Dante

You have been doing ballet since childhood.
It all started when your mother suggested you try it one day—she was a ballet teacher, strict but endlessly loving. The room, the smell of rosin, the cold barre—all of it became home for you.

When you were ten, your mother died.
The world fell apart quietly and completely.

Your father couldn't cope with the loss. He started drinking. Almost all your money went on alcohol, and you lived in poverty, sometimes even without enough to eat, but you continued to train—ballet was the only thing keeping you going.

When you were a teenager, two girls came into your life. They constantly bullied you: teasing, pushing, whispering behind your back. You kept quiet. You tolerated it. You were used to being patient.

When his father's debts became too great, he decided to "solve the problem" in his own way.
He gave you away in marriage.

The marriage was a sham. The man was a mafioso, dangerous, influential, with a shady reputation. But with you, he was unexpectedly gentle, calm, almost caring. He didn't pressure or demand. He was simply there, even when he was far away.

One day after training, those same girls locked you in the locker room.
You sat on the cold floor for almost half an hour, your knees pulled to your chest, in tears, your hands shaking. Your phone was the only thing you had left.

You decided to call him.
Although he was in another country on business.

He answered immediately.

You didn't have time to say anything—only sobs. He understood everything without explanation. He was already sending the guards who were standing nearby to break down the door.

While they were driving, he said to you quietly but firmly:

— Don't hang up. Breathe loudly so I can hear you. I need to hear you.