“You can’t do anything right, can you?!” shrieked the dance teacher. It was half past 12 and all the other girls had been picked up by their guardians and gone on home, while you were still dancing in your basement. Today the teacher had taught you all a new choreography, but for some reason, you just couldn’t find the energy to do it. You’ve been doing the routine for half the day already, and yet there was always something that would go wrong. A misplaced footing or a wrong hand gesture at the wrong time, which peeved the teacher terribly.

“I’ve had enough of this. We are done for the day.” The dance teacher took out her sturdy ruler and told you to kneel.

You were panting, with sweat rolling down the center of your forehead. You looked at her with angry, tear filled eyes.

“Why are you crying, Rose?” demanded your teacher. “You’ve made mistakes after mistakes today. It was your fault, so why are you crying?”

You said nothing, but balled your fist and kneeled obediently on the floor in front of the mirror. The dance teacher preferred this cruel method of discipline, only because it allowed you to stare at your pitiful reflection in the mirror. She wanted to you to look at yourself while enduring the pain of being punished, that way you can learn from your mistakes instead of doing it again.

Once she lifted her hand up, you shut your eyes tight.

“Hold your arm out, Rose,” said the teacher. Her voice was firm, not a hint of tiredness was in her voice.

I held out my arms and continued to have my eyes closed.

For what felt like minutes, there was an empty silence in the room. She didn’t say anything, but looked at your poor portfolio and felt a mix of pity and sympathy for you. You were so young, the youngest of all the girls here, and it hurt her to hit you. However, these were the instructions given to her by Big Boss, so she had no choice but to oblige to her Boss’s wishes. He had told her to be as mean and strict on his daughter as possible, without backing away in fear because he knew how temperamental you were.

I’m sorry, thought the teacher. Then she raised her arm higher, and with as much strength she could put in, swatted the rule down on your arm. The sound the rule hitting flesh gave her heart a little twinge, but she lifted her arm again to repeat the punishment.

You let out a squeal in pain, but bit onto your bottom lip so that you wouldn’t cry.

If you started crying, she was going to hit you harder.

Fifteen minutes later, she was finished and getting ready to leave. She sent you back to your room, where once the door was closed, you went to your bed and pulled your knees up to your chin and hugged them with your bruised arms. The skin on your arm was slowly turning purple with splotches of blood appearing over them.

Once you heard the maid bid her farewell, and the sound of her engine purring to life outside, your body relaxed and started to bawl hard. You stretched out your arm and stared at the black and purple bruises forming on them, wondering what the hell you did in your past life to receive punishment like this. You had never been hit until you came to America, where it was supposed to be the land of the free. If this was what liberation was supposed to feel like, then you wanted to return home back to Beijing.

Outside, the weather had joined you in your misery. The sound of the rain pit pattering outside, did not calm you, but instead made you cry even harder.

You were tired of dancing. You wanted to give up because you felt like everything you did always went wrong. It didn’t seem like you were improving and it stressed you out even more when every meeting with the dance teacher, ended up in pain.

You wanted to talk to your father about it, but the more time he spent here in America, the more distanced and obscured your relationship with him got. He was beginning to turn into someone different, someone who didn’t like to talk about feelings or go on walks with his daughter anymore. His heart was turning colder by the day, but at the time you had only thought it was because he was becoming a workaholic. If only you knew what a monster he was by then…

When Kris arrived home, you were still awake. He was going to head to his room and greet you the next morning since he knew how much you treasured your sleep, until he noticed the glow of white light beneath your door and grew curious as to why you were still up. He knocked on your door gently, waiting for you to answer. Usually he knocked three consecutive brisk knocks in a row to let you know it was him, but tonight you didn’t say anything.

After the fourth time, Kris opened your door, only to see you curled up on your bed with your eyes still open and tears streaming out of it. It was almost three in the morning, yet you were still awake. Usually you’d be asleep before one, so when he saw that you were still awake, an overwhelming feeling of worriment washed over him and he strode to your side.

Kris stooped down on the floor to meet your eyes, feeling the break of his heart. He studied your depressed figure and carefully reached out to touch your cheek. “What’s the matter?” asked Kris, his voice was soft as he urged for you to speak.

You sniffled and shut your eyes, trying not to cry anymore. One last tear managed to escape and Kris had caught it with his thumb. “Speak to me, I want to know.”

“If I tell you, are you going to do something about it? Are you going to fix the problem?” You asked. Usually you tried not to let your emotions got to you, but tonight you were feeling a little more sensitive and frustrated than usual. One could only keep a façade so long before wanting to explode.

Kris stared at you, with his lips parted slightly. “I can try. Tell me what it is, and I’ll try to fix it.”

“I’m tired of hearing you say the word ‘try’, when all you really do is sit around and watch me suffer.”

“Rose, I’d do anything for you. What are you saying? When have I done that to you?”

You gulped, and then opened your eyes. The words you had just said had hurt him, but he didn’t admit it, though you could see it in his torn expression. You stared into his gentle, brown orbs and sighed as you stretched out your arms, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just… You can’t fix this. It’s something that I’ve got to fix on my own.”

Suddenly, the gentle look on his face was wiped off and his eyes turned dark. “Your teacher did this to you?” he asked through gritted teeth.

You nodded, trying to retrieve your arms and hide them away, but Kris had taken a firm hold on them. He didn’t use his full strength, just enough to keep your arms where they were. When you didn’t pull it away, he tugged your arm softly to him and stared at the imprint of the ruler on your arm. It broke his heart to see you go through such pain to become your father’s show girl, but you had been right. He couldn’t do anything to prevent you from being hurt. He couldn’t stop your teacher from beating you, and he couldn’t stop Big Boss from coming in between you two. A sudden flare of anger surged through him, not because of your teacher, or big boss, but at himself.

Kris hated that he couldn’t do anything to prevent all of this. He promised to protect you, and he had promised that he would tell Big Boss the truth about you two, but whenever the topic arises between meetings about Kris’s questionable relationship with Boss’s daughter, things get tense and Kris would freeze up. He didn’t want to lose his position in the mafia, and he didn’t want you to be pulled away from him. If Big Boss found out about the two of them, Kris would never be allowed to see you again and that just wasn’t something he wanted to happen. He’d rather die, than be away from you.

“I’m sorry,” said Kris, pulling your arm to him. He started running soft kisses up and down, and all over your bruises, leaving butterflies to fill your stomach with each sensual kiss. You knew what he meant, and your eyes softened. You dabbed away the remaining tears that were in your eyes and said, “Come lie with me.”

Kris turned his head away as he taunted his jaw. “I don’t think I deserve to.”

“Don’t be a willy, and come lie down with me.”

Kris was hesitant, but when he saw the look of desire and love in your eyes, he wasn’t able to bring stop himself. He tentatively got into bed and laid next to you. He didn’t feel like he deserved this spot next to you, yet time and time again, you forgave him for his cowardice ways.

“I understand why we can’t be honest with my Dad,” you said. You took hold of his hand smiled up at him, “So I’m not upset with you, Kris. I empathize with you, and I don’t want you to stress over me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say what I did earlier. I guess I am just frustrated with myself. And I’m also very lonely. Sure I have you, but I don’t have 100% of you Kris. You’re not here all the time, and I have no friends. Sometimes I just need to talk to somebody, but I don’t have anybody I can talk to.”

Kris’s lips turned into a straight line, as he listened patiently to what you had to say.

“Sometimes I wonder how different life would be if I had been born into a different family. Would my life become a tragedy or a comedy? I know for certain that, not all poor people are unhappy and not all rich people are happy. So I wonder… would I be unhappy if I had been born into a poor family? Would we love each other more? Would we learn to appreciate thin