Then, with deliberate cruelty, he turned his phone’s camera toward me. Two bodyguards pinned me down, their grip unrelenting. I thrashed in vain, my voice breaking as I cried out in terror. Zayn strode toward me, each step heavier than the last.
“Zayn!” I screamed. “Dancing is my life—it’s everything I’ve worked for! It’s the dream my grandmother believed in. If you break my leg, I’ll never be able to dance again!”
Tears welled up in his eyes, but his face remained cold and resolute.
“Xandra, don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “It’ll only hurt for a moment.”
Then, as if to justify the unforgivable, he added, “Forgive me. Even if you can’t dance anymore, you’ll still have me. But if Melinda loses, she’ll have nothing…”
Ignoring my desperate pleas, he raised the club high. And then—
CRACK.
“AHHH!”
My scream echoed through the empty backstage, raw and filled with agony. Bone-deep pain engulfed me, consuming every fiber of my being. I collapsed to the ground, helpless and trembling, as my bloodied leg twisted unnaturally beneath me.