Page 53 of Once A Villain

“You’re sorry!? Really? I don’t care if you’re sorry. I hope you choke and die. Stay the hell away from me.” His expression falters.

“Don’t be like this,” he begs, snatching my keys from my hand and forcing me to stop. Anger constricts my chest, tears welling up as I clench my fists.

“He branded me!” I scream, my voice raw and frantic. “And you helped him! You held me down while he did it! You’re a coward.” I shake uncontrollably. “You could’ve stopped him, but you didn’t. How could you, Griffen?”

“I know,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I couldn’t?—”

“You didn’t even try,” I cut him off. “I don’t care about your fucking guilty conscience.” I yank up my shirt, exposing all the bruises on my torso, the dark purple and green marks standing out against my pale skin.

His jaw clenches, and he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“These are from you,” I cry. “You are just as much a monster as he is!”

“Rory, I’m?—”

“Don’t you ever fucking talk to me again!” I yank my keys from his hand.

I storm to my car, slamming the door behind me and hitting the gas pedal. The tires screech against the asphalt as I peel out of the driveway, and the engine roars in response. As the tears blur my vision, I swipe at them with a trembling hand, trying to steady my breathing.

I knew Axe was capable of such cruelty, but Griffen? That almost hurt more than the brand. He had me fooled. I thought he was different, maybe even a friend. But he’s just another monster, another Hawthorne.

Finally free, I breathe deeply, savoring the crisp, fresh air. The wind tousles my hair as the sun warms my face. The city hums with life—cars honking, people chatting, music playing. It’s a welcome change from the stifling silence of the house.

I miss all my belongings, the small, seemingly insignificant items that made my house feel like a home: pictures of friends, books, and furniture. I long for my bed, all the random junk scattered throughout my house, the memories, the comfort, and the familiarity. I want all my cars back—the Audi R8, the BMW 7 series, everything I’ve worked so hard to own.

I want my life.

In the dressing room, I change into a sports bra and tank top. The bruises on my body stand out starkly, each movement sending sharp pangs through me.

When I sit, pain radiates from the brand. I can’t wear leggings—the raw, tender brand is too painful.

“Fuck.” I exhale sharply, fighting the sting of tears. My stomach churns, and I swallow hard against the lump in my throat.

I take in the dark bruises on my knees and legs, from falling on the hardwood, and the marks on my thighs, hips, and wrists from Griffen’s grip. I tug on my dance shorts and stand. There’s no way to hide the brand, and any attempt to cover it hurts.

Summoning every ounce of courage, I step into the rehearsal studio. The room falls silent as everyone’s eyes fix on me, their faces filled with concern.

“Oh my god, Rory.” Lana rushes over. “What happened?” She pulls me into a hug, and tears well up in my eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mumble, gently pulling away. Taking a deep breath, I try to compose myself. Dom walks in, his eyes widening in shock as he takes in the sight of me.

“What the hell, Rory?”

“Drop it, Dom. I’m fine.” I head to the barre, focusing on stretching and ignoring the stares and whispers. My cheeks burn with embarrassment, and my eyes sting with unshed tears.

Olivia’s presence in the corner catches my eye, fueling my irritation. I hadn’t checked the roster after the auditions, but clearly, she made the cut. Her amused gaze tells me she’ll report my bruises to Alicia, and soon, my father will question me—questions I don’t want to answer, questions too humiliating to face.

Rehearsal starts, and Bradley storms in, his gaze zeroing in on my bruises. He exhales sharply, clearly displeased. He stands directly in front of me with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Nice of you to finally join us again. We’ll talk in your dressing room after rehearsal.”

I nod, unable to speak.

He moves to the stereo, his voice booming. “Alright, let’s warm up.”

For the next two hours, we drill new routines relentlessly. I push through the pain, muscles aching and limbs heavy. The rehearsal is exhausting, but I lose myself in the rhythm. By the end, sweat drips down my face, and every muscle screams.

As everyone exits the studio, I make my way to my dressing room. Pushing open the door, I collapse onto the leather couch, wincing from the pain. I have a few moments before Bradley arrives, and I need them.

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