When Sloane's father (a wealthy, old-fashioned, well-known politician) disowned and cut her off from the family for wanting to pursue a career in dance instead of accepting the partial scholarship she received from Oxford, she would need to earn qui...
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Getting accepted into the Conservatoire for Dance and Drama in London was an absolute dream that I have had ever since my mother enrolled me in baby ballet as a little girl. Not one week went by where I didn't dance. When I broke my ankle in the seventh grade, I would still stretch every day, cartwheeled whilst starting off on one foot and landing on the same and pirouetting until my ankle on my good foot became numb. When we went for our yearly family holidays to Ibiza and Bora Bora, my father would bring along one of my favourite dance teachers, Miss Natalie and we would practice every day all day.
I lived in a big, beautiful house that I had lived in for all of my 19 years of life, it was over 200 years old with vines going up the front. Sitting over 400 meters behind the heavily guarded front gate, it had six bedrooms and nine bathrooms. The slightly modernised interior gave the place a less creepy and more homely ambience. The foyer had two gently curved staircases that met in the middle in a balcony-type area with a tall curved archway underneath that led towards the oversized, much-loved kitchen that was situated to the left. It was the area where I spent a lot of time in with our chef Susie, a sweet middle-aged lady whose cooking tasted more of love than my own mother's hugs, and the smell of freshly baked bread woke me up out of my morning daze every day before school. Outside, there were miles upon miles of vibrantly green land as far as the eyes could see, fields filled with horses, stables, horse riding practice areas, neatly trimmed hedges and roses bushes. When guests came around, my father's extensive vintage car collection was left on display next to the large, intimidating black front doors, consisting of many Ferraris, Mclarens, Aston Martins, Porsches and Jaguars.
However, when I admitted to my father that I had rejected a partial scholarship to the university of Oxford to go to the Conservatoire for Dance and Drama, he immediately disowned me without thinking twice My family had a history of going to Oxford. Both my mother, father and all of their siblings went, all four of my grandparents went, my older sister Bella is there now, and when I told him I didn't want to go, it was safe to say that he was beyond fucking pissed.
My father is a well-known politician. Michael Norris, also known as the biggest misogynistic, racist asshole in all of England. Despite having four daughters, two sisters and a wife, he still insisted that men were and should still be treated as superior. Not allowing any women, people of colour or any man who didn't have a white European background in his political party. He never made school or friendships easy for my sisters and I. People thought that being his daughter meant that er would have the same views as him. Some of my friends would beg me to make sure that he was out when they came over to ensure that he was not going to scream at them, and every time I brought a boy home, he would not leave my side, scaring almost all of them off.
It was hard to remember all the good times I had spent with him when I was little. His caring side was only something that I saw until I was 10 years old and after that, I was treated like absolute shit.
My mother was the living breathing definition of a gold digger (I mean, why else would you stay with a man who couldn't give two shits about his own wife?) she was constantly getting her hair done, buying expensive designer bags, posting on her Instagram and going to lavish posh brunches with her other posh friends that she met at university. Despite also going to Oxford and studying Law, as soon as she graduated she married my father. She had often told me stories from her time there after she had drunk a few too many glasses of some overpriced, expensive chardonnay with a name you could not possibly pronounce. Although most of her stories just consisted of all the guys she hooked up with and all the lavish parties she went to. She never actually cared about law or working in general, she had come from the same posh lavish lifestyle as I had, her father being a well-known plastic surgeon that celebrities such as Marilyn Monroe went to. My grandmother was the same as my mother, a gold-digging princess of a bitch who had everything done for her.
