My Fiancé Sabotaged My Career to Crown His Lover

The rain against the windshield had a rhythm, a chaotic staccato that matched the nervous fluttering in my chest. *Piqué, arabesque, piqué.* I rehearsed the coda of the Black Swan variation in my mind, my fingers tapping the steering wheel of my sedan. Tomorrow was the audition. The role of Odile was within reach, the culmination of twenty years of bleeding toes and broken nails. I just needed to get home, ice my ankles, and sleep.

The traffic light ahead turned a violent red. I pressed the brake pedal.

It hit the floorboard with a sickening, hollow thud. No resistance. No friction. Just the terrifying weightlessness of a machine defying command. My breath hitched, trapped in a throat suddenly too tight.

"Come on," I whispered, stomping again. Nothing. The intersection rushed toward me, a blur of wet asphalt and blinding headlights. I yanked the wheel, tires screeching in a high-pitched wail that tore through the stormy night. The world tilted. Metal groaned, glass shattered into a thousand diamond shards, and then—silence.

***

The smell of antiseptic and copper woke me. My body felt like a map of bruises, a dull, throbbing ache radiating from my ribs. I pried my eyes open, greeted by the harsh, unforgiving glare of fluorescent ER lights.

"Melody! Oh, thank God."

My mother’s face hovered above me, pale and streaked with tears. But before her warm hand could reach my cheek, a shadow fell over the bed. The air shifted, cooling instantly. The scent of sandalwood and crisp, expensive starch filled the cramped cubicle.

Marcus.

He didn’t rush to my side. He stood at the foot of the gurney, flanked by two men in charcoal suits and a doctor I didn’t recognize. Marcus looked impeccable, not a hair out of place, his jaw set in that familiar line of absolute authority.

"She’s being moved," Marcus said. His voice wasn't a request; it was a verdict.

"She needs stability, Marcus, not a transfer!" My father’s voice cracked, a rare sound of defiance against the Alexander heir. "The doctors here said—"

"The doctors here are adequate for commoners, Warren," Marcus cut in, his gaze sliding over my father like he was a piece of furniture. He gestured to the man beside him. "Dr. Raymond Holt is the head of neurology at the Alexander Private Sanitarium. He has already signed the admission papers. My legal team has handled the liability waivers."

"Marcus..." I croaked, the word scraping my dry throat. I tried to reach for him, needing the reassurance of his touch, the warmth I had relied on for eight years. "My legs... can I..."

He didn't take my hand. He checked his watch—a Patek Philippe that cost more than my parents’ house. "It’s handled, Melody. Sleep."

***

The sanitarium was silent. Not the peaceful silence of a library, but the suffocating hush of a tomb. My room was a suite, luxurious and sterile, with a view of a gray, weeping sky.

Dr. Holt stood over me, adjusting the drip on my IV. His eyes were devoid of empathy, clinical and cold behind rimless glasses.

"The crash caused severe nerve compression in your lumbar spine, Ms. Rogers," Holt lied. I knew he was lying because I could wiggle my toes, could feel the sheets against my skin. But when I tried to sit up, a wave of dizziness slammed me back down. "Any movement could result in permanent paralysis."

"The audition," I gasped, fighting the fog in my brain. "I have to... tomorrow..."

"You have to survive," Marcus said from the doorway. He hadn’t sat down once since we arrived. He stood by the window, typing on his phone, his back to me.

"Marcus, please. I know my body. It’s not that bad."

He turned, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You are hysterical, Melody. Dr. Holt, administer the sedative. And the muscle relaxant. She needs to be immobile."

"No, wait—"

Holt injected a clear fluid into my IV port. Fire raced up my arm, followed immediately by a terrifying heaviness. My muscles turned to water. My tongue felt too thick for my mouth. The panic was there, screaming in my chest, but my body refused to answer.

"Focus on healing, not dancing," Marcus said flatly. He checked his watch again, a flicker of impatience crossing his features. "I have business to attend to."

He walked out without looking back, leaving me drowning in chemical lethargy.

***

Hours later, or maybe days, the door creaked open. The click of heels approached the bed.

"Oh, poor Melody."

Gabriella Fernandez stood there. She wore a red dress that clung to her curves like a second skin, her dark hair cascading in perfect waves. She didn't look sad. She looked... triumphant.

I tried to speak, but only a moan escaped.

"Shh, don't strain yourself," she purred, pulling a chair close. Too close. "I just wanted to see you. And to show you something."

She held up her phone. On the screen, a live stream played. It was the press conference for the ballet company. The Artistic Director was shaking hands with a woman.

It was Gabriella.

"Ladies and gentlemen, our new Prima Ballerina for the upcoming season, Ms. Gabriella Fernandez."

My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird. She was here, but she was there on the screen. The timeline blurred.

Gabriella leaned in, her lips brushing my ear. The smell of cloying rose perfume made my stomach churn. "You look so pathetic," she whispered, her voice a serrated blade wrapped in velvet. "Marcus hates weak things. That’s why he helped me get the spot. He cleared the path, Melody. He broke the swan so I could fly."

I squeezed my eyes shut, tears leaking out to dampen the pillow. *Hallucination,* I told myself. *It’s the drugs. Marcus loves me. He saved my grandfather. He wouldn’t... he couldn’t.*

But as the darkness dragged me under again, the image of Marcus checking his watch burned behind my eyelids, cold and precise as a scalpel.