The cold marble floor of the Jenkins’ private studio bit through my knees as I knelt, head bowed. The dancers around me whispered, their eyes sharp with cruelty. My shoes had been hidden again—I knew it before I even checked. “If my shoes aren’t delivered before class starts, you’re dead,” Charlotte snapped, her voice dripping with venom.
I flinched. She’d done this before, and every time, the punishment got worse. “And if you dare run away like last time, I’ll break both of your legs. ”
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t. My throat was tight with the memory of the last beating—the bruise on my ribs still ached when I breathed too deep. The other girls laughed, and Charlotte stepped closer, her heeled shoes clicking like a countdown. “Make this adopted bastard understand that standing on the same floor as me dirties my dance shoes,” she ordered.
No one moved to help me. No one ever did. I was just the charity case, the orphan the Jenkins had taken in. They never let me forget it.
My dance shoes were old, scuffed, and a size too small, but they were all I had. Charlotte’s were custom-made, gleaming white, worth more than my entire wardrobe. She knew it. She loved it.
“Should I take you to the hospital? ” a teacher asked, but her voice was flat, disinterested. She didn’t care. None of them did.
I shook my head, forcing myself to stand on trembling legs. “No mistakes,” Charlotte hissed, turning away. The class resumed, and I stumbled through the steps, my eyes burning with unshed tears. Days passed in that rhythm—humiliation, pain, silence.
Then came the night I found the ring. It was small, gold with a strange engraving, tucked in the back of my bag. I didn’t remember putting it there. But when Charlotte saw it, her face twisted with fury.
“You stole it! You’re a thief, just like your beggar parents! ”
She dragged me before the family elder, Brent Jenkins, a man with cold eyes and colder authority. “I didn’t steal it,” I pleaded.
“I found it. I don’t even know what it is. ” Charlotte laughed, shrill and mocking. “A beggar should know their place.
You’re lying because you’re after our fortune. ”
But Brent studied the ring, his expression shifting. “This is our sister’s pendant,” he said slowly, his voice barely a whisper. “The one she wore when she was taken.
It has a scar on the back—a family mark. ” He turned to me, his eyes searching. “Where did you get this? ”
My heart hammered.
“I… I don’t know. I’ve had it for years. ” The room fell silent. Charlotte’s smirk faltered.
“She’s lying,” she snapped. “She’s just a street rat! ”
But Brent’s voice was steady. “We’ll do a DNA test.
”
I didn’t understand what that meant. Not until the results came back. Not until they stood in front of me, their faces pale, and Brent said, “You’re one of us. You’re a Jenkins.
You were taken when you were a baby. ”
Charlotte’s face crumpled into something ugly—fear, hatred, panic. “That’s impossible! I’m the daughter!
I’m the one they raised! ” But the documents were clear. A pendant and my blood. I was the biological child.
She was the illegal heir, the one the Gibsons had planted after the kidnapping. The family turned cold toward her. The servants, once her soldiers, now avoided her. “You should be in juvenile detention,” Brent told her, his voice ice.
“You tormented my real sister for years. ” Charlotte broke down, sobbing, but I felt nothing. No pity. No joy.
Just a hollow emptiness where anger should have been. Kathy, the girl I’d known as my only friend, stepped forward, her eyes wet. “I wasn’t in on it,” she whispered. “I didn’t know.
” But I saw the flicker of fear in her eyes. I didn’t trust her anymore. I didn’t trust anyone. Then the new danger came.
Charlotte’s true parents, the Gibsons, had a daughter—another lost child, a missing sister. And now that the world knew I was a Jenkins, they wanted revenge. Their family was bankrupt, and they’d do anything to take what was mine. One night, I found a note under my pillow, written in shaky handwriting: *You’re not safe.
They’re coming. Leave now. * No signature. I didn’t leave.
I couldn’t. I stayed, locked my door, and waited. The next morning, I walked into the dance studio, and everyone went silent. A girl stepped forward, her smile too sharp.
“So you’re the real princess now? ” She tilted her head. “Let’s see if you can dance without your precious shoes. ”
She threw my worn-out pair into the trash bin.
I looked at her, then at the empty space where Charlotte used to stand. “I don’t need shoes to dance,” I said quietly. “I’ve got the Jenkins blood in my veins. That’s enough.
”
But as I walked away, I felt eyes on my back. The Gibsons were out there. And they knew exactly where I slept.
