MAFIA'S WRONG TARGET

36: THE BALLET SHOES

SYBIL’S POV

Kingland,
08:32 am

I went to the hall I often used for practicing ballet, only to stop in surprise.

There, placed neatly on the bench, was a box—wrapped in delicate gift paper with a wide ribbon tied over it.

My name was written across the top in elegant handwriting.

Though I love gifts I looked around, there wasn't anyone. I walked closer and bent a bit with my hands behind my back to avoid touching it.

As i tilted my head I could see a note labelled with my name. Curiosity got the best of me and without wondering who might have sent it, I picked it up and set it on my lap. My fingers hurried to untie the ribbon, then tore away the paper. When I lifted the lid, my breath caught.

Ballet Shoes!

Not just any shoes—they were exquisite, almost majestic, the most beautiful pair I had ever seen.

No name, No clue about the sender. But I was too thrilled to care.

I slipped them on and rose to my toes, twirling across the room, laughter spilling out before I even realized. Happiness—something I hadn’t felt in what felt like forever—bubbled up inside me.

The mirror reflected my movements, my flushed cheeks, my wide smile. I danced until I was panting, chest rising and falling with the effort.

I slowed, catching my breath, fingertips brushing the edge of the mirror as if steadying myself.

Who would give me this?

I should thank them… whoever they are.

Alaric. It had to be him.

I was lost in my thoughts until something struck me—there was no sound.

I placed my ear over the mirror but... nothing. No heavy thuds. No sharp punches echoing through the wall. Every day I heard them. And I knew exactly who they belonged to.

I always wanted to explore this side of mansion and this was my chance—he wasn’t around.

I slipped out of the ballet hall and peeked into the next room, his training room, A punching bag swayed in the corner, dumbbells and machines lined the wall, what's not?

As soon as I stepped in I freeze in place.

The "mirror" I've been leaning against so many times wasn’t a mirror at all. It was glass. A one-way view. From here, it was clear.

The realization crashed over me.

He knew.

Every time I danced there, every spin, every stumble—he was watching.

Always.

My chest tightened, I felt anger as if got cheated. He could have told me. But told what exactly? That he could see though it?

I was in his house, not him in my territory.

Before I could process the weight of it, the doorknob rattled. Instinct jolted me forward. I darted for the second exit, stumbling into another room just as the door behind me creaked open.

My pulse hammering in my ears. I pressed a hand over my mouth, desperate to stifle the sound of my own breath.

Footsteps.
Silence.

I peeked, he was back facing me, his ears were covered with headphones, a napkin was hung by his neck. He picked up a pair of boxing wrist wraps and began to wrap it around his knuckles.