The Fiancé's Treachery: A Dancer's Vengeance

My brother, Douglas, and my fiancé, Connor, were the two people in the world I trusted most.

And they were the ones who destroyed my life. They hired thugs to attack me, leaving me paralyzed from the waist down and ending my career as a Broadway dancer.

In the hospital, I overheard them confess it was all for my jealous cousin, Isla.

When their guilt became too much, they orchestrated a public scandal to ruin my name, turning me from a tragic victim into a freak.

Finally, they left me to die in a yacht explosion, choosing to save Isla instead of me.

I was their family's princess, but they sacrificed me on the altar of their pity for a manipulative liar.

But a mysterious benefactor offered me a deal: a new, perfect body and the power to destroy them all. Now, I've returned, pretending to be a long-lost twin with amnesia. They think they've been given a second chance. They have no idea I'm here to collect a debt.

Chapter 1

April Thomas POV:

My brother, Douglas, and my fiancé, Connor, were the two people in the world I trusted most. And they were the ones who destroyed my life.

The alley reeked of stale beer and desperation. A fist, hard and unforgiving, connected with my spine. The world fractured into a kaleidoscope of pain and blinding white light. Then, nothing.

I woke to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the rhythmic beeping of machines that were now the soundtrack to my existence. The first thing I registered was the dead weight where my legs should be. Two lifeless appendages, no longer the powerful, graceful instruments that had earned me a scholarship to Juilliard and a spot on Broadway, but just... meat.

My legs were paralyzed. From the waist down. Forever.

The doctor, a man with tired eyes and a voice devoid of hope, had delivered the news with practiced apathy. Spinal cord injury. Permanent. He didn't stop there. The blow to my head had severed a nerve. My left ear was a hollow shell, filled with a constant, high-pitched ringing. Deafness. Permanent. And then the final indignity, the one that made my soul curl up and want to die: a catheter. A plastic tube and a bag that would be my constant, humiliating companion for the rest of my life.

My career, my life, my very identity as April Thomas, the dancer, was over. Shattered in a dark alley during a "mugging" gone wrong.

"I'll kill them," Douglas had roared, his face a mask of thunderous rage when he first saw me. He slammed his fist against the wall, his knuckles splitting open. "Whoever did this, April, I swear to you, I will find them and I will make them pay."

Connor was gentler. He sat by my bedside for hours, his hand wrapped around mine, his handsome face etched with a pain that mirrored my own. He whispered promises of a future, a different one, but a future nonetheless. He would take care of me. He would always love me. His devotion was a tiny, flickering flame in the vast, suffocating darkness of my new reality.

It was that flame of trust that made the truth, when it came, feel like being doused in gasoline and set alight.

It was late. The hospital was quiet, the only sounds the hum of the ventilator and the soft patter of rain against the window. I pretended to be asleep, the exhaustion too profound for real rest. Douglas and Connor were in the hallway, their voices low, hushed whispers I shouldn't have been able to hear. But my one good ear, now hyper-sensitive, caught every single, damning word.

"We have to be more careful," Connor murmured, his voice tight with anxiety. "She's not stupid, Douglas. What if she puts it together?"

"She won't," Douglas replied, his tone dismissive, confident. "She thinks it was a random mugging. The police have no leads. We're in the clear."

A cold dread, slick and oily, began to seep into my veins. I held my breath, my heart a frantic bird beating against my ribs.

"In the clear?" Connor's voice cracked. "Look at her! We were just supposed to scare her, make her miss the audition. Not... this. Her legs, Douglas. Her ear... God, the catheter..." He choked on the word.

The world stopped. The beeping of the heart monitor, my own heartbeat, the rain-it all faded into a deafening silence.

"It was an accident," Douglas said, his voice hard, impatient. "The guys we hired got carried away. It's not our fault."

Not our fault. The words echoed in the cavern of my skull.

"But it is our fault!" Connor insisted, his voice rising. "We arranged it. We paid them. For what? So Isla could get the part?"

Isla.

My cousin. Sweet, fragile, unassuming Isla Dickson. The orphan our family had taken in, the girl who lived in my shadow, always looking up at me with wide, admiring eyes.

"Isla deserved a chance," Douglas's voice was low, laced with a twisted sort of righteousness. "You know she did. April has had everything her whole life. The money, the lessons, the opportunities. One little setback wouldn't have killed her. It was supposed to be a broken arm, a sprained ankle. Enough to make her miss the audition, that's all. How were we to know they'd be so violent?"

My mind reeled. The pieces of a puzzle I never knew existed began to slam into place. The sudden, anonymous "threats" I'd received before the audition. Douglas's insistence that I take a different, darker route home from the studio that night for "safety." Their faces, a perfect blend of shock and horror, when they'd found me in the hospital.

It was all an act. A beautifully orchestrated performance.

"And what about us?" Connor's voice was barely a whisper now, thick with a self-pity that made my stomach turn. "I love her, Douglas. I was going to marry her."

"And you still can," Douglas said smoothly. "But our loyalty, Connor, has always been to each other first. You're my brother, not hers. We did this for Isla. For our family."

The breath I was holding escaped in a silent, ragged gasp. My vision swam. The two men I loved more than life itself. My protective older brother, who had taught me to ride a bike and promised to punch any boy who broke my heart. My devoted fiancé, who had been my first love, my partner, my future.

They had served me up on a platter. Sacrificed me. For Isla.

I tried to scream, to rage, to claw my way out of the bed and confront them. But no sound came out. My throat was a knot of grief and betrayal, so tight it choked me. My body, a prison of flesh and bone, refused to obey.

All I could do was lie there, shaking, as the icy water of their confession washed over me, extinguishing the last embers of hope.

I remembered them telling me I was the Thomas family's princess, a flower grown in a greenhouse, too delicate and naive for the real world. They had sworn to protect me from everything.

I just never imagined they were the ones I needed protection from.

Isla arrived at our house when I was fourteen, a waif with tear-filled eyes, clutching a worn teddy bear. Her parents, my aunt and uncle, had died in a car crash. My heart had broken for her. I gave her my clothes, my room, my friendship. I treated her like the sister I'd never had.

But little things started to happen. A priceless vase "accidentally" knocked over, with Isla tearfully taking the blame while subtly implying I had distracted her. My dance shoes mysteriously vanishing right before a competition, only to be found in the trash, with Isla suggesting a jealous rival was to blame. My diary, filled with teenage angst, left open on the living room table for my parents to read, with Isla claiming she found it that way and was trying to "protect my privacy."

Each time, Douglas and Connor would rush to her side. "She's been through so much, April," they'd say. "Be a little more understanding." "Don't be so hard on her, she's fragile."

I started to doubt myself. Was I too selfish? Too privileged? I tried harder. I gave more. When Isla showed a passing interest in dance, I spent hours coaching her, sharing the secrets I had bled for. But her talent was mediocre, her spirit lacking. Yet, she started getting opportunities that should have been mine. A solo part I was perfect for was given to her, with the director vaguely mentioning the need to "give others a chance."

I thought I was going crazy. I thought I wasn't good enough.

Now, lying in this hospital bed, the truth was a blinding, agonizing light. It wasn't me. It was never me. My talent wasn't a gift; it was an obstacle. My success wasn't a blessing; it was a threat to Isla's pathetic ambition.

I was not their princess. I was a stepping stone. A sacrifice on the altar of their misguided pity and Isla's festering jealousy.

What is love? What is family? The words were meaningless, hollowed out shells.

The world outside my window was dark and wet. The city lights blurred through my tears. There was nothing left. No future. No hope. Just a broken body and a shattered heart. The remote for the morphine drip was on the bedside table. One push, then another, and another. It would be so easy to just let go, to drift into a painless, permanent sleep.

My hand trembled as I reached for it. My fingers brushed against the cool plastic button.

The end.

Just as my thumb was about to press down, my phone, lying forgotten on the table, buzzed. A number I didn't recognize. I ignored it. It buzzed again. And again. A flicker of annoyance cut through the fog of despair. With a sigh, I picked it up.

"Hello?" My voice was a croak.

A man's voice, smooth as velvet and cold as steel, answered. "April Thomas. I'm glad I caught you. I was worried I might be too late."

"Who is this?" I asked, my voice flat. "If you're a reporter, I have nothing to say."

"I'm not a reporter," he said. A pause. "Let's call me a... benefactor. I'm calling to offer you a deal."

I almost laughed. A bitter, broken sound. "A deal? What could you possibly offer me? A cure for permanent paralysis? The winning lottery numbers?"

"As a matter of fact," the voice continued, unperturbed, "yes. The world's best medical treatment. Experimental nerve regeneration therapy in a private facility in Switzerland. Technology a decade ahead of anything you'll find in a public hospital."

My heart, which I thought had stopped feeling anything, gave a painful lurch.

"And that's not all," he went on. "I can offer you the resources for something else. Something I suspect you want even more than the ability to walk again."

I was silent, my knuckles white as I gripped the phone.

"Revenge, Miss Thomas," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I can give you the power to destroy the people who did this to you. Your brother. Your fiancé. The entire Thomas and Moore dynasties. I will provide the means. You will be the instrument."

My breath hitched. It was impossible. A prank. A cruel, sick joke.

"Why?" I whispered. "Why would you do this for me?"

"Let's just say your family and I have a long and complicated history," he replied. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend. But more than that, I saw you dance once, Miss Thomas. At the Lincoln Center gala. You were magnificent. A talent like yours should not be extinguished. It should be forged. A phoenix is not born from comfort. It is born from fire."

I stared at the morphine drip remote in my other hand. The button that promised oblivion. The phone that promised a different kind of ending.

A choice.

A single tear traced a path down my cheek. "What do I have to do?"

The voice on the other end of the line was devoid of warmth, yet it held the most seductive promise in the world.

"Live," he said.

And in that moment, the desire for death was burned away by a new, all-consuming fire.

I let the remote fall from my grasp.

My answer was a whisper, but it was the strongest sound I had ever made.

"Yes."