Dorothy Misfortunes
Act I – Dorothy Miseries
Dorothy was nine years old when her father finally claimed her. Until then, she had lived with her grandmother in a small village, free and innocent, her world filled with books, laughter, and the warmth of women who loved her. When her father, a man of wealth and power, arrived at her grandmother’s home with his new wife, Dorothy felt a rush of joy. She had always longed to know him, to be part of his life.
Her stepmother smiled sweetly, touching Dorothy’s cheek. “Come live with us, darling. Your father and I want all the children to grow up together. You’ll be a big sister now.”
The promise sounded beautiful. Dorothy was eager to belong, to have siblings, to finally have a father who would love her. At first, she glowed with happiness, helping care for the new babies, laughing when her younger brothers tugged at her hair, or when her little sister tried to walk. She told herself she was finally home.
But the truth revealed itself quickly. Her stepmother’s sweetness was only a mask. Dorothy soon learned she had not been welcomed into the mansion to be a daughter, but a servant.
Her siblings were given silk dresses and polished shoes; Dorothy wore torn hand-me-downs. Her father celebrated their birthdays with cakes, balloons, and photographers; Dorothy’s birthday passed unnoticed, as if she didn’t exist. At dinner, her siblings laughed in the grand dining room, while Dorothy was made to eat alone in the kitchen.
When she spilled a glass of water one evening, her stepmother slapped her across the face and hissed, “Get on your knees and lick it clean.” Dorothy obeyed, her cheeks burning with shame as her siblings giggled behind their mother’s skirts.
Her father never defended her. In fact, he never even looked at her properly. Whenever neighbors or teachers questioned why Dorothy was treated so poorly, he believed his wife’s lies—that Dorothy was disobedient, spoiled, ungrateful. He never saw the bruises on her arms, the hunger in her eyes, the brilliance in her mind.
For Dorothy was clever. Exceptionally clever. At school, she shone so brightly that even the principal refused to let her drop out when her stepmother stopped paying her tuition. A scholarship was arranged, because it was unthinkable that such a brilliant child should waste away. Teachers fed her when she fainted from hunger. Neighbors pitied her, whispering about the rich man’s daughter who walked barefoot to the market, who looked like she lived under a bridge though she slept in a mansion.
Her siblings struggled with their studies, yet Dorothy—tired, hungry, and beaten—still found the energy to tutor her stepmother’s nieces, children older than she was. But brilliance and beauty only earned her more hatred. Her stepmother loathed her for her fairness, for the way her hazel eyes seemed to hold light, for the way strangers paused to look twice at her despite her rags.
Dorothy endured, year after year, until she grew into a young woman. To survive, she entered a relationship with a wealthy older man who promised to help her pay tuition. He became her “sponsor,” but in truth, he treated her like property, making her beg for crumbs of affection while he flaunted his infidelity. She told herself it was the price of survival, but inside, her spirit cracked.
Then—fate intervened.
One humid afternoon, while rushing home from school, Dorothy saw a scuffle near the town square. A tall man in a vendor’s apron stood rigid with fear as a gang member shoved him, shouting about ruined clothes. A streak of vanilla ice cream dripped down the gangster’s shirt. The vendor—darkened skin, thick beard, calloused hands—looked ordinary, poor even. But his eyes… they were too sharp, too alive to belong to a simple street seller.
The gangster raised his fist, ready to strike, when Dorothy stepped forward.
“Stop!” she cried, her small hands trembling as she pulled a crumpled bill from her pocket. “Here. I’ll pay for the shirt. Leave him alone.”
The gangster sneered, but took the money and walked off, muttering curses.
The vendor looked at her in stunned silence.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said softly, his accent too polished for a man of his supposed class.
Dorothy met his gaze, fierce despite her shaking knees. “And you shouldn’t have let him hurt you.”
Something passed between them then—something that felt like recognition, though they had never met before.
What Dorothy didn’t know was that this man was no ordinary ice cream seller. His name was Adrian, and he was a secret billionaire. Tired of a life where women chased only his fortune, where every smile was bought and every kiss was false, he had disappeared from his glamorous city life. He had tanned his skin, grown a beard, and taken a humble job in another town, determined to discover what it meant to live simply, to be seen as a man, not a bank account.
And now, in this strange, brave girl with fire in her eyes, Adrian saw something he had been searching for all his life.
Dorothy stood frozen for a moment after the gangster left, her chest heaving. The vendor’s eyes lingered on her, a mixture of gratitude and something unspoken, something curious. She bit her lip, embarrassed by her own courage—or foolishness.
“Are you… are you hurt?” she asked, stepping closer.
He shook his head, his expression softening into a small, almost shy smile. “No. Thanks to you.”
Dorothy fidgeted with the crumpled bill in her hand. “I just… I couldn’t let him—” Her voice faltered, and she looked away, suddenly self-conscious about her worn shoes, the holes in her blouse, the way the sun highlighted the dirt under her fingernails.
He chuckled quietly, a low, pleasant sound that made her glance back at him. “You didn’t hesitate.”
“I…” She swallowed, unsure what to say. “I just couldn’t—” Her words trailed off. She wasn’t used to talking like this—not with anyone who mattered, not in the way her father or stepmother never let her matter.
The man nodded, studying her carefully. “You have fire in your eyes. Not many people see the world clearly, and fewer still act on what they see.”
Dorothy blinked. That was a curious thing to say. She had spent years keeping her thoughts hidden, learning to survive in silence. Yet here was a man who seemed to see right through her.
“I… thank you,” she whispered.
He smiled again, and for a moment, it felt like the world narrowed to just the two of them. “What’s your name?”
“Dorothy,” she said, cautiously.
“Dorothy,” he repeated, tasting it in his mind. “A strong name. It suits you.”
Her cheeks warmed, but she couldn’t explain why she felt a strange pull toward him. His presence was commanding yet gentle, and for the first time in years, she didn’t feel invisible.
“I should go,” she said abruptly, remembering her curfew, the looming shadow of her stepmother, the endless chores waiting at home. “I… I have to get back.”
He nodded, his eyes holding hers with a weight that made her heartbeat quicken. “Of course. But… maybe I’ll see you again.”
Dorothy hesitated. “Maybe.”
She walked away briskly, cheeks burning, the image of him—his sharp eyes, the odd contrast between his humble clothes and his undeniable presence—etched into her mind. She didn’t know why, but she felt as if something important had shifted.
That evening, back in the mansion, the routine of cruelty resumed. Her stepmother demanded she polish the silver, clean the marble floors, and arrange the wine glasses just so. Her siblings laughed and played, oblivious to her suffering, while her father sat in the study, murmuring polite words to guests without sparing her a glance.
Dorothy scrubbed and dusted, her mind drifting back to the vendor with the sharp eyes. She wondered who he was, why he had looked at her like that. She shook her head. A man like that… no, she couldn’t think about it. Not tonight. Not when there was a bed to make and floors to shine.
Yet sleep came reluctantly. Her thoughts swirled: the injustice of her life, the small spark of courage she’d felt in the town square, and the strange pull toward someone she barely knew. Somewhere deep inside, she felt the first flicker of hope she had allowed herself in years.
The next day, Dorothy found herself walking the same streets after school, not knowing why, almost as if she were drawn by some invisible thread. The market buzzed with life, vendors shouting over each other, children running between stalls, the scent of fresh bread mingling with the sharp tang of citrus.
And there he was. Adrian.
He was rearranging his cart of ice cream, humming softly, his apron dusted with flour. When he noticed her, he smiled—not the faint acknowledgment of a stranger, but the kind of smile that made the air feel warmer, the sun a little brighter.
“Back so soon?” he asked, his voice casual but his gaze studying her, sharp and unrelenting.
Dorothy shuffled her feet, suddenly shy. “I… I just… wanted to see if you were… okay.”
Adrian’s brow lifted, amused. “You’ve got a habit of checking on strangers?”
“I… I guess I do,” she admitted, cheeks flushing. “I… don’t like to see people hurt.”
He studied her, his expression unreadable, then nodded. “I see. That’s… rare.”
Dorothy looked away, embarrassed, but there was a warmth in his attention that made her want to linger. She couldn’t explain it—something about him made her heart race and her mind sharp at the same time, like he was a puzzle she wanted desperately to solve.
“I should go,” she murmured again, almost on autopilot.
Adrian tilted his head, curious. “But… you won’t, will you?”
She frowned, unsure what he meant.
“You have a fire,” he said again. “I want to see where it leads.”
Dorothy’s heartbeat quickened. Something about the way he spoke—so deliberate, so observant—made her nervous. And yet… a part of her wanted to stay.
But she couldn’t. Not yet.
“Maybe another time,” she said softly, turning away, her mind a swirl of confusion and anticipation.
As she walked home, she felt a strange thrill: for the first time in years, her life seemed like it could change. She didn’t know how, or when, or why—but she knew, somehow, that the man with the sharp eyes and humble apron was going to be part of it.
And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to face the world alone anymore.
Dorothy’s brief excursions to the market had not gone unnoticed. Her stepmother’s eyes were sharp, always calculating, and she soon began to see a pattern: Dorothy returned home a few minutes later than usual. The innocuous trips that had filled her with courage and small moments of freedom were now twisted in her stepmother’s mind.
One evening, as Dorothy tiptoed back through the grand hall, she was met with her stepmother’s icy glare.
“You think I’m blind, don’t you?” the woman hissed. “Where have you been?”
Dorothy’s stomach knotted. “I… I just walked through the market, that’s all…”
Her stepmother’s face twisted into fury. “Don’t lie to me! I know what you’re doing—you’re sleeping around, sneaking away, bringing shame to this house!”
Before Dorothy could defend herself, her stepmother marched straight to the study, dragging the shocked girl in front of her father. “Look at her,” she spat. “She’s corrupting herself, dishonoring this family. Do something about her!”
Her father’s face, usually distant and distracted, darkened with anger. He had long been under his wife’s spell, and her words ignited a fury that left no room for reason.
“Dorothy,” he barked, voice heavy with disbelief and disappointment. “You’ve betrayed us?”
Dorothy’s eyes filled with tears. “Father, please… I haven’t done anything wrong!”
But her pleas fell on deaf ears. Without another word, he ordered her locked away in the tower room at the far end of the mansion—a narrow, cold chamber with no windows to the outside, a room where light did not reach and where the only sounds were her own sobs and the echo of silence.
For three long months, Dorothy endured a living nightmare. She was given no food, no sunlight, no human contact. The days and nights blurred into a single endless torment. Her body weakened, her bones ached, and her mind fought to cling to the tiniest fragments of hope.
She thought she would die. And yet, in the darkness, something inside her refused to surrender.
Her neighbor, a young woman who had watched Dorothy’s suffering from the next house, refused to remain idle. Late one night, careful not to alert the household, she crept along the fence that separated their properties, moving silently like a shadow.
With trembling hands, she passed a small bundle of bread and cheese through the window crack of the tower room. “Eat,” she whispered. “You have to survive. You must.”
Dorothy’s hands shook as she clutched the food, tears streaming down her face. For the first time in months, she felt a spark of life stir within her. Though weak and starving, she ate, her body fueled by the kindness of another, and her mind swore vengeance for the cruelty she had endured.
Night after night, the neighbor continued her quiet rescues, crawling across the fence, whispering encouragement, and leaving food for Dorothy. It was a dangerous risk, but her courage became Dorothy’s lifeline. Each morsel of bread, each act of defiance against the walls that imprisoned her, rekindled a flicker of hope that one day, she would escape.
And somewhere deep inside, Dorothy began to plan—not just for survival, but for freedom.
When Dorothy was finally released from her punishment, the girl who stepped out was no longer the vibrant child she once had been. Three months had passed—three months locked away in a dark room, cut off from sunlight, friends, and even the simplest comforts of life. She had missed school entirely, her education disrupted as much as her spirit. Her clothes hung loosely from her frail frame, her hair matted from neglect, and an unbearable odor clung to her because she had been denied even the dignity of a shower. For those long months, she had used a bucket as her toilet, a daily humiliation that chipped away at her will.
Outside, Adrian refused to give up searching for her. He asked classmates, neighbors, and anyone who might have a clue about her whereabouts. Finally, Edith, an elderly neighbor who had always quietly watched over Dorothy, confided the truth to him: the cruel punishment, the starvation, and the isolation. Adrian knew he had to do something, but he couldn’t reach her directly. Instead, he began writing letters—words of encouragement, hope, and reminders that she was not alone. Edith, risking suspicion, secretly delivered them to Dorothy.
Those letters became Dorothy’s lifeline. Each note, folded and pressed under the door or slipped through a crack, reminded her that someone still cared. On nights when hunger gnawed at her stomach and despair threatened to consume her, reading Adrian’s words gave her the strength to endure. She clung to his messages as desperately as she clung to life itself, even when it felt unbearable.
Yet the suffering had left scars. Dorothy’s body was weak, and her mind teetered on the edge of hopelessness. In a moment of utter despair, she swallowed fifty pills, attempting to escape the relentless pain. But fate—or perhaps the invisible threads of care from Adrian and Edith—intervened. She survived.
When she finally awoke, she saw Adrian’s anxious face and Edith’s trembling hands holding hers. The letters had kept her alive, and now the presence of those who had never abandoned her gave her a fragile but vital hope. For the first time in months, Dorothy realized she had not been completely forgotten. And though the road ahead would be long, she understood that she had allies willing to help her reclaim her life.
When Dorothy was finally released from her punishment, the girl who stepped out was no longer the vibrant child she once had been. Three months had passed—three months locked away in a dark room, cut off from sunlight, friends, and even the simplest comforts of life. She had missed school entirely, her education disrupted as much as her spirit. Her clothes hung loosely from her frail frame, her hair matted from neglect, and an unbearable odor clung to her because she had been denied even the dignity of a shower. For those long months she had used a bucket as her toilet, a daily humiliation that broke pieces off her soul.
While her father and stepmother worked to keep her hidden, the outside world began to wonder. Adrian, who had always cared deeply for Dorothy, noticed her absence immediately. Day after day, he searched for her—asking classmates, calling neighbors, and walking past her house at different hours, hoping for a glimpse. Rumors began to surface, and his heart grew heavier with each one. Finally, Edith, an elderly neighbor who had always quietly watched over Dorothy, couldn’t stay silent any longer. She told Adrian everything—the screams she had heard on the first few nights, the weeks of eerie silence, and the whispered knowledge that Dorothy was being starved, neglected, and isolated.
Adrian couldn’t stand by. Though just a young man himself, he began sneaking food to her—bread, fruit, and water—leaving it near the window where Edith said Dorothy might reach it. Many nights, while the rest of the neighborhood slept, Adrian stayed awake, hoping Dorothy would see the small signs of care and hold on a little longer.
But the suffering was too much. Dorothy’s body was weak, but her heart felt even weaker. She had begun to believe that no one cared enough to save her, that no future could be worth enduring such cruelty. In a moment of despair, she swallowed fifty pills, a desperate attempt to silence the pain once and for all.
Yet fate—or perhaps mercy—intervened. Though she hovered on the edge of death, she survived. When she awoke, something had shifted. She saw Adrian’s tearful face, the trembling hands of Edith holding hers, and realized she had not been completely forgotten. For the first time in months, she felt the faintest spark of hope.
Dorothy’s ordeal had scarred her, but it had not destroyed her. And though she still bore the weight of her suffering, she began to understand that she was not as alone as she had believed.
With the crumpled twenty-dollar bill her father had given her, Dorothy went straight to a small shop and bought the bare essentials: soap, toothpaste, a comb, and a bottle of cheap shampoo. The smell of clean things alone felt like luxury. For the first time in months, she washed herself properly, scrubbing away not just dirt but a layer of humiliation
that had clung to her like a second skin.
But even as she tried to rebuild herself, her life at home was still a carefully crafted lie. Dorothy attended school on a free scholarship—her only escape—because her father refused to pay for her tuition. Yet to visitors and neighbors, her father and stepmother maintained a false image. Whenever guests arrived, they would order Dorothy to put on clean clothes, brush her hair, and smile, so that everyone would believe she was well taken care of, a cherished daughter rather than a neglected servant.
Secretly, after school, Dorothy began to see Adrian. They would walk together in the park, away from the prying eyes of her stepmother, their conversations soft and tentative at first but quickly becoming her anchor. He was the only person who made her feel seen, who treated her like she mattered. But her happiness was fragile, and it didn’t stay hidden for long.
Suspicious, her stepmother sent someone to spy on her, to see where she went after school. The spy returned with news: Dorothy had been spotted several times walking with an unknown young man. Her stepmother’s eyes darkened as she listened, her lips curling in a cold smile. She told Dorothy’s father everything.
That night was one of the worst Dorothy had ever endured. Her father stormed into her room, leather belt in hand. Without a word, he lashed her over and over, each strike fueled by his anger and shame. When the beating ended, the humiliation began. Her stepmother demanded her hair be shaved off—an act meant to strip her of any beauty, to make her unattractive and unworthy in the eyes of anyone who might care for her.
As the clippers buzzed and Dorothy’s long hair fell to the floor in clumps, she felt the sting of both the blade and betrayal. But beneath the tears, a new kind of strength began to rise. They could take her hair, her clothes, her comfort—but they could not take the resolve building in her heart.
