𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘿𝙀𝙑𝙄𝙇'𝙎 𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙇 - 𝙔𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙀𝙍𝙀 𝘼𝙇𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙊𝙍 𝙓 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍

18.

━━━

𝘼/𝙉 - 𝙏𝙒 - 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙪𝙚/𝘿𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙗𝙖𝙡/𝙥𝙝𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙖𝙗𝙪𝙨𝙚, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙡𝙮 𝙡𝙞𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙙𝙨. 𝙄𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨, 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙚.

━━━

It's tiring, heavy enough to dwell on my mind.

Even during work - and not the enjoyable kind. 

Not with Alastor's backing; protection.

Valentino. 

Sweat sheens my skin, my eyes are heavy and my makeup is cracking. 

"I...I-I can't, I can't keep doing this- I need a break-"

My voice, strained, hoarse, overworked. 

Continuous 'practice', truly, overworked torture. 

Valentino is aware of the power I uphold, and the energetic source my career carries for me and my livelihood. 

And he knows he can forcefully utilize it to feed his own power.

Reasoning why he coerced me into making a deal with him so many years ago. 

Careful words, laced with poisonous, saccharine charm, enough to seep under my skin and drown me. To pull me down, fill my lungs, and leave me a slave to his wants and needs. 

With both, the overwhelming, muscle strain of continuous choreography training and the harsh, hoarse repetitiveness of the vocal practises I've been ordered to repeat, every inch of me screams in pain. 

To not only practise physically and vocally, but to do so in the tight, organ-crushing pull of the corset I am wearing, it's all too much. These heels are killing my feet, my legs aching and my lungs heaving for air as it feels like my insides are going to implode. 

"Does it look like I give a shit-!? again-!" 

That voice, sharp, horrifying. 

So sickening, my stomach lurches with nausea. 

My feet ache so much, they refuse to pick up and move in any form. My lids are half-shut, waves of pure, overworked exhaustion washing over me as my vision blurs. 

"I-I...I can't..." 

I can barely muster my words beyond a whisper, my body slowly backing into the wall behind me, Valentino's business building surrounding my view as his towering figure approaches, that disgusting scent of smoke lingering from his striding figure. 

I cannot see.

I cannot breathe.

I cannot think.

I cannot physically, nor mentally react to the sight of his hand raising, a blurry sight, before the impact topples me to my knees, the back of my head slamming against the wall behind me. 

A seething burst of excruciating pain surges through the back of my skull, the pressure of his hand slapping me across my face enough to buckle my knees and leave my exhausted body to its own will. 

My eyes squeeze shut to the impact. 

His words slur within my mind, my sight completely blackening.