SCANDALOUS AFFAIRS

CARA CHIARA ALESSI

Gravity.

I don’t feel it when I dance a tale.

Though, I don’t dance the story. I tell it step by step. The secret isn’t just in the steps or the routine — it’s in surrendering your entire being to it. You have to feel it, deep down, past your skin, beyond your muscles — down to the bones.

The weight of it pulls you, relentless, like gravity.

You don’t fight it. You yield.

You arch your foot until it burns, the ache pulsing through your calves. Toes blister, bleed, and bruise beneath your shiny, pointy shoes.

And you don’t stop. You push past the pain. You push yourself. You spin. You plié. You pirouette — until you flow with the music and let it lift you up.

Until you thrive on perfection and make it look effortless. Easy-peasy, hiding your battles behind a soft, delicate smile.

Look like you enjoy it.

Though you’re in pain.

The ache in your feet, the strain in your back, the exhaustion in your lungs — they’re part of you as long as you go on. And that’s what I do.

Because giving up isn’t in my agenda. I don’t know what it means. I wasn’t taught to submit, but music is my only exception; and I was lectured on many other things.

My father made sure I was well-educated in a world of fools. I learned early that softness was weakness. That’s why I am a cold bitch in tutu. And I’m proud of it.

Insult me — go on.

That’s a compliment.

Why? Because I know you’re jealous.

Drown in your jealousy. For my luscious lips, my pale skin, my skinny body, my slim fingers. I know I’m gorgeous. You can only watch me on the stage or lick the ground I walk.

That’s all you get from me.

But you want a little hush-hush?

I’ll gift you a glimpse of my pretty face, curl my lips like I curl my toes, bat my lashes — only when I need your leverage. Otherwise, you’re no different from my chewed gum.

I don’t care about you. I don’t care about the world.

I only want to dance. I only want to kill.

Like a killer ballerina.

On stage, I pull it with brutal grace, much like the times I kill. On stage, I stand on my tippy toes, raw and bleeding from the relentless pressure — much like the sharp blade I wield in darker moments.

I don’t feel when I kill. But I do when I dance.

I let myself be swallowed whole by the tale. I feel the pain of the story I tell with every step, every move, every mimic. And it feels like being high. Flying with every beat.

It’s terrific and spellbinding magic.

And you’ll see it when you look at me. Look at me. Watch me. You don’t have to listen to me. You don’t have to hear me. Just watch me.

You can read my moves in any language. Because Itella story without words.

I can tell you the story of the white swan.

I can tell you a story of me.

I am the joy, the heartbreak, the rage, the redemption. Like Odette, cursed to live trapped between two worlds: Guns and Roses.

I too was held captive — by Kieran Dorchadas, who stole my freedom and shattered me for a period of time. My wings folded tight against the pain of confinement, my spirit was crushed beneath his domination.

Every moment in his captivity was like the swan’s endless days in the lake — longing for release, aching for the light, struggling to remember who I was beneath his control.

IwasChiara Cara Alessi.

IamChiara Cara Alessi.

But just as the white swan’s dance is a fight against her curse, every step I took — even trembling, broken — was a rebellion.

I trusted him. We had an arrangement. I should be his guest for a while. But he made me his captive. And shattered my trust.

I was so stupid for trusting the enemy.

The heartbreak was real, sharp as the cold water under her wings, but so was the rage that burned beneath my skin. And from that fire, I forged my redemption.

Embodying a character is my talent, becoming the black swan is my favorite part of this tale. Because it reflects me.

My life.

As I vindicated myself to survive, to make Kieran Dorchadas lick his evil misdemeanors. No one kills my friend. No one confines me.

And no one takes my grandpapa’s mansion.

He’ll pay for it all. I want him — oh, I want him bad. On his knees. Begging for forgiveness. I don’t care about his royal title or his power.

I want it. I get it.

But perfection takes time. So does getting him on his knees. His gumption makes him a mastermind, too shrewd to fall easily.

Yet.

He’ll fall for me.

He’s drawn to me. He watches every time I tell a story on stage. Our eyes lock every time — ironic in a big crowd. They always find him.

And I’ll wrap myself around him like the ribbons on my pointe shoes — tight, inexorable, impossible to pull away from.

I’ll seduce him with every glance, every curve, every silent step that pulls him deeper. But this isn’t a game for girls anymore. This isn’t college. That’s not a boy.

That’s a man. A fucking powerful man.

I have to grow.

I need to become a woman — sharp, dangerous. I want his warped mind wrapped around my delicate finger. Then, I’ll wrap my ribbon around his neck — graceful, fierce, deadly.

And pull. Until he yields.

Because I won’t abide. I won’t look away. I won’t step back.

My heart is too cold and cruel to forgive. I even doubt it beats sometimes. But every time our eyes lock, it skips a beat.

He makes my heart beat. Not with love. Not with excitement. No. He scares me. But my ego refuses to shrink. I never played the dwarf. And never will.

That’s why I face him. Always when he visits me after my performance, behind the stage, handing me a gift like my sugar daddy.

And no matter how affluent I am, I love gifts.

I slip into my changing room, the echoes of applause still trailing me. The heavy door clicks shut behind me, cutting me off from the world, the stage, the crowd.

Then he’s there. In my room. His hands are bloody, clutching my gift like it’s a trophy. A sleek black box wrapped in red satin.

It’s like tradition.

“For you.”

I take the box from him, fingers brushing the smooth satin ribbon. Slowly, deliberately, I peel it free.

“You bought me Louboutins. Ballerina heels,” I murmur, eyes locked on the rosy soles gleaming under the harsh light. The leather is smooth, flawless — every curve and stitch a testament to elegance and power.

It’s more than a gift — it’s a reminder of the world I inhabit, the thin line between beauty and pain, power and submission.

I look up at him.

“You look thinner.”

I snort, setting the box down on my makeup table, crossing my arms. “Thinner? You called me ‘chubby cheeks’ the time you held me hostage.”

Unfazed, he smirks — slow, crooked, like a shark circling. “That was almost four years ago. And guest. You were my guest then. A very unwilling one. And I showed you plenty of chivalry... until you broke my rules.”

I narrow my eyes. “Oh wow. Still an asshole, I see.”

He chuckles quietly, amused. “And you still know how to get under my skin,little fawn. Good girls say thank you when they get a gift.”

I hold his gaze, fierce and rebellious. “And bad girls get on their knees and open their mouths wide. What do you think I do whenmy boyfriendspoils me, Mr. Douchebag?”

A nickname I owe to Delaney.

“Dorchadas,” he corrects, stepping closer, the heat of him filling the cramped room, closing the distance until I can’t ignore it.

He leans in, smirking like he’s already won. “Stop taunting me. You still don’t know who you’re dealing with. And I wouldn’t know what your boyfriend prefers — I don’t get involved with little girls. Only women.”

I arch a brow, arms still crossed. “Then what are you doing here, spoiling me with gifts? You don’t seem like the type to play Santa Claus. We have Christmas for that.”

His gaze darkens, but the twisted smile lingers. “I like your performance. Watching you dance in your friend’s pool of blood—” he pauses, voice dropping to something almost reverent, “—it’s like déjà vu. A commemoration I love to reanimate.”

Bastard.

My mouth twists into a smile that’s all teeth.

“Careful with your commemorations, Dorchadas. My father would be more than happy to reanimate those memories — by killing you the way you killed my friend. All it takes is him finding out you’re in my changing room.”

His chuckle is low, rich, and infuriating. “You won’t tell him.”

“Oh, won’t I?” I tilt my head, testing him.

“You haven’t. All these years.” His gaze is steady, unshakable. “You could have opened your pretty mouth at any time. You didn’t. Not then, not now. And we both know why.”

I let a slow, dangerous smile spread across my lips. “Because I love gifts. So... what’s my next one?”

His smirk deepens. “Food,” he says without hesitation. “You’re too thin.”

I give a short, amused laugh. “That’s how ballerinas are — thin and flexible.” I let the last word roll off my tongue, letting it drip with suggestion.

Then I turn away, striding toward the wardrobe wall. I don’t rush. I let my movements stretch, slow and graceful, my fingers already finding the zipper at the back of my costume.

I tug it down, the fabric loosening around me, slipping over my shoulders.

The light catches my skin as I step behind the thin partition. The shadow I cast on the wall is unmistakable — every curve, every line of me outlined in stark silhouette. I know he’s watching.

I let him. For some mysterious reasons, I don’t mind his eyes on me, or more like my silhouette.

“You’re staring, Dorchadas,” I call from behind the screen, my voice teasing, taunting. “You can watch, you know. I’m legal now — too old to groom, but just right for you to keep.”

“I prefer not to. I don’t like what I see.”

The jab lands, and I huff, my chin lifting though he can’t see it. The insult burns, but I smother it, giving him nothing but silence. Yeah — offence taken.

When I speak again, my tone is lazy, edged with mockery. “So what is it you like, then? Just so I know what standard you keep bragging about... I stay out to dodge a bullet.”

A beat. His gaze weighs on me like a hand at the back of my neck.

“Healthy.” The word rolls out of him like a judgment, heavy and unshakable.

I step back fully clothed. My fingers find the pair of Lulubatoun heels he bought for me. I lift them, placing them in front of him, one by one, letting the soft click of their heels against the wood mark each moment.

“Tie them for me,” I echo, stepping into the heels.

His eyes simmering with defiance.

“Please,” I add softly.

And he bends, reaching for the straps. I don’t flinch, don’t step away. I watch him, every movement measured, I love his hands. Long fingers. Veiny. They look great against my skin.

“And know this,” I add, letting the words hang, bending closer to his ear, “I will starve myself to death before I fall into your healthy category of women.”

My statement is a challenge. His hands pause mid-stride, the leather straps loose in his grip. He looks up at me, his eyes tell me he accepts the chase.

But I don’t run away. I face him.

“You already do,” he says, eyes skimming over my body, “turning yourself into a bag of bones.”

I let a slow smile curl over my lips, unshaken. “You know your way out,” I drawl, leaning just slightly closer, “and wipe the drool from the corner of your mouth before you walk out. It’s embarrassing.”

“Until our next reconciliation, little fawn,” he says with a hum. With that, he walks toward the door just as my boyfriend enters.

A bouquet of flowers is thrust into my view, and my lips curve into a genuine smile. I pull him inside while Kieran walks out.

“Hello,” I greet him, stepping forward.

My fingers brush against his as I take the flowers, and before he can react, I press a quick, warm kiss to his lips. Then I turn toward Kieran, who watches us near the door.

“Excuse us,” I smile at him. “I have to thank my boyfriend for the flowers — like bad girls do.” I mutter the last part before closing the door in his face.

But not before I catch the discerning look in his eyes, like he wants to kill my boyfriend.

Yet I cannot help but be scandalous in my affairs — taking gifts from an older man while getting on my knees for my boyfriend.

SCANDALOUS AFFAIRS

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