world outside my window was a blur of rain-streaked gray, muffled by soundproof glass thick enough to hold back a hurricane. Or a scream. My days had dissolved into a sludge of chemical sleep and waking nightmares, the timeline punctured only by the hiss of the IV pump.

Somewhere below, a commotion shattered the sterile silence.

It was a raw, jagged sound—a voice raised in anger. I blinked, fighting the heavy velvet curtain draped over my mind. The shout echoed again, faint but distinct.

"...Melody! Let me... see her!"

The timbre vibrated in my chest. Warm. Familiar. It smelled like sawdust and old books. *Elio?*

I tried to push myself up, my elbows trembling against the mattress. "Elio," I rasped, the name tasting like ash.

The door to my suite hissed open. Nurse Ratched—I didn't know her real name, and her starch-stiff uniform didn't invite questions—bustled in. She didn't look at me. She went straight to the window and aggressively yanked the blinds shut, severing my connection to the outside world.

"Who is that?" I asked, my voice thin. "Is that Elio Myers?"

She turned, her expression a mask of pity that didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, honey, no. Security is dealing with him. Just another obsessed fan. You know how the paparazzi get when a star falls."

"But it sounded..."

"It sounded dangerous," she corrected, smoothing my sheets with force, effectively pinning me down. "Mr. Alexander gave strict orders. You aren't safe with anyone but us."

The doubt bloomed in my gut, but the sedative drip ticked faster, washing it away. Maybe she was right. My head was a broken kaleidoscope; I couldn't trust my own ears.

***

The afternoon session was not rehabilitation. It was an exorcism of my strength.

Dr. Holt strapped the electrodes to my calves. The cold gel made me flinch, but it was nothing compared to the dread coiling in my stomach.

"We need to stimulate the atrophied pathways," Holt murmured, his fingers hovering over the dial of the machine. "This will be uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable" was a lie. As he turned the knob, a white-hot current seized my legs. My muscles didn't contract; they spasmed, twisting violently against the bone.

"Stop!" I gasped, my back arching off the table. "It hurts! It’s tearing!"

"It’s necessary," Marcus said.

He sat in the corner armchair, legs crossed, looking every inch the concerned fiancé to an outsider. But he wasn't looking at my legs. He wasn't looking at my tear-streaked face. He was looking at his phone.

"Marcus, please!" I screamed as Holt cranked the dial higher. The pain wasn't healing; it was destructive. I knew my body. I knew the difference between the burn of a workout and the snap of injury. This was damage. "Make him stop!"

Marcus sighed, the sound sharp with irritation. He stood up and walked over, placing a hand on my shoulder. His grip was heavy, pushing me down rather than comforting me.

"You’re being dramatic, Melody," he said, his voice flat. "Dr. Holt is the best in the country. If you want to walk down the aisle, you’ll endure this."

Through the haze of agony, I looked up at him, searching for the man who had once held me while I cried over a sprained ankle. I found only a stranger in a bespoke suit. His other hand, the one not pinning me to the table, was still holding his phone.

The screen was tilted just enough. I saw the text bubble. A photo of a pair of pointe shoes. A heart emoji.

*Gabriella.*

"Focus," Marcus commanded, his eyes still on the screen as my muscles screamed. "Pain is weakness leaving the body."

***

The silence that woke me that night was different. It was crisp. Real.

I blinked into the darkness. The rhythmic hiss of the IV was gone. The bag was empty, the line dry. The night nurse must have missed the changeover. For the first time in weeks, the fog in my brain had lifted, leaving behind a terrifying clarity.

My legs throbbed—a dull, bruised ache from Holt's "therapy"—but I could feel them. I swung them over the edge of the bed. My feet hit the cold linoleum. My knees buckled, but I caught myself on the IV stand, knuckles turning white.

*Move. You have to move.*

I dragged myself toward the sliver of light beneath the door. Voices drifted from the hallway. Low, conspiratorial tones that carried in the dead of night.

"...getting suspicious. She’s fighting the dosage."

Dr. Holt.

"Then increase it," Marcus’s voice cut through the air, smooth and chillingly calm. "I don't pay you for excuses, Raymond."

I pressed my ear against the wood, my breath hitching.

"The muscle stimulation is damaging the tissue, Marcus," Holt whispered, a hint of professional nervousness leaking through. "If we continue at this voltage, the nerve damage will be irreversible. She won't dance again. She might not even walk without a brace."

My heart stopped. The world tilted on its axis.

There was a pause. The strike of a lighter. The smell of expensive tobacco filtered under the door.

"I don't need her to dance," Marcus said, his voice devoid of any warmth, any love, any humanity. "I need her here. Keep her in this bed until the season opener is over. Gabriella needs to cement her position as Prima before Melody can even stand."

I slid down the doorframe, my hand clamped over my mouth to stifle the sob that threatened to tear me apart. The cold floor seeped into my skin, but it was nothing compared to the ice spreading through my veins.

It wasn't an accident. It wasn't a recovery.

It was a sentence.