Part I -- Kitty (1)

The morning light spilled through gauzy curtains, stirring the air of Kitty Covent Garden flat. A soft breeze lifted the sheer fabric, making it ripple like water, and for a moment the room itself seemed to breathe.

Kitty stood on the balcony, bare feet against the cool stone, her silvery blonde hair caught up in a messy bun. A few strands slipped loose, falling across the curve of her neck. The sunlight touched her skin, pale and fine as porcelain, and lit the green in her eyes as she gazed down the street. From here, she could see the roofline of the Royal Opera House. Just last week, she was made a principal ballerina-only three years since graduating from the Royal Ballet School. The thought swelled in her chest, sharp as triumph.

A hand slid around her hips, possessive, anchoring her in place. Gold caught the light-his Rolex glinting, the cuff of a suit jacket pressed close. He smelled faintly of cologne and polished leather.

Kitty turned her head, lips curving in a smile both tender and teasing. He wasn't the picture of youth-balding, well into his forties, time having softened his edges-but his arms tightened greedily around her.

"God," John Washington murmured in his easy American drawl, "how can I leave when you look this beautiful in the morning?"

Kitty gave a soft laugh, brushing her cheek against his. "Oh, Daddy, you do know how to make a girl blush." She pouted, lips parting just so. "I only wish you wouldn't leave."

"Me too," he said, kissing her again, indulgent, hungry.

Then his phone buzzed on the table inside. The screen lit up: Wife. Neither of them mentioned it. He kissed her once more, rougher this time, then reached for his jacket.

"Don't forget my pocket money, Daddy," Kitty chimed, her tone lilting, playful. "I need tutus and pointe shoes."

John grinned, smoothing a hand over her hair. "Anything for you, honey. Add some necklaces to that."

The door closed behind him, the echo of his polished shoes fading down the hall. Kitty exhaled, shoulders loosening, her smile flattening into something else entirely. Relief. Detachment. All at once, the careful care she had worn like perfume simply melted away.

She couldn't have cared less where he went, or when he would return. Once he was out of sight, he might as well have ceased to exist. To feign affection for him was its own kind of labour-a task she had performed a hundred times before, and would a hundred times again-but the act always left her aching for air. Her sigh now was not wistful but liberating, the sound of a girl slipping free from costume.

She drifted back into the bedroom, to the dressing table where a velvet box lay open. Inside, a pair of diamond studs winked under the morning sun. Tiny things-simple, almost modest-but still diamonds. She fastened them into her ears, tilting her head in the mirror.

"Yes," she whispered, lips curving again, though this smile was all her own. "Diamonds do suit me."

She pulled her designer gym bag onto her shoulder, slipped into a cream-coloured summer dress that clung just enough to flatter her figure, the side slit swaying with every step, and left for the Opera House.

Her real lover awaited her there: the stage.

It never ceased to amaze Kitty how magnificent the Royal Opera House looked; every day felt like a new experience-like she had stepped into another dimension where the sky was gold, the grass royal red, and people moved so elegantly to the sound of music. And to think, just a few years ago, her ballerina dream had nearly crumbled beneath the strain of poverty, the heavy chorus of doubt, and the suffocating grasp of a man who sought to control her. Yet somehow, through grit and sacrifice, she had fought her way here-onto the threshold of the stage that would decide her fate.

Penelope Byrne-that was her real name. But people had long grown used to calling her Kitty. Penelope Byrne now existed only on her ID card and driver's license.

Kitty was born in Kilvara, County Kerry, Ireland-a quaint little village cradled between mountains and sea. To some, it felt like a safe embrace, a kind of natural protection. But to Kitty, whose dreams stretched far beyond the horizon, that same embrace felt like a cage. The village's majestic beauty, so adored by others, became her gilded prison.

She had been doing ballet since she was three years old. What began as a simple childhood activity blossomed into a lifelong passion. Though money was tight, her parents did everything they could to nurture Kitty's love for dance-scraping together enough for lessons, leotards, tutus, and eventually, the sacred pointe shoes.

For Kitty, the first time she slipped her feet into pointe shoes felt like being crowned queen. For her parents, it marked the beginning of an even longer list of expenses and an even tighter stretch of the household budget.

Kitty could never forget the pawnshop. The air was thick with the must of damp wood, dust, and something sour-old coats and mildew, maybe. The brass scales on the counter gleamed faintly, though everything else seemed dulled by years of trade. Each shelf whispered of loss: chipped teacups, clocks that no longer ticked, and trinkets that once had pride of place in someone's home.

Being fitted for pointe shoes had been good news. But reality set in when Mrs. O'Hare-Kitty's ballet teacher-explained the price, and how often the shoes would have to be replaced. All those pirouettes and fouettés devoured satin and glue like fire through paper.

Her mother, though, was unshaken. Sarah Byrne had decided that Kitty's dream was worth the sacrifice. And so, here they were, with a wedding ring laid on the counter.

"Well now, Sarah Byrne," said Mrs. Conan, looking up with a knowing smile. "Back again, is it? My, but look at your wee kitten-grown fierce lovely, hasn't she? Eyes on her like a cat, sure enough. She'll turn a few heads yet."

Kitty, at her mother's urging, had tucked herself into the corner, headphones over her ears, a ballet book open on her lap. To anyone watching she looked absorbed, but the truth was she was listening to every word, each one pricking her heart like a pin.

"Aye, Debby, thank you kindly," Sarah said briskly. "Now-how much for this, then?" She slipped the wedding band from her finger and set it on the counter.

Mrs. Conan clucked her tongue. "What's it for this time? Half me shop's your family's already. I might as well hang a sign that says Byrne's Pawn & Co."

Kitty's gaze wandered the shelves, and her stomach tightened. There was the lamp that once warmed their sitting room. The figurines her late gran used to dust every Sunday. A gold chain, her mother's engagement ring, fine china they'd used on Christmas morning. All staring back at her, mute reminders of the price of her dream.

Mrs. Conan's eyes, sharp as hawk's, flicked toward Kitty's book. A ballerina, caught mid-pas de deux, stared from the page. The old woman rolled her eyes. "Is it for the dancing again, then? What'll come of it, Sarah, do you reckon?"

Sarah bristled. "What I do with me money's none of your business. Now-will you give me a price?"

With a sigh, Mrs. Conan fetched her scale, weighed the ring, and muttered, "Fifty pounds."

Not near enough for a year's worth of pointe shoes.

Sarah tugged at the chain round her neck, drawing out her St. Brigid's medal. "What if I add this?"

From behind the till, Mr. Conan finally spoke, his voice thick with scorn. "Why bother with it at all? The girl's graceful enough already. Best quit while you're ahead. I've heard the talk from the manor, y'know. About the young master sweet on her."

"It's sick!" Sarah snapped, her cheeks blazing. "The man's twice her age. My Kitty's still a child, Mr. Conan. You'll keep that talk out of your mouth."

The man they spoke of was no ordinary villager's son but the young master of Ballyfarren Manor - heir to the estate and next in line for the baronetcy. At twenty-four, he already carried himself with the entitlement of a lord, and the gossip of the parish had long painted him as one who took what he fancied. To the Conans, such a match would have been a prize beyond dreaming. To Sarah Byrne, it was little better than a nightmare.

He only shrugged. "Ach, nonsense. Age is but numbers. Your girl'd be set for life. Lady of Ballyfarren Manor-what more could you want?"

"No," Sarah said, her voice sharp as flint. "Not my Kitty. She's no man's wife, no man's plaything. She's meant for the stage, and she'll dazzle every soul that ever lays eyes on her."

Her eyes flashed as she fixed Mr. Conan with a hard stare. "Mind you, don't be talking like that anymore, Mr. Conan. You'll bring trouble to my James."

"Now," she added, pressing the ring and medal toward them, "count out the money."

The Conans muttered and fussed, but in the end the coins clinked into Sarah's hand.

As the door shut behind them, Mr. Conan's voice drifted out, bitter as smoke:

"Whole family's cracked, so they are. The father off pickin' stones by the sea. The mother pawning the lot. And the girl-head in the clouds with her daft dancing."

Kitty's hand tightened round her book. The words stung, but her mother's voice-"She's destined for the stage"-beat louder in her chest than any insult.

Kitty followed her mother out into the cool Kilvara air, the musty sting of dust and mildew still clinging to her clothes. Her chest felt heavy, as though the pawnshop's shadows had followed them out the door.

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