Dance of the Cursed

Clara

A thick fog clung to the window high above the bathroom wall, softening the morning light that tried to break through the condensation. The white tiles were cold beneath my feet, slick with the moisture that seemed to coat every surface. The mirror above the sink clouded with steam, distorting my reflection as I stood before it, bathrobe tied loosely around my waist and frustration burning in my eyes.

My breath came in sharp, uneven bursts once again as I gripped the gemstone with shaking hands. My muscles locked as I twisted my fingers, trying to pry the damn thing loose.

But it was still there, lodged against my skin beneath my collarbone.

I don't remember when it had appeared, but I sure as hell know it wasn't there yesterday. The shock of finding it this morning had been enough to rattle me to my core. I hadn't felt any pain, no prickling sensation, no warning. It was just there, as if it had grown beneath my skin overnight.

A small, perfectly cut stone, like something out of a bad fairytale. I'd stared at it in disbelief, wondering if I had somehow injured myself in my sleep or if I was hallucinating—maybe staying up late to binge-watch movies or finish my novels had finally taken their toll—but no. It was real. It was stuck there, pressing against my skin as if it belonged. It felt bonded, fused to my flesh.

How the hell did I not feel it?

"Damn it," I hiss, feeling a surge of anger directed at the stone, at Alister, and at the inexplicable situation. How could this be happening? One moment it was a beautiful gift, and the next, it was a part of me, like a wart.

Sweat beaded on my forehead, my skin clammy under the robe. I gritted my teeth and tried again, forcing my nails under the edge, hoping this time it would loosen, would give.

But nothing.

I had scrubbed at it in the shower, taken the roughest washcloth I could find, and practically skinned myself trying to erase it. Nothing. No soap, no water, no force could remove it.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted my concentration, causing me to stiffen and pause.

"Miss Clara?" Maria, the maid's voice was polite and unbothered, though there was the usual edge of annoyance I'm always forced to ignore. "Breakfast is about to be served, and I noticed you haven't done your exercises yet."

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. Exercises. Of course. I'm way off schedule.

I exhaled slowly. "I'll be out in a minute," I muttered, though I wasn't sure if I was talking to the maid or to myself. I hear her footsteps retreat out of the room, leaving me alone again with my reflection and the stillness of the room pressing down on me.

I touch the gemstone once more, the skin around it raw and irritated. Why wouldn't it come off?

I take a step back, and I think about what to do next.

This is all Alister's fault. How dare he give me something like this? I have to confront him about it. He's the only one who might know what to do, how to get it off, or at least why it was there. But when I asked Maria if she could see it, she looked at me like I was crazy. She had no idea what I was talking about. And when I asked a few other servants, they just shook their heads, as clueless as the last.

I went to my mother next, hoping for some kind of answer, but all she did was scold me for my appearance and told me I shouldn't be showing my face before I cleaned up. Her dismissive tone stung, but it was nothing new. The point was, no one could see it. No one but me.

It didn't make any sense.

Shaking off the lingering unease, I yank the robe off my shoulders, slipping into a checkered dress, the fabric cool against my overheated skin, but no matter how much I adjusted it, I could still feel the gemstone. Like a weight. Like an intrusion.

Once out of the bathroom, I grabbed my phone off the dresser and, without hesitation, dialed Alister's number. It rang once. Twice. Until going straight to voicemail.

I clenched my jaw. Of course, he wasn't answering. Useless bastard.

I shove the phone into my pocket, deciding that for now, there was no point in waiting for him. There was no use in making a scene over this—not yet. I had other things to worry about. There was a schedule to follow. A day to get through.

I grabbed my brush, quickly pulling my hair into a loose braid. It wasn't perfect, but it was tidy—acceptable. That was what mattered. Looking polished, composed, and presentable. Always. No one cared if I was exhausted. No one cared if I was frustrated, furious, or falling apart inside. What mattered was the image I projected. The daughter of Luther Austin had a standard to uphold. My mother made sure of that.

As I applied the finishing touches of my makeup, my gaze fell to the thin golden bracelet on the dresser. A pretty gift, but not really my taste. The design was something my grandmother will adore, though, which was why I had set it aside for her. She'd appreciate it far more than I ever would considering her love for these things.

Slipping it into my palm, I turned on my heel and strode out the door.

♡......💙......♡

Margaret Austin, the formidable matriarch of the Austin family, once commanded boardrooms with an iron will and an unmatched vision. She had built upon her father's legacy, transforming the company into an empire with sheer determination and strategic brilliance.

This woman now lies frail and vulnerable in her bed. Her body, weakened by age and illness. Her hair is snowy white, and her skin is pale, almost translucent as it clings to her fragile frame. Her bedside table is cluttered with an array of medications. Bottles of pills, vials of serum, and inhalers organized neatly.

The woman who had built an empire was now battling against something she couldn't negotiate her way out of.

As I enter the room, Grandma's gaze locks onto mine with a hint of confusion.

The caretaker, who had been tending to her needs, looks in my direction. "Can you come sit here for a minute? I'll be right back."

I nod, and she quietly slips out of the room, leaving us alone.

"Clara?" Grandma's voice is weak but hopeful as she asks.

"The one and only," I say, offering a small smirk as I sit on the chair beside her. "How are you feeling today?"

"Better than yesterday," she says, though the way her fingers toyed with the blanket told me otherwise.

"That's good to hear."

She exhaled slowly, then asked, "And your father and uncle?"

I hesitated, unsure how to answer. "They're doing well," I said after a pause. "Looking forward to seeing you soon."

She let out a weak laugh, shaking her head. "Oh, Clara… You're sweet to say that, but we both know they don't come unless they need something, even though I'm only a few steps away. They're too busy with work. It's understandable."

She wasn't wrong. Her twin sons had always prioritized the company over family. That was why, years ago, she had forced their hand, declaring that the first of them to have a child would inherit the company. Absurd as it was, It still worked. My father married first, I was born, and the company's future had been decided—much to my uncle's displeasure.

Then, with a knowing glance, she added, "And you? Keeping up with everything?"

I knew exactly what she meant.

"As always," I said, with an easy shrug. "The schedule never stops."

"Good," she said simply. "Discipline is what separates those who succeed from those who waste away. Your parents push you because they must. You understand that, don't you?"

I smiled faintly, even as something twisted inside me. "...Of course."

Margaret had never been the very coddling type. Unlike most grandmothers who spoiled their grandkids, she was the kind who measured love in expectations. If you weren't being pushed, you weren't worth pushing.

I reach into my pocket, pulling out the thin bracelet. "I actually came to give you this."

Her gaze softened as I lifted the delicate piece of jewelry. "It reminded me of you," I said simply, unclasping it.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." I take her wrist gently, wrapping the bracelet around it and fastening the clasp. "It looks good on you."

She smiles warmly. "It's lovely, dear. Thank you."

A knock at the door broke the moment. The caretaker had returned, offering me a gentle nod. "Clara, you should head down for breakfast now."

As I stepped out of the room, I pushed the gemstone from my thoughts. There were more pressing matters to deal with.

...like the awkwardness at the breakfast table. Now elevated, due to my uncle's family staying over for a few days.

If someone had asked me about the most uncomfortable moment of my life, I would have confidently mentioned the time my classmates threw me a surprise birthday party on the wrong day or the time I got an 70 on my exam.

But this?

Breakfast with the Austins?

This has officially claimed the top spot.

The family sits around the dining table in a kind of oppressive silence, punctuated only by the occasional clink of silverware on plates or the soft clearing of throats. It's as if they are holding their breath, waiting for something to happen, for someone to break the spell. Time itself seems to be slowing down, each tick of the clock stretching out into an eternity. In this atmosphere, every small gesture takes on a magnified significance. A raised eyebrow, a pursed lip, a hesitant glance—all are scrutinized and analyzed. It's both suffocating and mesmerizing, like watching a slow-motion train wreck.

My father sits at the head of the table, his presence imposing as always. He eats in controlled, deliberate motions, his sharp eyes scanning the table between bites. To his left, my uncle, though bearing some resemblance to him, has a far gentler presence. Where my father is all strict lines and cold authority, my uncle carries a quiet warmth, the kind that makes his company bearable even in moments like this.

Next to him, my aunt sits with her usual composed expression. She is a quiet woman, always keeping to herself. Her eyes reveal little, but I've seen glimpses of something darker in them before—a storm well hidden beneath still waters.

To my father's right, my mother sits with perfect posture, cutting into her breakfast with precise, delicate movements. Even in the simple act of eating, she exudes control, her presence casting a shadow over the rest of us.

Beside me, James sits with his head slightly bowed, pushing his food around his plate. His silence is normal, expected. He knows better than to draw attention to himself.

Finally, my mother speaks. "Katherine, I heard Daniel is coming back from London tomorrow." She doesn't look up as she says it, but the weight behind her words is unmistakable.

I feel my heart stop at his name. Why him...why is he coming now?

Katherine, my aunt, barely hesitates, but I see the way her shoulders stiffen. "Yes, he called yesterday. I'm looking forward to having him here." She offers a polite smile, the kind that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

My mother raises a perfectly sculpted brow. "That's great news. Although…" She tilts her head ever so slightly. "Is everything alright? It's rather last-minute, isn't it? I assume this isn't like the last time he had to go away so suddenly?"

The words hang in the air, deceptively light. But we all know what she's really asking.

Daniel, my cousin who is a year younger than me, had to leave because he was failing his business courses. Spending his days drinking and goofing off instead of focusing on the future carefully laid out for him. It had been an embarrassment, a stain on the family's reputation, one my mother had never hesitated to bring up.

Katherine's grip on her knife tightens, but her voice remains steady. "Barbara, everything's fine. He's doing well. He just misses home."

She turns back to her plate, cutting into her food a little too forcefully. Her jaw clenches, the tension in her body just barely restrained. She wants to say more. She wants to put an end to the passive-aggressive prodding. But she doesn't.

My uncle clears his throat. "It'll be good to see him again. I'm sure he'll be happy to catch up with everyone." His voice is calm and warm—an attempt to steer the conversation into safer waters.

My aunt exhales, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. "Yes," she agrees softly.

The conversation dies there, but the tension remains, lingering beneath the surface like a crack in the foundation.

I simply stare down at my plate as I eat.

A small portion of food sits there, barely enough to call a meal. I don't need to look around to know what this was. My punishment. The consequence for skipping my usual morning routine.

Which would have been worse if it hadn't been for our guests present. Painfully worse.

I had been so preoccupied with trying to figure out how to remove the gem from my chest that I hadn't noticed the time slip by. I hadn't noticed I'd missed my exercise.

The guilt sits heavy in my stomach, and the food before me seems to mock that. But I say nothing.

"Clara," my uncle calls out softly. His eyes flick to my plate, then to mine. "You should take more. You can't be eating this little."

I feel my mother's sharp gaze land on me before I even look up. I don't need to see to know she's watching me.

I give my uncle a tight smile and shake my head. "It's okay. I'm not that hungry." I try to keep my voice polite.

I glance at Maria, the brunette maid standing at the corner with another maid. Her lips curving into a smirk as she enjoys the situation. I knew it. That snitch.

He frowns. "Are you sure? You need to eat properly—"

"She was off schedule today. So she doesn't feel that hungry." My mother asserts. When it looks like my uncle is about to say something else, she continues. "Clara understands the importance of maintaining a good routine."

At that, the table goes still.

"One deviation, one moment of slipping out of habit, and it all falls apart. Her father and I put in a lot of effort to ensure the schedule works for everyone. It's important." Her gaze cuts straight at me.

"You're the oldest," she continues, her voice softening just a touch, though the underlying firmness never leaves. "You have to set an example. If you start skipping things, the whole balance of the family shifts. We need structure, Clara. Do you understand?"

I swallow, her words sinking in deeper than I want them to. I nod, keeping my face composed. "Yes, of course."

My uncle's eyes flicker to my mother briefly before he resumes eating.

I can feel the vibrations of my phone buzzing in my pocket. I glance down at it, hoping for a glimpse of something that might give me a bit of an escape, or hopefully Alister finally bothering to reply, but it's just a promotion ad.

I quickly type a short message to him: Call me back when you can. I need to talk.

My heart sinks as I send it. No response, not even a glance at my text. I bite my lip and shove the phone back into my pocket, trying to stay calm, but it's hard to focus on anything else.

My father suddenly clears his throat and stands, breaking the silence that's settled back over the table. His chair scrapes against the floor as he pushes it back, the sound sharp in the otherwise still room.

"Excuse me," he says in a low voice, his eyes glancing briefly at my mother. I can't help but notice the stiffness in his movements as he turns and heads for the stairs.

I finish the last bite of my meal and push my chair back. "I've got a morning class today," I lie casually, offering a polite smile to the table. "I should get going before I'm late."

My mother's eyes flicker to me for a moment, a hint of skepticism in them. She opens her mouth, no doubt ready to offer another critique, but I'm already on my way to the stairs. As soon as I'm away, I pull my phone out. But once again, Alister's name is still absent from the notifications. No reply. Nothing.

I take a deep breath, resisting the urge to throw the phone across the room.

I'll just have to barge into his house then.

..........

Thanks so much for reading!🤗💖

Hope you enjoyed it. I'd love to hear what you thoughts on this 💭. Stories don't just belong to the writer—they come alive through the reader.📖

Take care of yourself. You're doing better than you think.👍