Lord Baron stood there, clutching his bruised wrist, his face a mask of drunken confusion and rage. He looked at the woman in front of him who held a black fan like a weapon of war. Behind her, a young dancer trembled, clutching her torn sleeve, her eyes wide with fear.
Marissa stood firm. She did not retreat. She snapped the fan shut with a sharp click against her palm.
"Keep your hands to yourself," Marissa spoke, her voice cutting through the humid air like a blade. "Dancers can’t be touched. They are artists, not rchandise."
Lord Baron laughed. It was a wet, ugly sound. He looked at the trembling girl behind Marissa, then back at the Duchess with a sneer.
"Do you think I’m here for music?" Lord Baron asked, his voice dripping with scorn. "I have money. I am a noble. I ca here for what I paid for."
He stepped forward, his bulk looming over Marissa. He reached out a hand, intending to shove the Duchess aside to get to the girl.
"Since you won’t give yourself, Move," he growled.
Marissa didn’t move. She stepped forward.
She swung the fan again. This ti, she didn’t aim for the wrist. She thrust the hard, wooden end of the closed fan directly into the man’s soft stomach.
THUD.
It was a precise, brutal strike.
Lord Baron doubled over, wheezing as the air rushed out of his lungs. He stumbled back, clutching his belly, his face turning a sickly shade of red.
Marissa took a step back, creating space. She snapped the fan open with a loud flick. She fluttered it in front of her face, looking down at the groaning man with cold, regal indifference.
The crowd gasped. The other dancers, who had gathered near the stage, looked at each other in shock. They looked at the groaning noble, and then at Marissa. Their eyes were wide with disbelief. No one had ever defended them before. No one had ever struck a noble for their sake.
Lord Baron coughed, spitting on the floor. He looked up at Marissa with hate in his eyes.
"You..." he wheezed. "You are crazy."
He pointed a shaking finger at the building.
"But Lady Senna allows us to touch the dancers," Lord Baron shouted, trying to rally the crowd to his side. "For a good price, she lets us do whatever we want! That has always been the rule here! Who do you think you are to change it?"
Marissa’s eyes narrowed. Hearing Senna’s na, hearing how she had run this place, fueled a cold fire in Marissa’s chest. Senna had turned a place of art into a den of exploitation.
"I am the new owner," Marissa replied. Her voice was calm, final.
Lord Baron staggered upright. He reached into his coat and pulled out a heavy bag of coins. He shook it. The gold jingled loudly.
"I don’t care who owns it!" Lord Baron yelled. "I have money! How much? How much do you want to pay for her? Ten gold coins? Twenty? Everyone has a price!"
He tried to throw the bag at the girl’s feet.
Marissa stepped on the bag of coins before the girl could even look at it. She looked Baron in the eye.
"This is a dance establishnt," Marissa spoke, her voice ringing with dignity. "Not a pleasure house. Your money has no value here."
Lord Baron turned purple. "You refuse ? I will tear this place down! I will—"
He didn’t finish his threat.
Ian appeared then, pushing through the crowd. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. He grabbed Lord Baron by the collar of his expensive coat.
"Hey! Unhand !" Baron shouted.
Ian ignored him. With a grunt of effort, he lifted the heavy man off his feet and threw him.
Lord Baron flew through the air and landed in the dust of the street with a heavy crash. He rolled, groaning, his fine clothes covered in dirt.
Ian stood at the entrance, his hand on his sword, looking at the man with a silent warning: Co back, and you die.
Lord Baron scrambled to his feet. He looked at Ian, then at Marissa. He realized he was beaten. He spat on the ground one last ti, turned, and limped away, disappearing into the crowd, muttering curses.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Then, a whisper started among the dancers gathered at the door.
"Did you see that?" one whispered.
"She hit him. She actually hit him."
"She said we aren’t for sale."
The whispers grew louder. Hope began to bloom on their faces.
"The Grand Duchess has co to restore dignity to our profession," one of the older dancers said, tears in her eyes. "We are not just toys anymore."
They were so happy. For months, under Senna, they had been forced to smile while n grabbed them. They had been told it was part of the job. Now, the rules had changed.
Marissa looked at the frightened girl who was still cowering behind her. The girl was young, barely eighteen, shaking like a leaf.
Marissa’s expression softened. The cold warrior vanished, replaced by a gentle protector.
"Don’t fear," Marissa said softly.
She reached out and rubbed the girl’s shoulder, her touch light and reassuring.
"He is gone. He cannot hurt you."
The girl looked up, her eyes swimming with tears. "Your Grace... I... I thought I was going to be..."
"No," Marissa interrupted firmly. "Not while I am here."
Marissa looked at the girl, then she looked at all the dancers gathered around her.
"For won in this world," Marissa said, her voice filled with a quiet strength, "life is difficult. n think they can buy us. They think we are weak."
She looked at the girl’s tear-stained face.
"But talent is our foundation," Marissa continued. "Skill is our dignity. We will carve our path with artistry. Not with our bodies. Always be true to yourself. If you respect your art, they will be forced to respect you."
The girl wiped her tears. She stood a little straighter. She felt seen. She felt human.
"Thank you, Your Grace," the girl whispered. She curtsied deeply, not out of obligation, but out of respect.
Marissa smiled. She turned to face the patrons who were still sitting in the establishnt, watching the scene with wide eyes. So looked ashad; others looked curious.
"My dance establishnt won’t sell out the body of my dancers," Marissa announced. Her voice was businesslike now. "We will earn cleanly while keeping our dignity. We sell music. We sell dance. We sell beauty. Nothing else."
She looked around the room, eting the eyes of the wealthy n.
"Any of you who feels insulted or offended," she said, gesturing to the open door, "or even disagrees with this policy, is welco to leave. Now."
No one moved. No one left. In fact, so of the n sat up straighter, looking at the dancers with a new kind of appreciation. Respect commanded respect.
The dancers curtsied in unison. It was a wave of colorful silk bowing to their savior.
"Thank you, Your Grace," they chorused.
Marissa nodded. She smoothed her dress, returning to her role as the calm, collected Duchess.
"My apologies for the disturbance," Marissa continued, addressing the crowd. She curtsied perfectly. "Please, go ahead and enjoy your entertainnt."
Reviews
All reviews (0)