The Ruined Bride of Velvet Nights by Brick Moving Ant

Chapter 7

“You’ll walk normally with proper physical therapy,” the Swiss surgeon explained. “But professional

ballet is unfortunately no longer possible.”

With those words, my dream of returning to the stage evaporated completely.

Over espresso on the clinic’s terrace, Grand–père revealed a stunning truth: he had quietly bankrolled Dad’s startup years ago, channeling millions through shell companies.

“I thought I was helping Élise,” he said, his accent thickening with emotion. “Instead, I financed the lifestyle that allowed Maxwell to pursue Camilla while my daughter withered away.”

His weathered hands trembled slightly as he set down his cup. “Not only am I liquidating every Rousseau investment in Dagonet Industries, but I’ve instructed our board to systematically acquire their competitors. Your father’s company won’t survive the quarter.”

For three months, I underwent intensive rehabilitation in the private Alpine clinic.

Those first nights were torture–even with pharmaceutical–grade sedatives, I’d wake up screaming, feeling phantom hands breaking my bones all over again.

Grand–père would appear within moments, taking the chair beside my bed to share what little he knew of my mother’s brief time with the Rousseaus.

His stories felt maddeningly incomplete–he could only describe how she color–coded her notes at university, how she would practice her ballet positions while waiting for elevators, how she never abandoned a goal once she’d set her mind to it.

Our roles gradually reversed. I found myself filling in the twenty years he’d missed–her silent 3 a.m. crying sessions in the kitchen when she thought everyone was asleep, the way she’d flinch whenever Dad raised his voice, how she’d spend hours perfecting my ballet buns because it reminded her of her own shattered dreams.

for failing Élise,” he finally said. “That debt remains unpayable.

one toxic family dynamic for another. Had Grand–père once favored his adopted daughter just

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Chapter 7

Mom had cut all ties?

died

reflection in the mirror. The scars

done something else–something

I’d been unmistakably Maxwell Dagonet’s daughter. “Carbon copy” was the

used.

every trace of that resemblance had

look like my mother now?” I asked

the eye shape–yes, you favor Madame

the last physical connection to

powered on my phone after three months, a cascade of

the device.

this number. During my silence, he

you’re alive. I haven’t slept in days. The police think

was a monster. I see that now. I chose Victoria over my own daughter. I let those men hurt you. I can never undo what I’ve done, but please don’t

is exactly as you left it. I sit there every night. Those Misty Copeland posters you wanted that