Another morning. Another day filled with the same endless cycle of routines.
Ji-hoon stood before the mirror in the ballet studio, drenched in sweat, his reflection showing the toll of weeks spent bending to Lucien's will. He stretched his arms out in a perfect line, but his mind was elsewhere—focusing not on the positions but on the growing emptiness inside him.
The last few days had been grueling. Ballet in the morning, lessons in the afternoon, French in the evening. And then, when the rest of the mansion was asleep, Ji-hoon would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering when it would all end.
Lucien wasn't letting up. If anything, his expectations grew heavier each day. The ballet lessons, once hard but manageable, now felt like punishment. Every time Ji-hoon made a mistake, the instructors pushed him harder. They didn't care that his body was exhausted or that his mind was fraying at the edges.
All that mattered was perfection.
"Again, Étienne," the instructor barked from across the studio. Her voice, sharp as always, cracked through the air. "Your lines are sloppy. Focus. I expect more from you."
Ji-hoon's chest tightened with frustration, but he forced himself back into position, ignoring the dull ache in his legs. He lifted his arms, balanced en pointe, and repeated the movements. His muscles screamed, begging for rest, but he pushed on. He had no choice.
With each motion, the resentment inside him built. His body wasn't just tired; it was breaking. His mind wasn't just stretched—it was unraveling. All day, he felt like he was suffocating under the weight of Lucien's expectations, the D'Arcy name pressing down on him.
But no one seemed to notice. No one seemed to care.
As the lesson dragged on, Ji-hoon's movements became sloppier, his focus slipping. He knew he was failing—knew that the instructor would soon call him out for it—but he couldn't muster the energy to care anymore.
Then, it happened. As he attempted another pirouette, his foot slipped out from under him. Before he could catch himself, he crashed to the floor, his body hitting the hardwood with a thud that echoed through the studio.
A sharp intake of breath came from the other students, and the instructor's heels clicked as she marched over to him. Ji-hoon winced, more from the embarrassment than the pain. He could already feel her disapproval looming.
"Get up," the instructor ordered, her voice low and unforgiving.
Ji-hoon gritted his teeth and forced himself back onto his feet, his legs shaking beneath him. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—sweaty, disheveled, utterly defeated. The sight only fueled the storm of anger rising within him.
"You must learn to control your body, Étienne," the instructor snapped, her sharp gaze cutting into him. "Ballet is not just about grace. It is about discipline. And you are sorely lacking in it."
Ji-hoon clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to scream. To shout. To tell her that he didn't care about ballet, that he didn't care about discipline, that he was tired of being forced into a life he never wanted.
But instead, he swallowed it down. He stayed silent.
After what felt like an eternity, the lesson ended, and Ji-hoon bolted from the studio without a word. His legs ached, his feet were blistered, and his heart felt heavier than ever. He walked through the halls of the mansion, ignoring the opulent surroundings, the grandeur that was supposed to symbolize his new life. It all felt hollow.
He found his way to the garden, a place he had come to appreciate for its quietness. The air was crisp, the sky gray, a mirror to his mood. He sat down on one of the stone benches, letting the stillness wash over him. For the first time that day, he could breathe.
But as he sat there, lost in his thoughts, he heard voices drifting through the open window from the parlor. He recognized his mother's voice, soft but strained, and then Lucien's, firm and impatient.
Ji-hoon didn't want to eavesdrop, but something in the tone of their voices pulled him closer. He slipped around the edge of the garden, creeping toward the window. He crouched down, his heart racing as he listened.
"I don't understand why you're pushing him so hard," his mother was saying, her voice tight with worry. "He's just a boy, Lucien. You can't expect him to become you overnight."
"You think I don't know that?" Lucien's voice was low but filled with tension. "But he needs to understand that he doesn't have the luxury of time. We don't. This world doesn't wait for anyone."
There was a pause, then Yuna spoke again, her voice softer. "It's more than that, isn't it? You're not just molding him into a dancer. You're molding him into your heir."
There was a sharp intake of breath from Lucien, then silence. Ji-hoon's stomach tightened as he strained to hear more.
"I don't want him to feel like he's replacing someone," Yuna continued. "I don't want him to think that the only reason he's here is because you can't have children."
Ji-hoon's breath caught in his throat. His blood turned cold as the pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place. He pressed himself closer to the window, his heart pounding in his chest.
Lucien's voice was tense. "Yuna, we've been over this. You know why it has to be this way. Étienne is our future. He is the only one who can carry on the D'Arcy name. Whether he likes it or not, this is his life now."
"And what if he doesn't want it?" Yuna's voice trembled with emotion. "What if he never accepts this? He's already struggling, Lucien. He's breaking."
There was a long pause, then Lucien sighed heavily. "He'll come around. He has to."
Ji-hoon stood frozen, his mind reeling. It all made sense now. The relentless pressure, the expectations, the constant push to become the perfect dancer—the perfect heir. Lucien's desperation to mold him wasn't just about ballet. It was about the D'Arcy legacy. It was about the future Lucien couldn't have on his own.
Ji-hoon was supposed to fill that void.
A surge of anger coursed through him, hotter and more powerful than anything he'd felt before. He was nothing more than a replacement. A means to an end.
He stepped away from the window, his heart racing. He needed to get away. He needed space to think, to process everything he had just heard.
But as he walked through the garden, his thoughts swirling, one thing became painfully clear.
He was trapped. Trapped in a world he didn't want, bound by expectations that weren't his own. And no matter how hard he fought, no matter how much he resisted, he was slowly becoming exactly what they wanted him to be.
A D'Arcy.