Chapter 6

A lively tune started, and a man with a microphone announced a "couples' dance-off."

The prize: a stunning diamond tennis bracelet showcased on a velvet cushion.

Tori's eyes lit up.

She turned to Alex, her voice a sweet pout. "Oh, Alex, that bracelet is divine! We have to win it for me!"

Eleanor Sterling, watching from a nearby table, smiled approvingly.

Tori's friends giggled.

"Alex is a wonderful dancer," one said. "But Maya... does she even know a waltz from a foxtrot?"

"She's probably more used to... well, different kinds of dancing," another sneered.

Alex and Tori took to the makeshift dance floor.

They moved together seamlessly, a golden couple, bathed in the soft glow of the garden lights.

The crowd applauded their effortless grace.

Maya watched, a hollow ache in her chest.

She felt a presence behind her.

Tori's friends had closed in, their smiles sharp.

"So, Maya," one began, "tell us about Brooklyn. Is it as... gritty as they say?"

"I hear the art scene there is very... raw," another added, the word "raw" dripping with condescension.

Their voices were a relentless barrage of thinly veiled insults, attacking her background, her aspirations, her very existence in their world.

She felt trapped, her ears ringing.

Suddenly, a foot shot out.

Maya stumbled, her injured wrist taking the brunt of the fall.

A sharp, agonizing pain lanced up her arm.

She cried out, landing heavily on the grass.

As she tried to push herself up, Tori, who had just finished her dance with Alex to thunderous applause, "stumbled" near her.

Tori's stiletto heel landed directly on Maya's outstretched, injured hand.

Maya heard a sickening crack.

The pain was blinding, white-hot.

She looked up, desperate, towards Alex.

He was standing by the piano with Tori, who was now playfully trying to teach him a simple melody.

He glanced over, saw Maya on the ground, his brow furrowing slightly.

He saw her clutching her hand, her face contorted in pain.

Then, he turned back to the piano, his fingers finding the keys, continuing the duet with Tori.

A slight frown was his only reaction to her suffering.

The world tilted.

The pain in her hand was a distant roar.

Another crack, or perhaps a crunch, as someone – one of Tori's friends, "helping" her up – twisted her hand further.

Her vision blurred.

The last thing she saw before darkness consumed her was Alex and Tori, side by side at the piano, the crowd's applause washing over them as they received the diamond bracelet.

Her defeat, her agony, was the backdrop to their triumph.

She woke up in a hospital room.

A different one this time. Less plush, more functional.

A doctor with tired eyes was looking at her X-rays.

"It's a bad one, Miss Rodriguez. A comminuted fracture of the metacarpals. Multiple fragments."

He pointed to the X-ray. "Your wrist was already compromised from the previous injury. This new trauma... it's severe."

He sighed. "You're an artist, you said? A sculptor?"

Maya nodded, her throat tight.

"You'll need surgery. Pins, maybe a plate. Even then... I can't guarantee full recovery of function. Your dexterity... it will likely be permanently affected."

Permanently affected.

The words hung in the air, heavy and cold.

Her hands. Her art. Her life.

She tried to make a fist with her injured hand.

It was useless, a swollen, throbbing appendage.

A glass of water on the bedside table slipped from her trembling fingers, shattering on the floor.

Alex appeared in the doorway later, looking rumpled and concerned.

"Maya... I... I'm sorry. I didn't see what happened. Tori said you just... tripped."

His apology was weak, his explanation self-serving.

He looked at her heavily bandaged hand, his frown deepening.

"It looks bad."

Maya stared at him, her eyes burning.

"I want to press charges, Alex. They did this to me. Tori. Her friends."

She held up her injured hand, a testament to their cruelty. "This wasn't an accident."