#* self-para

Ivy existed in that strange, almost invisible space between being known and not being seen at all. Everyone recognized her work—the girl behind the camera, the one darting across the rink with a tiny microphone that looked comically small in her hand and even smaller when she held it up to players twice her size, the one asking questions mid-laugh, catching reactions, turning ordinary moments into something people replayed on their phones a hundred times. She was the one who showed up with their favorite snacks, remembering details they had mentioned once weeks ago, handing them over with a grin while filming their surprise. She planned everything, scheduled posts, organized appearances, crafted captions that made fans feel closer to the team than they really were. Online, she was a voice, a rhythm, a presence people followed daily. But Ivy herself? That part blurred at the edges. If someone really paid attention, they’d notice her in the background of photos, crouched by the bench adjusting a lens, or standing off to the side during practice, capturing moments no one else thought to look at. She was always there, just slightly out of focus.

Outside of the rink, her life didn’t look the way people expected it to. She still lived with her dad, the coach, something people occasionally commented on with that subtle tone that suggested she should’ve moved on by now, grown out of it, settled somewhere proper. But Ivy never felt behind. She had her independence in ways that didn’t need to be proven through rent or empty apartments. Still, she had looked—more out of curiosity than urgency—walking through spaces that smelled like fresh paint or old wood, imagining herself there for a second before moving on. Sometimes her dad came along, offering opinions she half-listened to, sometimes she dragged Sully with her, turning it into something lighter, something less like a decision and more like an outing. But she never rushed it. There was no timeline pressing against her chest. She liked her life as it was—fluid, slightly unfinished, open.

Her days, when they weren’t filled with hockey, belonged entirely to her. She had a list of coffee shops saved on her phone, each one rated with her own system that had nothing to do with professionalism and everything to do with feeling—vibes, lighting, the way the music blended into the space, how the barista smiled, how the first sip tasted after a long walk. She’d go alone most of the time, headphones on, lips moving silently as she lip-synced to whatever song had taken over her brain that day, her steps matching the beat as she wandered through streets that still felt a little new, a little temporary. She took pictures constantly—corners of buildings, reflections in windows, her coffee cup against the table, the way sunlight hit her shoes—and later she’d sit cross-legged somewhere comfortable, editing everything into something soft and aesthetic before posting it. Her followers weren’t massive, but they were steady, a mix of people who knew her from the hockey page and others who had followed her life long before Euroville. It felt like a quiet kind of connection, one she controlled.

Sometimes she leaned into being a tourist in her own city. She booked visits, wandered through places people who lived there rarely bothered to see anymore. The royal castle was one of her favorites—she’d walk through it slowly, audioguide in her ears, absorbing stories and details like she had nowhere else to be. There was something comforting about existing in spaces where no one expected anything from her, where she could just observe instead of document, just be instead of capture.

She liked silence as much as she liked noise, which confused people when they tried to pin her down. At work, she was quick, talkative, teasing, always ready with another question or idea, but when she was alone, she softened into something quieter. She didn’t mind walking for hours without speaking, didn’t mind sitting in a café with nothing but her thoughts and a half-finished drink. It wasn’t loneliness. It was balance. She existed comfortably in both spaces, never fully one thing or the other.

Nights were slower. Warmer. Familiar. She’d be sprawled on the couch in her dad’s apartment, phone in hand, scrolling endlessly through social media, saving ideas, watching edits, replying to messages she had missed during the day. Her dad would pass by, absentmindedly pressing a kiss to her hair, something so routine it barely registered anymore but still grounded her in a way nothing else did. She’d stay up too late, always, texting people she loved, conversations stretching into the early hours without her noticing time passing.

And then there was Avery.

At some point in the night, almost like habit, she’d find herself texting him. Sometimes it was something random, something she saw that reminded her of him, sometimes it was nothing at all—just a “you up?” sent into the quiet. On nights when the apartment felt too still, she’d sit by the window, legs kicked up behind her, staring out into the dark as she waited for his reply, her reflection faint against the glass. There was something about those moments that felt suspended, like the world had narrowed down to just that conversation, just that connection. Other nights, she didn’t wait. She’d end up at his place instead, wrapped in a kind of privacy that felt temporary but real enough to hold onto, enjoying it without asking too many questions about what came next.

But even in those calm, quiet nights, when everything felt soft and manageable, her thoughts had a way of drifting somewhere deeper. To someone she had never known. Her mother existed more as an idea than a memory—a woman who had left before Ivy could understand what leaving meant. It wasn’t as if Ivy had grown up without love. Her dad had filled every space, every gap, every silence with enough care to make sure she never truly lacked anything. And still… there were moments where the question slipped in, uninvited and impossible to fully ignore. Not loud, not overwhelming, just there. A quiet wondering. If there had been something about her, even then, that had made someone walk away. If there were parts of her she couldn’t see, things she carried without knowing, things that might make people leave once they noticed them.

Delilah stepped out of her car onto the red carpeted steps of the grand hall, the chill of the evening air brushing against the exposed skin of her arms, a faint reminder that even in perfection, she was still human. The flash of cameras caught her gown in a cascade of shimmering light, and she walked with the precision of someone who had been practicing every movement for decades, though her training had never been about dance or performance—it had been about survival, about the relentless, exacting expectation that she would always, in every situation, embody Euroville itself. Each step felt weighted, measured, the heels of her shoes making a faint tap against the stone that was both rhythm and warning. She lifted her chin slightly, not so high as to appear imperious, but high enough that the line of her jaw seemed purposeful, confident, untouchable. Already, the room beyond the doors awaited her, a swirl of murmurs, polite coughs, and the scent of fine perfume mixing with the underlying tang of polished wood and waxed floors. She could hear the low thrum of conversation, the subtle notes of anxiety in the voices of young diplomats meeting for the first time, the careful laughter of officials testing their charm, the quiet exclamations of children dragged along to witness royalty at work.

As she entered, she began the delicate choreography that had been second nature for so long. She smiled, just enough to convey warmth, just enough that it wouldn’t betray exhaustion, impatience, or the occasional pang of loneliness that fluttered in her chest whenever she glanced at families gathered together, sharing whispers and gentle touches that she had rarely been allowed to experience. She shook hands, one after another, each movement precise and deliberate, fingers wrapping just so, nods calibrated to the exact degree of attentiveness expected. “Darlin’,” she murmured with soft sweetness to an elderly woman who had stumbled slightly over her words, catching the woman’s gaze and holding it long enough to assure her that she was seen, that she mattered. Every handshake, every small smile, every tilt of her head was carefully recorded in the silent ledger of her mind. She catalogued faces, posture, gait, the slight hesitations of those trying to appear confident. This was what she did—what she had been trained to do since she was old enough to stand on tiptoe beside her father during ceremonial greetings. She had learned to move through rooms like this without being seen fully, to touch the lives around her without allowing her own to show, to carry the weight of history and expectation as if it were nothing more than a well-fitted glove.

Yet even amidst the perfection, her pulse throbbed faintly, a subtle reminder that she was not merely an icon of duty but a living, breathing human being. She could feel the pressure building at the edges of her consciousness whenever a question strayed too close to her personal life, whenever someone lingered just long enough in conversation to imply curiosity about a marriage, an engagement, a personal choice she was not allowed to make publicly. Her fingers twitched slightly as she offered reassurance to a young diplomat fumbling with words, but her smile never faltered. The inner voice that had grown alongside her training whispered quietly that she was alone in this, that no one could truly see the delicate balance she maintained between perfection and self-preservation. She was always Darlin’, always composed, always unflappable. And yet every measured step, every gentle nod, every carefully measured laugh came at a cost: a small part of herself tucked away, unseen, unheard, unclaimed.

Children were brought forward, wide-eyed and shy, and Delilah knelt to meet them at their level, her movements so natural and fluid that it seemed she had been doing it for pleasure rather than duty. She smoothed a bow, adjusted a sleeve, murmured encouragements, and whispered that their gowns were beautiful, that their voices were important, that they mattered. She could feel their small, rapid heartbeats against her palms and the weight of their awe, and a small, fleeting pang of envy struck her: they could exist without expectation, without the constant awareness of every eye and whisper. Yet she kept her composure, offering warmth without losing the edge of formality, giving kindness without allowing indulgence, and walking away to the next handshake with seamless grace. The hall was endless, a river of bodies and expectations that she navigated as if swimming against a current, never faltering, never slowing, never allowing herself to feel the exhaustion that pressed at her shoulders, tight in her chest.

She moved toward a cluster of dignitaries next, her gait steady, the weight of her gown reminding her of the way every gesture had been drilled into her since childhood. Every word she spoke, every laugh she offered, every nod she gave carried the invisible imprint of centuries of tradition. She complimented speeches she barely heard, expressed delight at events she did not witness, and managed the room with a quiet authority that demanded attention without ever raising her voice. And yet, beneath the polished surface, a small storm of longing persisted. She imagined moments of real laughter with no one watching, quiet corners where she could breathe freely, a chair by a fire where she could simply exist without spectacle. Each fantasy flickered like candlelight in the recesses of her mind before she smothered it under layers of duty. She would never allow herself to indulge. She was the crown, and the crown demanded all of her energy, her attention, her very self.

Her hands, however, betrayed tiny hints of fatigue—the faint quiver when she held them just so, the slight tension in her shoulders—but she did not allow it to show. She greeted the press with flawless poise, thanked the organizers with practiced warmth, and guided every conversation with elegance that left no room for hesitation. Every pause was calculated, every breath measured. She moved from one conversation to another seamlessly, a constant current of controlled grace, and yet in quiet moments, when she passed a mirror or glanced at a window, she saw the hint of exhaustion reflected back. Her eyes, the only honest part of her expression, sometimes flickered with a brief, vulnerable light that was quickly extinguished by a careful blink, a slight lift of her chin, and a composed smile that never faltered.

Even as she moved through the evening, mingling with peers, advisors, diplomats, and children, Delilah carried the weight of self-awareness that her every move was scrutinized. She heard the faintest shift of a conversation and catalogued it; she caught the edge of a whisper and adjusted her posture imperceptibly; she sensed admiration, envy, or the faintest suspicion in a glance, and adapted. Her mind never rested. Her body moved automatically. She laughed at appropriate moments, tilted her head with perfect timing, and extended her hand with the exact balance of warmth and reserve. And all the while, beneath the layers of composure, there was a quiet ache: the knowledge that she was being everything for everyone else while rarely being anything for herself.

By the end of the evening, her gown felt heavier than it had at first, though it weighed nothing materially. Her shoulders ached, her back stiffened, and her mind was a blur of faces, names, and titles she had catalogued without pause. She had shaken the hands of hundreds, exchanged pleasantries with countless adults, guided children through moments of awe, and stood as a pillar of the kingdom’s expectations. Yet, in the rare moments when she could glance at a window or catch the dim reflection of herself in polished surfaces, she allowed herself the briefest acknowledgement that fatigue existed, that longing persisted, and that beneath the perfect composure, she was still human. Still capable of private doubt. Still capable of private desire. She had performed flawlessly, as she always had, but the echoes of what she could never openly feel—freedom, softness, unguarded emotion—followed her like shadows through the corridors and into the quiet of her private chambers.

Dakota hadn’t slept the night he kissed Elio. He had lain on his back in the dim quiet of his childhood bedroom, staring at the dark outline of the ceiling beams he had known since he was a boy, feeling as though the structure above him was steadier than anything inside his chest. The house was silent in that particular ranch way—wood settling, distant wind brushing against siding, the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall. Normally those sounds grounded him. That night, they only made him more aware of how loud his own thoughts were. Every time he closed his eyes, the moment replayed with humiliating clarity: the pause before the kiss, the nervous exhale, the warmth of Elio’s mouth against his, the unmistakable and terrifying truth that it had felt natural. Not experimental. Not reckless. Not like a mistake. It had felt like something his body had been waiting for long before his mind caught up.

By the time dawn edged pale light through his curtains, he had already decided he would go to church. Sunday attendance had never been optional in his life; it was as routine as brushing his teeth or locking the barn doors at night. But that morning the decision carried urgency. He told himself he was going because it was what he always did, because faith required consistency, because discipline mattered. Beneath that reasoning was something far more fragile: he needed to sit somewhere that felt morally structured, somewhere with stained glass and scripture and the kind of order that didn’t bend. He needed to measure what had happened against the framework he had built his life around.

The church smelled like polished wood and old hymnals, like generations of folded hands and quiet prayers. Dakota slid into his usual pew with his shoulders squared and his expression calm, the way it always was. No one looking at him would have guessed that his pulse was uneven beneath the pressed collar of his shirt. He bowed his head when everyone else did, sang when the congregation rose, but his voice felt distant to his own ears. When the pastor began speaking about love—about sacrifice, about walking the narrow path even when it required self-denial—Dakota felt something tighten inside him, not like fire, not like sudden shame, but like pressure building slowly under bone. He had always understood faith as something clear and orderly. There were right choices and wrong ones. There were paths laid out plainly. Yet when he searched himself for regret over the kiss, he found confusion instead. He expected guilt to burn. Instead it pressed quietly, insistently, asking to be named.

As he sat there beneath colored light filtering through stained glass, he tried to force himself into the familiar script he had grown up with. He told himself he must have been caught up in the moment, that loneliness could blur judgment, that he had simply crossed a line he wouldn’t cross again. But every attempt to categorize the kiss as a lapse faltered against the memory of how steady he had felt in it. Elio had not pressured him. There had been no chaos, no intoxicated impulsivity. There had only been closeness and a choice, and Dakota had chosen. That was what unsettled him most. It had not felt like falling. It had felt like stepping forward.

He left church with the same measured politeness he always carried, nodding to familiar faces, exchanging brief greetings, his posture unshaken. If anyone had studied him closely, they might have noticed the slight delay in his responses or the way his eyes seemed fixed on something just beyond the present moment. Back at the ranch, the barn stood half-renovated under the wide Euroville sky, tools exactly where he had left them the evening before. Work usually steadied him. Physical labor translated emotion into something tangible—wood cut straight, nails driven clean, beams aligned. That afternoon, the quiet of the property felt heavier than usual. He walked inside the house instead of toward the barn and closed his bedroom door behind him with a deliberateness that felt almost ceremonial.

He sat on the edge of his bed with his phone in his hand for a long time before he did anything. The room carried remnants of who he had always been: old photographs, worn boots near the closet, a Bible on the nightstand. He had spent years constructing himself around reliability and usefulness, around being the son no one worried about, the brother who absorbed tension before it reached anyone else. Admitting uncertainty felt foreign. Still, his thumb hovered over the screen until he typed the words he had avoided for years: am I gay test. The search results looked almost embarrassingly bright and simplistic compared to the weight in his chest. It felt juvenile, absurd even, that something so enormous might be filtered through multiple-choice questions. Yet he clicked one anyway, because avoiding the question had done nothing but stretch it thinner and sharper inside him.

The quiz asked him things he had spent a decade refusing to articulate. Do you feel attracted to men? He stared at the screen until memories rose uninvited—locker rooms in high school where he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, friendships that had made his pulse jump in ways he explained away as admiration, relationships with women that felt performative despite his best efforts. He had always blamed himself for those failures, convinced he simply wasn’t romantic enough, wasn’t emotionally open enough, wasn’t built for intimacy the way other people seemed to be. Now, sitting in that quiet room, he could no longer ignore the pattern. He selected his answers slowly, deliberately, as if each tap carried consequence.

When the result appeared, decorated with unnecessary enthusiasm, it told him something that felt both obvious and monumental: he might be gay. Dakota let out a breath that bordered on a laugh, though it held no humor. The phrasing was soft, noncommittal, but the word itself echoed louder than anything else had that day. Gay. He whispered it once, testing the shape of it in the air, half-expecting the ceiling to crack open or the ground to tilt. Nothing happened. The house remained still. The ranch stretched wide and unchanged outside his window. The only shift was internal—a subtle but undeniable alignment, like something that had been slightly off-center finally sliding into place.

The guilt did not vanish. It lingered, threaded with fear of disappointing the family he loved, of disrupting the peace he had spent his entire life protecting. He imagined conversations he wasn’t ready to have and reactions he didn’t want to witness. Yet beneath the anxiety was a quiet current of relief. For years he had tried to force himself into a shape that never quite fit, assuming that discomfort was simply part of adulthood, part of faith, part of being strong. Now he began to suspect that strength might also mean honesty. The kiss with Elio had not fractured him. It had revealed him.

He lay back against the mattress, staring once more at the familiar beams overhead. For the first time, the memory of the kiss did not arrive with panic but with clarity. He remembered how careful Elio had been, how there had been room to step away, how the choice had been entirely his. Dakota understood then that what unsettled him most was not the possibility of being gay but the realization that he had always been this way and had simply refused to name it. The test on his phone had not changed him. It had only put language to something that had existed quietly for years.

she found out on a tuesday. not through a call, not a confession — through a glitch. her salon was calm, sunlight sliding across marble, flowers fresh, aprons pressed. she plugged in her tablet, ready to check her shared development drive, confirm shipments, send sustainability notes — everyday ritual, sacred in its routine. except: file not found. then another. deleted by user. her breath caught, a sharp flutter under her ribs. she laughed softly to herself, disbelief sugar-sweet on her tongue — glitch, login error, surely. she tried again. deleted. deleted. gone.

her partner spreadsheet: blank. supplier notes: gone. formulas: wiped. branding decks: erased except one file. she opened it. her palette. her slogan. her tone. but someone else's initials. launching soon. women deserve better. her mission. her voice. stolen like a pulse ripped from her chest.

air vanished. her knees hit the floor behind her salon counter, silk blouse crumpling as she pressed a shaking fist to her mouth to hold in the sound. no, no, not like this… please. a cry broke anyway — soft, strangled, like grief trying to stay pretty even when it doesn’t have to. she called her friend — voicemail. texted — unread. opened instagram — and there it was. teaser video. same aesthetic. same biodegradable pitch. same marble countertop shot. comments flooding: revolutionary queen. changing the game.

her heart didn’t just break, it wilted. betrayal soft and acidic. suppliers answered awkwardly — they thought she stepped back, her “partner” already reached out. she wasn’t angry yet, not truly; with her it always started as heartbreak, trembling hands, that hollow ache like someone scooped her ribs out with a spoon. she cleaned stations that were already spotless, retied her apron even though she had no clients, copied notebook labels with shaking hands — trying to hold the world still by touching it.

she cried again trying to rewrite formulas from memory and realizing how many tiny notes she lost — rose extract too strong, polymer sample #3 promising, name idea: dignity in a bottle. she pressed her forehead to the cool desk. grief didn’t roar; it sank its teeth quietly.

but she didn’t stay in the salon. she went home. didn’t turn on lights. walked to the bathroom like muscle memory. closed the door with a soft click, like loud might shatter her. sat on the tile with her arms around her knees, tears slipping warm down her cheeks, mascara blooming in small black petals. whispered into her sleeves, i trusted her. i trusted her with my dream.

a long breath. another. then she stood. washed her face. pressed serum into her skin like ritual. tied her hair smooth. lit jasmine — her mother’s scent. and looked at herself: red eyes, blotchy cheeks, raw softness — but unbroken. undone, yes. undone isn’t failure — it’s beginning.

she opened her laptop. new folders. new documents. shaky handwriting: you will not take my purpose. underneath: soft is not stupid. she rebuilt a foundation pixel by pixel, grief sitting beside her but not steering. when her reflection caught in the mirror, she didn’t look like a girl betrayed — she looked like a woman refining into steel without losing silk.

“you didn’t steal my dream,” she whispered, voice steadying like sunrise. “you just shoved me into the version of myself that’s going to win.”

The day of the full moon started like any other — or at least she told herself that. She dragged herself through work with the same pasted-on smile, the same routine of scanning memberships, handing out towels, pretending that the mix of sweat, deodorant, and protein powder didn’t make her stomach twist. For weeks now, her body had been off. Stronger, quicker, sharper. She’d heard conversations through walls, smelled things she never wanted to smell, seen in shadows like daylight. But she’d learned to fake normalcy. She didn’t have another option.

The worst part was the hunger. Not for food, not exactly. Protein bars and salads filled her stomach but left her hollow. Sometimes she’d open the fridge at home and catch herself staring at raw meat like it was dessert. She hated herself for it. So she shut the door, slammed it, and swallowed down the ache.

That night, she was on closing duty. The rest of the staff clocked out one by one, offering casual goodbyes, leaving her with the keys and the checklist. She liked it usually. Closing meant quiet, the gym emptied of chatter and clanging weights. She could sweep through each room at her own pace, earbuds in, pretending the world wasn’t pressing so loud against her senses. Tonight, though, her skin was crawling. Every clock tick was sharp, like a nail against her eardrum. The lights seemed too bright, humming too loud. Her chest felt tight, her pulse heavy.

By the time she made it to the mirrored dance room at the far end of the gym — her favorite place, usually — her hands were trembling. She always lingered here, checking the floors, turning off the speakers, but also letting herself dance a little when no one was watching. Dancing was the one thing that still felt like hers, the one anchor she could cling to when everything else had been ripped sideways. But tonight she couldn’t even stretch without her spine feeling wrong. Her reflection looked wrong, too — pupils blown wide, skin feverish.

The moon was already high by then, silver light pouring in through the high windows. She knew it was full. She’d known it all day, felt it like static in her bones, restless and buzzing. But she hadn’t expected this.

The first wave hit so suddenly she collapsed against the wall, gasping like she couldn’t breathe. Fire tore through her back, down her arms, through her legs. Her hands curled into claws without her meaning to. Her nails scraped deep lines into the mirrored glass. She stumbled forward, caught her reflection, and barely recognized herself. Her eyes glowed faintly, veins rising dark beneath her skin, teeth bared in a sound she didn’t mean to make.

Then came the snap. Her knee buckled wrong, bone shifting. She screamed, the sound ricocheting off the mirrors, and fell hard to the floor. The burn in her blood turned into a crack, a grind. Her ribs stretched, her shoulders twisted. She clawed at the wood floor, leaving long, splintered gouges. Every joint popped like it was being torn apart from the inside. Her reflection fractured in the mirror when she hurled into it, glass shattering across the room. Her howl — raw, animal, terrified — echoed back at her.

The dance room became unrecognizable in minutes. Mirrors broken, floor scored by claw marks, the scent of sweat and blood sharp in the air. Betsa writhed on the floor, body convulsing, skin damp with sweat, voice torn ragged. Her spine arched so violently she thought it would snap. She smashed into a stack of yoga mats, tore through them with a strength that wasn’t hers. Her vision pulsed, dark then blinding white, and she could feel the wolf — whatever it was — pushing from beneath her skin, fighting to take over.

By the time the shift broke fully, she wasn’t Betsa anymore. Not entirely. She was something else, crouched in the wreck of the dance room, glass glinting on the floor like stars, claws digging into the wood, chest heaving. The world around her smelled too sharp, looked too bright. She shook her head hard, trying to hold onto herself, but her thoughts scattered like frightened birds.

And then, silence. The aftershock of it. Her breathing slowed. Her body stopped convulsing. She sat there in the wreckage, half-curled, hands still trembling with claws that hadn’t been there an hour ago. Tears stung her eyes, though she couldn’t tell if they were hers or the wolf’s. She was alone, and she had destroyed the only room in the gym that had ever felt like hers.

For the first time since the bite, she couldn’t pretend anymore. There was no hiding this. Whatever had bitten her hadn’t just marked her — it had remade her. And on nights like this, when the moon rose full, she was no longer just a girl who worked the front desk of a gym.

She was a monster.

When she came back to herself, the floor was cold under her cheek. The moon had drifted lower in the sky, its glow washed pale by the earliest thread of dawn. Her body ached like she’d been beaten from the inside out. Every muscle throbbed. Her throat was raw, her hands sticky with blood — though when she checked, it was only hers, cuts from glass and splinters. She sat up slowly, legs trembling, and looked around the room.

It was a nightmare. The once-polished dance floor was gouged, claw marks crisscrossing like scars. Shards of mirror glimmered everywhere, some driven into the wall, others scattered like dangerous confetti across the mats. The speakers were overturned. One of the bars along the wall was bent, snapped out of its bracket like it was made of plastic. And the smell — metallic, musky, sharp with adrenaline and sweat — was unbearable.

Betsa’s stomach lurched. Her first instinct was to run. Just run, get out, leave the keys on the counter and disappear. But reality clawed at her as hard as the wolf had: this was her job. Her one source of stability. She couldn’t lose it. Not now.

She spent the next hour on autopilot. Picking up glass, stacking what mats hadn’t been shredded, sweeping frantically. Her hands shook so badly she cut herself twice, but she didn’t care. Every scrape, every gash healed faster than it should have anyway. By the time the sun was fully up, she’d piled the worst of the broken mirrors into garbage bags, shoved them into the utility closet, and wiped at the floor until her knees ached. The claw marks were impossible to hide, long grooves ripped deep into the wood. Her heart pounded every time her eyes landed on them.

When the morning shift came in, she was already behind the front desk, hoodie pulled low, pretending she’d been there all night just catching up on paperwork. Her boss glanced at the dance room and froze.

Zeus wasn’t an easy man to fool. He had a presence that filled the gym the second he stepped in — tall, broad, with a voice that always sounded like it could boom if he wanted it to. Most people jumped to attention when he asked a question. Betsa, sitting stiff at the front desk with her hood up, felt her stomach crawl into her throat when he gestured toward the destroyed dance room.

“What the hell happened in there?” His tone wasn’t angry yet, but it was close.

Her mind spun. A storm. Raccoons. Anything. But those sounded ridiculous, flimsy, like excuses a child would come up with. What would sound human enough, messy enough to cover the impossible truth? The words slipped out before she’d even thought them through.

“My ex,” she said, her voice hoarse. She cleared her throat, tried again, steadier. “My ex showed up last night. He’s been… I don’t know, hanging around. He came here, wanted to talk. It got ugly. We argued. He threw the speaker, smashed the mirrors. I couldn’t stop him.”

Zeus blinked, his dark brows pulling together. “Your ex? He came here? At night?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly, pulling her sleeves down to hide the faint scar still burning on her wrist. “I know I should’ve called you. Or the cops. But it all happened so fast. I just tried to clean up before anyone saw it.” Her hands twisted together under the desk, nails biting into her palms.

Silence stretched. Betsa could hear his heartbeat, steady but heavy, the way it always was when he didn’t quite believe something. She forced herself not to fidget.

Finally, Zeus sighed. “Betsa… you should’ve told me. This place is your job, not your personal battleground. You can’t bring that kind of drama here.” His gaze lingered on her, sharp but not unkind. “Are you safe?”

The question almost broke her. Safe. She wanted to laugh, scream, confess. Safe was a word that didn’t exist anymore. But she nodded anyway, quick, desperate. “Yeah. He won’t come back. I’ll make sure of it.”

Zeus studied her another long moment before rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright. I’ll file the damage as vandalism, get the repairs sorted. But listen to me, Betsa—” His voice hardened, the way it did when he wanted something to stick. “If this guy shows up again, you call me. Or the police. No second chances. You understand?”

“Yes,” she said, too fast, too eager. “I understand.”

He gave a slow nod, still not entirely convinced, but turned toward his office. Betsa let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her whole body felt wired, thrumming, like the wolf inside her had been holding its own breath too. She’d bought herself time. That was all.

the sharmas were hosting a family lunch, which meant the kind of organized chaos that could only come from cramming more than twenty relatives into one house. the siblings had been through this routine enough times to know that as soon as their parents announced it’s at our place, it was less an invitation and more a command. every able-bodied sharma child was drafted into the unspoken army of preparation. first came the tidying—books yanked from the couch and stacked neatly, random shoes banished to closets, spare blankets folded even though no one would touch them. then the vacuuming, each sibling covering a section of the house until the hum of the machine echoed like background music. angel, the most thorough of the three, finished off with the mop, moving from room to room in smooth arcs, her forehead already damp with effort. “no one walk on this floor or so help me—” she muttered, glaring as zara tried to sneak through to grab her phone charger.

the kitchen, though, was forbidden territory. their grandmother’s presence reigned supreme there, and everyone knew the unspoken rule: stay out, unless you wanted a lecture about how “the masala will never taste right if you measure with spoons instead of your heart.” everyone, that is, except zayn. somehow he had been exempted from the ban, the only one trusted not to “ruin the food,” as grandma put it. the privilege went straight to his head, of course. while angel sweated over the floors and zara set out cutlery with a dramatic sigh, zayn moved freely in the kitchen, chopping, stirring, and frying like he was born for it.

it wasn’t just the cooking, though—it was the soundtrack. zayn hummed under his breath as he worked, bollywood songs he claimed to not really know, even though the rhythm was perfect, even though his lips shaped words when he thought no one was looking. when zara leaned against the doorway and caught him mid-verse, her grin spread like wildfire. “oh my god, you know the lyrics,” she sing-songed, pointing at him like she’d uncovered the world’s greatest scandal.

zayn’s shoulders stiffened, and he deliberately turned his back to her, stirring the pot with unnecessary focus. “i don’t,” he said flatly, but the hum slipped out again, and this time it was unmistakable.

“you totally do,” zara pressed, stepping into the kitchen despite knowing grandma would scold her if she walked in too far. “don’t even try to deny it—i heard you say tere naina just now. your secret bollywood playlist is showing.”

angel, still holding the mop like a weapon, poked her head in from the hall. “wait, zayn sings?” she asked, eyes wide with mock surprise.

zayn groaned. “i don’t sing. i hum.”

“humming with words is called singing,” zara shot back, practically bouncing with the joy of teasing him. “oh my god, you’re like the mysterious bollywood hero who pretends he’s too cool but secretly knows all the shahrukh khan songs by heart.”

angel smirked. “next family karaoke night, i’m putting your name down first.”

“absolutely not.” zayn pointed a spoon at both of them like it was a sword. “if you tell anyone else, i swear—”

“you swear what?” zara cut in, raising her brows. “you’ll serenade us with tum hi ho? please, i’m begging you.”

angel laughed so hard she nearly slipped on her freshly mopped floor. “grandma’s going to be so proud when she finds out her golden boy isn’t just the kitchen favorite, but the family’s secret playback singer too.”

zayn groaned louder, setting the spoon down with a clatter. “why did i even agree to cook?”

“because you’re the favorite,” zara teased, ducking just in time as he tossed a kitchen towel in her direction.

“and because you love us,” angel added sweetly, leaning on her mop.

zayn rolled his eyes, cheeks just a little pink, and muttered something about how the food wasn’t going to stir itself. but the humming didn’t stop. if anything, it got louder, almost defiantly, and the sisters exchanged a look that said they’d won.

and when grandma finally peeked in to check on him, she found her grandson at the stove, humming a perfectly in-tune line of a song she recognized instantly. she didn’t say anything, just smiled to herself and walked away, because some secrets were too sweet to ruin.

the sharmas’ house was alive in the way it always was during family lunches — doors opening and shutting, cousins darting through hallways, uncles arguing about cricket, aunties comparing recipes in the living room. zayn kept to his usual territory, the kitchen, where the scent of cumin and coriander clung to the air. he stirred a pot with focus, hoping the noise outside would keep people occupied long enough for him to finish cooking in peace.

no such luck.

zara and angel were the first to start, leaning against the counter with identical mischievous grins. “you know,” zara said loudly, just as two aunties walked in, “zayn spends way too much time in here. maybe he’s hiding a girlfriend he doesn’t want us to meet.”

“or a boyfriend,” angel added innocently, shrugging. “we don’t judge.”

zayn nearly dropped the spoon. “can you not?” he muttered, glaring at both of them, but his sisters were sharks — once they smelled blood, there was no stopping them.

the aunties lit up like Diwali lamps. “girlfriend?!” one of them gasped, delighted. “zayn, my boy, why didn’t you tell us? when do we meet her?”

“there’s no one,” he said firmly, ladling sauce onto the chicken like the food could shield him from their questions.

“oh, come on,” another auntie chimed in, her bangles clinking as she settled against the counter. “handsome boy like you? good cook? you think we’ll believe you’re single?”

by then, the cousins had caught wind. meera poked her head in from the doorway, practically vibrating with glee. “what’s this about zayn having a secret romance?” she yelled down the hall, ensuring everyone heard.

“meera!” he barked, but it was too late. within minutes, the kitchen was packed. cousins, aunties, even an uncle or two, all crowding around as if zayn were some rare spectacle.

zara, of course, poured fuel on the fire. “he’s so private, you know. always going for walks alone. who knows where he goes, who he meets…”

angel crossed her arms, eyes twinkling. “exactly. suspicious behavior if you ask me.”

“the only thing suspicious here,” zayn snapped, “is why you two haven’t been told to set the table yet.”

they ignored him, because by now the entire room had joined the game. “don’t be shy, zayn,” one uncle said, grinning. “your dadi was just telling us how she wants to see you married before she…”

“uncle!” zayn cut him off, cheeks hot, voice sharper than he meant. grandma, who had just walked in, smacked the uncle’s arm with her cane. “don’t say such things. i’m not going anywhere.” then, turning to zayn, she softened. “but it would be nice to see you happy, hm? someone to share your cooking with.”

that hit different. the cousins laughed, the aunties kept prying, but her words lodged somewhere deeper. zayn masked it with a groan, muttering under his breath as he ushered everyone out of the kitchen, finally slamming the door behind them for a moment of peace.

later, when lunch was served and the chaos mellowed into the clatter of plates and chatter around the long dining table, zayn sat between zara and angel. they kept nudging him, whispering fake names for his “mystery partner,” trying to get him to break. he ignored them, head bent, quietly eating while his family carried on around him.

Bailey woke to the sound of Coco thumping against the side of his hutch, soft light slanting across her sheets in uneven stripes. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, another notification she ignored. Instead, she buried her face in her pillow and listened to the scrape of his tiny claws. “Alright, alright,” she muttered, rolling out of bed. She crouched down and peered at him, hair sticking out in every direction. “You’d think I never feed you. Do you have any idea how expensive lettuce is, roommate?” His ears flicked like punctuation. She grinned, still half-asleep, and shuffled to the kitchen to chop a few leaves. She leaned down as she dropped them into the hutch, narrating her plan for the day. “So, class at noon, Velvet Room tonight. Maybe I’ll get groceries if the universe is kind. Also, we’re not watching Swan Lake clips at two in the morning again. It’s killing my eyes.” Coco twitched, unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah. Judge me all you want.”

By the time she was on her way to class, her nails were already ruined. She bit them last night when she couldn’t stop thinking about bills, about rent, about the velvet box under her bed she swore she wouldn’t touch again. The black polish chipped along the edges, so she shoved her hands in her pockets and told herself she’d repaint them later. Class was fine—better than fine, really. The mirrors were harsh, the music too loud, but Bailey felt alive in the ache of her muscles, in the spin of her body, in the moment she forgot everything else. Still, she caught herself watching the ballet studio next door when she left, peeking through the narrow glass strip in the door at the kids lined up at the barre. She wanted to hate it, but she didn’t. She just… hurt.

She stopped at the corner café afterward, ordered an iced coffee with too much sugar, and pulled her notebook out while she waited. A pink pen, the kind people always teased her about. She scribbled down ideas for her future studio—class schedules, potential names, dumb doodles of mirrors and light fixtures. It was messy, impulsive, but hers. She smiled at it until a man nearby made a comment about “girls in strip clubs never really having plans,” and it hit like a stone to the chest. He didn’t know her. He couldn’t. But she snapped her notebook shut anyway and left her drink half-finished.

Back home, she fed Coco carrots and sat on the floor with him, ranting about how people always assumed things. “Like, I’m not ashamed of what I do, you know? I’m not. Sugar pays the bills, Sugar keeps me standing. But it’s not all of me. It’s not forever. Why is that so hard for people to get?” Coco pressed his nose against her knee, and she sighed, rubbing her thumb over the scarred skin at her cuticles. She changed into her Velvet Room outfit—sequins, stilettos, the whole armor. She always stared at herself in the mirror just long enough to feel the shift, Bailey fading, Sugar emerging. It wasn’t a bad thing, just… a costume. A second skin.

The club was neon and noise, the bass rattling through her bones. Bailey—no, Sugar—commanded the stage like she was born for it, every glance calculated, every move controlled. She laughed at jokes she didn’t care about, pushed hands away when they wandered, spun until her muscles screamed. There was power in it, power that fed her in ways ballet never could. But when she stepped offstage, sequins scratching her skin, she always felt a little hollow, like she’d given away too much of herself and wasn’t sure what was left.

By the time she stumbled home near dawn, her feet ached, her makeup smeared, her hair smelling of smoke and perfume. She collapsed onto her bed still in half-costume, Coco watching her from his hutch. She dragged herself up after a minute, scrubbed her face clean, pulled on an old sweatshirt. She opened the fridge, gagged at the leftover takeout, and poured herself a bowl of cereal instead. Then, with a deep breath, she slid the box from under her bed. She told herself she wouldn’t. She never did. But tonight, she was unbearably lonely. She lifted the lid. Ticket stubs. Scraps of costumes. Letters from people who didn’t call anymore. She traced her finger over a photo of her in ballet slippers, eight years old, smiling like she’d never known loss. Her chest tightened.

she closed her eyes and tried to drown out the noise. it wasn’t easy. the arena pulsed with energy—hot, charged, louder than her heartbeat, louder than her breath. people clapped, hollered, cheered her name like it was already written in gold. she sat tall on sprinkle’s back, her fingers curled tightly around the worn leather reins, posture perfect, nerves buried under layers of focus. sprinkle was jittery beneath her, shifting weight from hoof to hoof, anxious to run, to fly. the sun was beating down, dust curling in the air with every movement, the scent of horses and dirt and leather thick and familiar. she didn’t look at the crowd, but she felt them—dozens of eyes, cell phone cameras, judges’ clipboards, and somewhere beyond the fence were the people who mattered most: her mom, probably recording with tears already forming; her dad, arms crossed like he was carved from stone, always quiet but always watching; and her brothers—jackson, loud and proud, leaning over the rails with a grin too big for his face, and luke, quieter but no less intense, his eyes locked on her with the kind of belief that made her spine straighten. this was it. one chance. one run. one shot at beating her own time—not someone else’s, not a rival’s, hers. that was what made it terrifying.

barrel racing had rules, but out here, it was all instinct. three barrels set in a triangle. the rider had to race in a cloverleaf pattern—round the first, round the second, round the third, then sprint straight home. fastest clean time wins. knock a barrel and five seconds get tacked on. make your turns too wide and you’re done. every move had to be razor sharp, precise, automatic. she and sprinkle had done it so many times they didn’t need to think. they just moved. sprinkle was fast—built for speed and grace, muscle and heart all packed into one beautiful, stubborn horse. emmy had trained her from the start. they knew each other like mirrors. when emmy leaned left, sprinkle shifted with her. when emmy tightened the reins, sprinkle responded instantly. they were a team forged in sweat and grit and early mornings. and today, they had one goal: beat the time. not for a trophy. not for the crowd. for herself. because if she did it, she’d wink at the finish line—just once, a silent joke to herself and to her brothers who teased her endlessly about how serious she looked when she raced. but the wink would mean more than that. it would mean she still had it. that she was still climbing. still rising. and she needed that right now.

when the gate opened and the buzzer sounded, sprinkle took off like a cannon. emmy stayed low, her body tight against the saddle, eyes already locked on the first barrel. they hit the turn smooth, just a hair’s width from the barrel’s edge. perfect. second barrel came faster—sprinkle’s hooves kicked up a wave of dust, the world narrowing to just the next curve, the next move. emmy’s breath was steady, brain quiet, focused only on motion. her hands moved without thinking, guiding sprinkle with invisible threads. third barrel—they were flying, moving as one. she could hear the crowd cheering, but it was far away, muffled like she was underwater. her heart thundered. this was it. the straightaway. they were on pace. they were going to beat the time. she could feel it in her bones.

and then—

a flash.

bright. white-hot. way too close.

a burst of noise followed—loud, unnatural, like a camera shutter mixed with static and a scream. sprinkle jolted mid-stride, spooked. she reared slightly, then veered, legs slipping in the loose dirt. emmy felt the shift too late. the world tilted violently. her grip slipped. her body lifted from the saddle. everything blurred. her stomach dropped. she flew sideways, arms flailing for balance, but there was nothing to hold on to. she hit the fence hard. head first. the sound was sickening—a sharp, dull thud of skull on steel—followed by silence. her shoulder twisted unnaturally. her leg buckled beneath her. her body collapsed like a rag doll into the dust. and then—nothing.

the arena went still.

the crowd gasped as one. people rose to their feet. someone screamed. sprinkle was rearing again, wild-eyed and panicked, backing away from the fallen body on the ground. a handler rushed forward, took the reins, pulled her back gently, whispering calming words. but no one was looking at the horse. they were all looking at emmy.

she wasn’t moving.

not an inch.

her boot had flown off. one arm was bent beneath her. her head was turned to the side, hair soaked with blood and sweat and dirt. the fence she hit was slightly bent, a dent where her skull had cracked against it.

her mother dropped her phone and ran, leaping down from the stands with wide, terrified eyes, screaming emmy’s name like it could drag her daughter back to her feet. her father was faster. he didn’t say a word. he climbed the gate like it was nothing and sprinted across the arena, hitting the dirt hard with every step. he dropped to his knees beside her, one hand already at her neck, checking for a pulse, the other brushing the dirt from her face, whispering her name with shaking breath. jackson was right behind him, vaulting over the fence, stumbling as he landed. he slid to her side, gripping her limp hand in both of his, saying “emmy, c’mon, come on, wake up, you’re okay, you’re okay” like a mantra. luke followed, slower, stiff, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. he stood for a second, frozen, then dropped to the ground and leaned in, staring at her chest, trying to see if she was breathing.

she was—but shallow. barely.

the medics stormed in next. voices clipped and urgent. they gently pulled her brothers back, asking for space. her mom refused to move, tears falling freely, hands shaking as she reached for her daughter’s face. her dad helped guide them back as the stretcher came in. they placed a neck brace around her and rolled her slowly, carefully, onto a backboard. her body was limp. eyes closed. face pale beneath the streaks of dirt and blood. jackson was begging them to say something. luke had gone quiet, fists clenched, jaw tight. their mom was sobbing openly now, murmuring “baby, please” over and over again. her dad stood behind them all, hands on his hips, staring at nothing, like if he looked anywhere else he’d break.

they carried her out through the side gate as the ambulance lights painted the dust red and white. the crowd watched in stunned silence. phones lowered. hats held to hearts. someone in the stands whispered a prayer.

emmy didn’t wake up.