The following days became an unending loop of rehearsals and lessons. Ji-hoon—or Étienne, as he forced himself to be called—felt the walls of his new life closing in around him. The weight of Lucien's expectations grew heavier with each passing moment, and despite his growing resentment, there was little he could do to escape it.
After the dance lessons, Lucien had taken to personally overseeing Ji-hoon's progress, standing by the barre and correcting every minor detail. The pressure was suffocating. There was no room for mistakes, no room for anything other than perfection.
"You will get it, Étienne," Lucien insisted, his voice a blend of encouragement and steel. "You have the talent; you just need to apply yourself. You're letting your emotions cloud your judgment."
But Ji-hoon's emotions were the only things keeping him tethered to his identity. Every time Lucien pushed him, every correction made, he felt himself slipping further away from the boy he once was.
One evening, after a particularly grueling practice, Ji-hoon collapsed onto a plush sofa in the sitting room, panting. The mansion felt overly silent, but he found some solace in the quiet. Perhaps, he thought, he could find a way to express his frustrations to his mother. He wanted to tell her how much he loathed this forced transformation, how he resented Lucien for pushing him into a mold he didn't fit.
But just as he thought he might approach her, he overheard voices from the parlor. His mother's and Lucien's.
"Lucien, he's struggling," Yuna's voice rang out, filled with concern. "I don't want him to feel overwhelmed. He needs space to breathe."
"It's too late for that," Lucien replied, his tone clipped. "He has to learn. He is destined for this, Yuna. You can't keep coddling him. If you want him to succeed, he needs to understand that we don't have time for weakness."
Ji-hoon pressed his ear against the door, heart pounding. He didn't want to hear this. It felt like a betrayal. His mother was supposed to understand his struggle, not enable it.
"Lucien, I—"
"No!" Lucien's voice thundered, cutting her off. "We cannot afford to let him fail. If he doesn't rise to this occasion, it will reflect on both of us. He is our heir, whether he likes it or not. This is the only path."
Ji-hoon felt a sharp pain in his chest at Lucien's words. His mother didn't protest, and he could almost hear the resignation in her silence. This was supposed to be the safe space he could retreat to, but it was just as constricting as the rest of his life.
"What if he doesn't want to be a dancer?" Yuna's voice trembled. "What if he—"
"He has no choice," Lucien interrupted again, more forcefully this time. "He is not just a boy anymore. He has responsibilities. You need to let him face this head-on, Yuna."
The weight of those words fell heavily on Ji-hoon. He turned away from the door, his heart pounding with a mix of anger and despair. This was not the family he wanted. He had thought his mother would be his ally, his refuge, but she was complicit in Lucien's vision.
As he stumbled away from the door, he felt a spark of defiance ignite within him. He would not let them mold him into something he wasn't. He would resist, but he needed to be clever about it. He needed a plan.
That night, he resolved to learn French—not just because Lucien insisted, but because he wanted to understand every single word they said in those secret conversations. He would act like he was struggling, play the part of the clueless boy, while he secretly absorbed everything.
The next day, he dove into his French lessons with renewed determination. As the tutor droned on, Ji-hoon put on an exaggerated display of confusion. He would stumble over words, feign misunderstanding, all while subtly picking up the nuances of the language.
"Étienne, please pay attention," the tutor would snap, her frustration palpable.
"Sorry," he would say, putting on an innocent smile, his heart racing with the thrill of the deception. "It's just so hard for me."
But the truth was that he was learning—quickly and quietly. He practiced in secret, repeating phrases under his breath when he was alone, writing down vocabulary in a notebook hidden under his bed.
Days turned into weeks, and he grew more adept at the language. And with each passing lesson, he would overhear snippets of conversations between Lucien and Yuna—conversations about him, about expectations, about their future.
One evening, as he sat at the dining table, he noticed the way Lucien's eyes narrowed as he spoke to his mother, their words flowing smoothly in French. Ji-hoon sipped his water, pretending to focus on his meal, his heart pounding as he caught fragments of their dialogue.
"Il ne comprend pas… Il doit se battre pour nous… Je suis fatigué de son attitude," Lucien's voice cut through the air.
Ji-hoon's pulse quickened. He understood enough to know that Lucien was speaking about him, about his perceived lack of effort. His resolve hardened. They thought he was weak? He would show them just how strong he could be.
As the evening continued, he took a breath, steeling himself for what he was about to do. "Maman," he called out, trying to keep his voice casual. "How do you say 'I don't understand' in French?"
Lucien's head snapped toward him, surprise flickering in his eyes. "Why would you need to know that?" he asked, skepticism lacing his voice.
Ji-hoon shrugged, forcing a nonchalant expression. "Just curious. I mean, it's such a beautiful language."
Yuna's eyes softened, but Lucien's gaze hardened. "You should be focusing on more than just phrases," he said sharply. "You need to immerse yourself in it. Understand the culture, the dance, the art."
"I know, but sometimes it's just hard to keep up," Ji-hoon replied, putting on a show of struggling, hoping it would allay Lucien's suspicions.
"Then you must try harder," Lucien said, his voice softening slightly, but still firm. "You are capable of more than you think."
Ji-hoon nodded, masking his triumph as they returned to their meal. He felt a surge of determination coursing through him. If they believed he was struggling, it would grant him the opportunity to slip into the shadows, to gather intel, to plot his escape.
The game had changed, and he was ready to play.