I looked down at the shattered remnants of my left leg, my heart sinking into despair. Years of sacrifice, pride and unwavering faith—all of it crumbled in an instant. My dream of becoming a dancer was gone. Completely and irreparably shattered.
As I lay there, sobbing and broken, Zayn hung up the video call and knelt beside me. He pulled me into his arms, his touch tender yet hollow. “Xandra,” he murmured, his voice heavy with guilt, “don’t hate me. Melinda saved my mother’s life—I couldn’t just stand by and let something happen to her.”
He cupped my face, his expression torn, “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “I’ll take responsibility for you for the rest of your life.”
Hatred surged through me like wildfire. Without thinking, I slapped him across the face. Hard, “Responsibility? What will you take responsibility for?” I spat, my voice shaking with rage.
My parents died when I was just a child, leaving me to be raised by my grandmother. She and I had been each other’s whole world. To afford my dance lessons, she worked tirelessly—cleaning tables at a restaurant by day and scavenging cardboard and bottles at night.