Chapter 6

Bianca POV:

The pungent smell of antiseptic pricked my nostrils, dragging me slowly back to consciousness. My eyelids fluttered open, revealing a sterile white ceiling. A hospital. Again. A familiar, unwelcome setting. My mouth felt parched, my head ached, and a dull, throbbing pain resonated in my stomach.

I tried to move, but a sharp jolt of pain shot through my legs. My legs. I couldn't feel them properly. A cold dread seeped into my bones.

A kind-faced nurse bustled in, her smile strained. "Ah, you're awake, dear. Good. A very kind gentleman found you outside your building and brought you in. Acute gastritis, just as we suspected. We've got you on a drip."

A kind gentleman. Not Hunter. Not my mother. Someone I didn't even know.

My stomach pain had subsided, replaced by a profound emptiness. But the missing sensation in my legs... It was a phantom ache, a terrifying void.

"My legs," I whispered, my voice raspy. "I can't feel them."

The nurse's smile faltered. Her gaze dropped to my legs, which were swaddled in bandages. "There was some severe trauma during the accident, dear," she said gently, her voice hushed. "It's too early to say for certain, but the doctors are concerned about nerve damage. There's a possibility... of paraplegia."

Paraplegia. The word hung in the air, a death knell for my dreams. It echoed in the sterile room, bouncing off the white walls, crashing into my soul. My mind went blank, a terrifying void where my future used to be. My legs, my instruments, my life. Gone?

The nurse continued, her voice a distant hum. "We'll need further observation, a series of rehabilitation therapies. It's a long road, but we'll do everything we can."

But I heard nothing past "paraplegia." My dance career. My life, meticulously crafted and nurtured since childhood, had been irrevocably shattered. The principal dancer. The European stages. All gone. My body, once a vessel of grace and power, was now a broken cage.

My eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, unseeing. My world had come to a screeching halt. The irony was a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth. I had just been offered my dream, an escape. And now, this.

The nurse, sensing my despair, touched my arm gently. "Shall I contact your family, dear? Your mother? Your stepbrother, Hunter, he's been quite worried."

Hunter. The name was a fresh stab of pain. Worried? He had thrown me out like trash, left me to collapse on the cold marble. And my mother. She had chosen her wealthy husband over her own daughter, leaving me to suffer alone.

"Hunter and Ashley were discharged this morning," the nurse continued, oblivious to my internal turmoil. "Minor injuries, thankfully. They were very lucky."

Lucky. The word grated. They walk away unscathed, while my world implodes.

"About the medical bills, dear," the nurse added, her voice practical. "The initial costs are quite high. We'll need to discuss your payment options."

Payment options. My "family" had left me to deal with the consequences alone. They had been worried, the nurse said. But not enough to check on me, to stay. Not enough to pay for my broken body.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Family. What a cruel joke.

I needed to make a call. Not to my mother, not to Hunter. To the only people who had ever truly rallied around me. My colleagues. My dance family.

"Can I use your phone?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

My colleague, Andre, rushed to the hospital, his face etched with concern. He paid my bills, arranged for my discharge, and sat by my bedside, a calming presence in the storm of my despair.

"Bianca, don't give up," he said, his eyes kind. "This isn't the end. There are other paths. Our company, we want you to consider a position as an artistic director, a choreographer. We'll support your recovery. We'll get you the best specialists."

A tiny flicker of hope, fragile but real, ignited in my chest. A choreographer. A director. It wasn't dancing, not in the way I had always dreamed, but it was still art. It was still my world.

I clutched his hand. "Andre, thank you. Thank you."

That night, I made the call to a prestigious European dance company, the one that had offered me a scholarship years ago. I explained my situation, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and newfound resolve. To my surprise, they listened. They offered me a position as a trainee choreographer, a chance to rebuild, to redefine myself. They offered me a lifeline.

The world hadn't abandoned me entirely.

With Andre's help, I made arrangements. He secured my flight, handled the mountain of paperwork, and packed my sparse belongings from the rented apartment.

A few days later, I sat in a wheelchair, my bandaged legs propped up, as Andre pushed me through the bustling airport. I clutched my passport, my ticket to a new life. As the plane lifted off, leaving the sprawling, indifferent city behind, I closed my eyes. The pain, the betrayal, the crushing loss – I buried it deep, deep inside. This was a new beginning. A chance to reinvent myself. A chance to heal. A chance to prove to myself, and to them, that I was more than just a broken dancer.