Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Oxford. Merton College.

Frescoes. Crystal. Dynasties. Whispered names. Gestures rehearsed across generations.
And then—
Her.
Lexa Ashbourne.

Clarke stood by a stained-glass window, wine glass in hand, gripping it as if it were a weapon. Her heart pounded — not from the alcohol or the stifling air, but from the sight of that familiar posture, carved as if from steel. She had seen her instantly. How could she not? Even after all these years.

Lexa looked sculpted — marble and metal. Not a single misplaced movement. She wore an emerald evening gown that hugged her frame with the kind of perfection only couture and centuries of pressure could create. The back was low, scandalously so, with a faint train that brushed the floor like an afterthought. Under the light of the crystal chandeliers, the fabric shimmered like shadows playing with silk. Her hair was styled in smooth waves over one shoulder, exposing the delicate line of her neck without a single strand out of place. The makeup was flawless, eyes rimmed in cool tones that turned her gaze into something precise. Cutting.

She was a predator, fully grown and ready for the hunt. Every gesture calculated. Every step — controlled to the bone.
No weakness. No hesitation.
Only steel. And frost.

She had changed. But it was still her. Still Lexa.
Only now — the kind with teeth.

Clarke couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look away.

God. Why are you here?

She was supposed to be in the U.S. On the national team. In another world. Out of reach.
But no. She was here. In the same hall. Wine glass in hand. Smiling at some donor, wearing that same mask Clarke had always hated — the one of composure, detachment, betrayal.

“Are you alright?” Imogen whispered beside her.

Clarke blinked. Her smile came too sharp.

“Of course. I just… saw a ghost.”

Imogen followed her gaze.

“Oh. That’s her?”

“That’s her.”

“I’d say you’re being dramatic, but… damn. Even I felt the temperature drop.”

Clarke took a sip. Then another. Her eyes burned. Not now. Not here.

“I’m going to her.”

“Wait—are you sure?”

“More than sure. I’m not hiding from the past.”

—

Clarke moved forward. Through the crowd, through crystal and ticking clocks. Toward Lexa.

Lexa noticed her before she even reached her. Of course she did.

Clarke was dressed simply — a black midi dress with thin straps that framed her shoulders, understated but sharp. Her hair was tied low in a loose, slightly undone knot, with strands slipping free like careless thoughts. Her makeup was minimal, just enough to highlight the cut of her cheekbones. In her hand — red wine, barely touched.

“Griffin,” Lexa said, turning with calculated ease. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Then again...”

Her eyes scanned Clarke head to toe.

“Of course you'd choose Merton. Your family always did lean toward the theatrical.”

“Lexa Ashbourne,” Clarke said quietly, her voice brittle as glass. “Still the same. Elegant on the outside, ice and venom underneath. Are you here on exchange? Or just decided to revisit the scene of the crime?”

Lexa didn’t answer right away. She tilted her head slightly, as if studying a portrait.

“Still as sharp-tongued as ever. I’m surprised it hasn’t landed you in court.”

“Only in therapy,” Clarke replied with a dry smile. “But don’t worry — the scars healed. From the horse. From the fall. From… you. I’m fine.”

Lexa blinked. Something flickered in her gaze. A shadow. A memory.

“You don’t know the full story.”

“Oh, I do. And it’s enough.”

Clarke stepped closer.

“I know you left me there. I know you could’ve stopped it — and didn’t. I know you kissed me the day before the competition and then disappeared. And in the morning — my saddle was undone. My horse spooked, and I—”

“You fell,” Lexa said softly. “And I regret it more than anything.”

Clarke froze. She hadn’t expected that. Not here. Not like this.
But Lexa had already turned away, like it meant nothing.

“Welcome to Oxford, Griffin. I’m sure it’ll be... eventful.”

“Don’t pretend to be polite,” Clarke hissed. “We both know who you were. Who you still are.”

Lexa looked back, cold and calm.

“Yes,” she said. “A winner.”

Their eyes locked — two blades clashing.
Around them, the music played. Students laughed.
But between them: venomous silence.

—

Later, when the night had dulled and Clarke stepped out into the cold courtyard air, she could still feel Lexa’s eyes on her.

They were different.
Yes, cold. Yes, arrogant.
But under that—there was something else.
Something Clarke didn’t want to see.

Pity? Regret? Or… memory?

She shook her head, like trying to knock it loose, and lit a cigarette. Took a long drag.

For the first time in years, her shaking fingers weren’t from pain.

But from a single thought:
You’re back. And I’m going to destroy you on your own ground.

Clarke stood alone in the stone courtyard. The paving chilled her heels through her shoes. The cigarette burned low between her fingers.

Her head rang. Not from wine — no. From the sight of Lexa.

From the warmth that, just for a second, had flickered behind her mask of steel.
One heartbeat. One breath.
As if she really… regretted it.

And Clarke hated herself for wanting to believe it.

—

You were lying in the arena. Your leg shattered. The horse thrashing. Judges in chaos—
And she just watched.
Didn’t move.

Clarke clenched her jaw. Her whole body tense.
She couldn’t forget. Not a single detail.

“You look... tense,” came a voice from the dark — smooth, amused.
Arabella Sinclair stepped into the light like a snake emerging from velvet grass.

Her voice was flawless social grace — polished, calm, cold as a silver tray.
But her eyes… her eyes played games.

Clarke exhaled smoke.

“What do you want, Arabella?”

“Oh, just to chat.”
She circled Clarke slowly, like a predator choosing an angle.
“I see you and Lexa already exchanged... pleasantries.”

Clarke said nothing.

“Been a long time since you two saw each other. Was it... touching? Or unpleasant?”

“Depends on the angle.”

“I prefer the view from the Olympic shortlist,” Arabella said with a soft laugh.
“Lexa’s back on it, isn’t she? Amazing how far a name can carry you — even with such... questionable history.”

Clarke turned to her fully.

“Are you being cryptic, or is that a threat?”

“I’m just observing.”
Arabella smiled with a softness that made Clarke want to flinch.
“In any case, welcome back to the elite, Griffin. I do hope you don’t stumble at the starting line.”

Clarke stepped forward.
Eye to eye.

“You want me gone. Because you’re scared.”

“I’m only scared of bad champagne and cheap heels,” Arabella whispered.
“And you’re neither. Not yet.”

She turned and disappeared into the shadows like smoke.
Leaving Clarke standing there — with the sharp, undeniable feeling of being targeted.”

—

Later that night

The room was steeped in the quiet stillness of late evening: soft lamplight, the faint scent of herbal tea, and the gentle tapping of rain against the campus window.

Imogen sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the bed, nibbling on half a chocolate bar.
Clarke sat nearby, elbows on her knees, eyes fixed on the glass — dark, impenetrable.
Inside her: pain, doubt, fear — pulsing beneath the surface like a second heartbeat.

“You know,” Imogen began, her tone light, teasing, “sometimes I think your life is just a soap opera. All forbidden love and permanent emotional damage.”

Clarke huffed — but without even a trace of a smile.

“In our world, soap operas are too soft.”

“Fair,” Imogen replied. “We get drama with gowns and riding crops instead of roses.”

Clarke didn’t look at her.

“Sometimes I think you’re the only person who doesn’t see me as just ‘the girl who fell.’ Or as a walking title. Or a disappointment to some impossible legacy. You just... see me.”

Her voice softened, breaking a little.

“Everything changed after the fall. And I— I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” Imogen asked gently, leaning in.

“Of myself. Of going back. Of never feeling again what used to give life meaning.”

Imogen set the chocolate aside and touched Clarke’s shoulder, grounding her.

“That’s scary, yes. But you have time. You don’t have to rush.”

Clarke turned to meet her eyes — warm, steady, a rare kind of safety in a world of performance.

“Today, when I saw Lexa... it was like a blade. All that anger and pain twisted with something I don’t even understand.”

“Your inner demons?” Imogen smiled faintly. “We all have them.”

“Maybe. But the way she looked at me… there wasn’t just coldness,” Clarke said, gripping the wine glass tighter. “There was something else. Pity? Or regret?”

Imogen took a sip of her tea and gave a dry laugh.

“Lexa’s the queen of illusion. If you saw something in her eyes, it was probably fear.”

“Fear?”

“That you’re back. That you’ll rise again. That you’ll take your place — and hers.”

Clarke stared into the dark window, her voice barely above a whisper.

“But what if I don’t want to go back? What if I’m not her anymore?”

“You’re not the only one who’s fallen, Clarke. But it’s not the fall that kills us.
It’s choosing not to get up.”

Clarke nodded slowly, then looked down at her own hand.
It was trembling. Just slightly.

“Do you remember the day I fell?” she asked quietly.

Imogen’s voice was steady.

“Yes. I remember everything. You were terrified. But you survived. You were brave.”

Clarke shook her head.

“I can’t forget what the commission said. About the ointment in the bandages.”

“The pepper balm?” Imogen asked.

Clarke nodded.

“Someone applied it on purpose. To make her panic. To make me fall. No amateur would do it so cleanly. It was planned. Calculated.”

Imogen didn’t speak right away.

“And Lexa…” she began, but didn’t finish.

Clarke exhaled.

“I want to believe she wasn’t involved. That she couldn’t be that cruel. But the more I think about it, the angrier I get. And the pain gets sharper.”

Imogen gently wrapped an arm around her friend’s shoulders.

“I get it. But Clarke — you have to let yourself feel more than anger. You have to allow yourself to be vulnerable.”

“That’s what scares me,” Clarke whispered. “Being vulnerable means risking everything.”

Imogen smiled, lifting her teacup.

“Which means you still care. And that’s a start.”

For the first time in what felt like ages, Clarke smiled back.

“Thanks, Immi. I would’ve given up a long time ago if not for you.”

Imogen stood, walking to the window.

“Look at those lights. This city may feel cold and distant, but there’s still light in it. Even for people like us.”

Clarke’s voice was quiet.

“I hope you’re right.”

Imogen turned and winked.

“I’m always right.”

They smiled at each other — both knowing that ahead lay a long road filled with pain, betrayal, and maybe, just maybe, redemption.

Chapter Text

Several Years Ago

The forest was steeped in the golden hush of late summer. Sunlight spilled through a canopy of ancient trees, scattering warm, dappled shadows on the mossy ground. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, and something else — something wild and unspoken.

Two girls slipped between the trees, their steps light, their laughter barely louder than birdsong. They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to. This path, this hour, this moment — it belonged to them alone.

"Shh," Lexa whispered over her shoulder, a grin tugging at her lips. "If our parents find out we’re here, we’ll be grounded until we’re forty."

Clarke grinned back, eyes bright. "Then let’s make it worth it."

They came to a stream, its surface glittering like spilled stars. Lexa waded in first, boots slung over her shoulder, then turned and held out her hand. Clarke didn’t hesitate. Their fingers fit together like they had a thousand times before.

On the far side of the stream, through a tangle of brambles and wildflowers, waited their secret clearing. A place untouched. Unjudged. Just theirs.

Lexa flopped onto a fallen log with a sigh. "They want me to be flawless. Graceful, sharp, unshakable. But sometimes I just want to breathe."

Clarke joined her. "Mine want me to win. At everything. I don’t think they know who I am when I’m not first."

Lexa picked at the edge of a leaf. "They said we shouldn’t be friends."

"Screw that," Clarke said, gaze steady. "You’re not alone."

Silence settled between them — not awkward, but heavy with something new. When Lexa turned, her expression was unreadable.

"If I’m not strong, everything falls apart. My family. My name. Me."

"You are strong," Clarke said softly. "But I will be stronger. One day."

Lexa arched a brow, but her voice was quieter now. "So you won’t leave?"

Clarke leaned in. "Never."

Their hands met, tentative, warm. And the kiss that followed — shy and trembling — tasted of wild air and summer promises.

—

School days blurred by in a rhythm of rules and rituals. But every afternoon, they slipped into the stables, where the air smelled of hay and leather, and silence spoke more than words.

"You’re the better rider," Clarke murmured once, elbow-deep in saddle soap. "But you hide too much."

Lexa glanced over, guarded. "If I’m not perfect, I’m nothing. That’s how they see it."

Clarke reached out, gently brushing her fingers. "Then let them see you. I already do."

Their bond was slow-burn, not wildfire — but no less consuming.

Then came the letter. A private one, creased at the corners. It spoke of plans, relocation, hierarchy. It didn’t name Clarke, but it didn’t have to. Lexa read it three times, then folded it so small it could vanish in a pocket.

—

Later, under a starlit sky, they sat on the roof of the old stable.

"Do you ever feel afraid?" Clarke asked, voice barely above the wind.

"Every damn day," Lexa said. "But I bury it deep. No one can know."

"Not even me?"

Lexa didn’t answer.

Clarke exhaled, her breath fogging in the cold. "I think one day I might break. Just disappear."

"You won’t. I won’t let you."

She wanted to believe that. But some wars weren’t fought with reins and medals. They were fought in silence, and scars no one could see.

—

Morning light slanted through the stables. August — the black Friesian stallion — watched with solemn eyes as Lexa ran a hand down his neck.

Clarke stood at a distance, arms folded. She always watched Lexa with August. There was reverence in the way they moved together — as if speaking a language no one else knew.

"He’s like you," Clarke said. "Beautiful, proud. But there’s calm in him too. A softness. Most people miss it."

Lexa didn’t look away. "He’s the only thing I trust not to betray me."

The words hit harder than either of them expected.

"Do you remember when we first met?" Clarke asked. "Primary school? You punched a boy for stealing my pencil."

Lexa chuckled. "You were tiny. Furious. I thought, ‘If I stick with her, we’ll both survive.’"

"I thought the same. You were unshakable. I wanted to be that."

Lexa tilted her head. "And now?"

Clarke’s voice was steadier than she felt. "Now I want to be strong so I can stop needing anyone. So I can be free."

Lexa’s face darkened. "Freedom is dangerous. Not everyone gets to choose it."

"Then I’ll take it anyway. Even if it costs me."

—

That night, the Ashborn drawing room glowed with soft lamplight and sharper edges.

Genevieve stood by the fireplace, her voice cool as the ice in her glass. "A girl like you doesn’t get to be weak. You are legacy, not flesh. Symbols don’t cry."

Lexa didn’t speak.

"No more riding after dark. No more messages. No more… distractions."

Lexa’s hands clenched behind her back. "Yes, Mother."

—

Elsewhere, Abigail Griffin poured tea into fine porcelain.

"She’s not like us," she said.

Clarke watched the steam curl. "She is to me."

"They protect what’s theirs by control. We protect by retreat. Don’t confuse affection with safety."

Clarke stared down. "I love her."

Abigail didn’t blink. "Then you’d better be willing to bleed for it."

—

Three days later, the stables were cold and quiet. Lexa stood by August’s stall, expression unreadable.

"They’re sending me away. America."

Clarke flinched. "And you’re just going to go?"

"I don’t have a choice."

Their silence was a wound.

Clarke stepped closer, fingers brushing Lexa’s. "Will you write?"

Lexa shook her head. "They’ll intercept everything."

"Then remember. Please."

Lexa nodded. "I will."

Clarke swallowed hard. "I’m sorry."

Lexa whispered, "So am I."

—

And just like that, the summer ended.And the girl Clarke had kissed in the woods was gone.

Chapter Text

The marble foyer of Ridgefield Hall gleamed, catching the light from hundreds of suspended chandeliers. Mirrors in gilded frames multiplied the guests’ faces, as if the world around had turned into a hall of illusions.

Laughter, half-whispers, the rustle of expensive fabrics, and the scent of perfume mingled with champagne and French flowers filled the space.

This was an evening where being oneself was out of the question. Only the ideal version—or the one expected of you—was permitted.

Lexa stood at the base of the grand staircase, straight as a blade. Her dress—deep black with bare shoulders and a perfectly tailored bodice—had been designed by Madame Wenwright herself, a London fashion icon. Her hair was pinned into a sleek bun, a family emerald necklace resting against her collarbone—an heirloom from her great-grandmother. Not a hint of nerves. Only perfection.

A few steps away, among a group of guests, Lord Edward Ashborn was animatedly chatting with members of the London Chamber of Commerce. Genevieve observed the room from a distance, like a general surveying the battlefield.

“Don’t forget, Alexandra,” she said coldly, touching her daughter’s shoulder, “tonight you are not merely a guest. You are a symbol. Every glance your way is a vote for the Ashborn name. Smile. Triumph. Let no one doubt your superiority.”

Lexa didn’t answer. She had heard it all before. "Triumph"—as if nothing else mattered.

On a balcony overlooking the hall, wearing a peach dress with delicate embroidery, stood Arabella Sinclair. Her smile was flawless, her gaze sharp as a blade. Her brother Callum, in a dark navy suit, appeared nearly invisible beside her.

“Look, Callum,” she said softly. “The Ashborns decided to remind us they still exist. How touching.”

Callum didn’t react. He watched Lexa with a slightly furrowed brow, though something else flickered in his eyes. Regret, perhaps. Or memory.

Across the hall, Lady Abigail Griffin and Sir Thomas stood near a column, conversing with a curator from the Victoria and Albert Museum. Beside them stood Clarke. Her gown—antique gold—complemented her skin and eyes. Her hair was pulled into an elegant low ponytail, fastened with a pearl pin.

But in her eyes—anxiety.

Soon, the harp’s melody gave way to a string quartet. The start of the formal program was announced, and Lexa stepped forward—to the center of the hall, toward the podium. The words, memorized long ago, fell from her lips automatically. Gratitude, formalities, grandeur.

Her gaze skimmed the crowd—past faces, past Arabella, past her father. It paused on Clarke.

She was looking at her. Not like the others. Not with judgment or expectation—but as if she were alive.

Later, as the reception began and guests scattered with glasses and hors d’oeuvres, Lexa slipped out onto the terrace. The fresh air was a luxury.

“You have a gift for delivering a speech with not a single emotion,” Clarke said, appearing behind her.

“Because there’s no room for emotion in it,” Lexa replied without turning. “You can’t be real here. Only convenient.”

Clarke stepped closer. “I keep thinking we live in crystal cages. Beautiful, luxurious... but cages all the same.”

“We were raised to conform, not to feel,” Lexa said bitterly. “But there’s still something real in you. I see it.”

“And what about you?” Clarke whispered.

“I...” Lexa turned. Their faces were close. “I’m afraid of being real. It’s dangerous.”

“Not with me.”

For a moment—their lips almost touched. But...

“How touching,” Arabella’s voice cut through the air like glass against marble. “I hope you’re discussing horses and not... well, feelings.”

Both turned. Arabella stood like a porcelain doll. But her eyes—venomous.

“Lady Sinclair,” Lexa nodded with impeccable politeness.

“Alexandra. Clarke. How lovely to see you together again. Almost like the good old days. Or perhaps still clinging to them?”

Clarke tensed but kept her expression neutral.

“We were simply discussing tournament strategy,” she said evenly.

Arabella smirked.

“Of course. Your strategy, as always, shrouded in secrets and shadows. You know, my father says, 'We don’t win—we eliminate the possibility of losing.' I hope you learn that too. Otherwise, you’ll lose. Not just in the arena.”

Lexa met her gaze. Slowly nodded.

“Thank you for the advice. But I prefer to win honestly.”

Arabella’s brow twitched—a rare crack in her perfect mask. Then she turned and walked away.

Clarke exhaled softly.

“She’s Hitler in a skirt.”

“Too generous. At least Hitler didn’t wear pastels.”

Both laughed—but the laughter was a shield. Because beneath the music, the ball hid a war. A war of glances, families, masks.

And in its epicenter—they stood.

By the time Sir Thomas Griffin took the stage to give his formal toast, the crowd was already softened by vintage champagne and aristocratic spite. The hall rang with the clink of crystal, echoing with names, titles, and burdensome expectations.

Lexa stood by a tall window, overlooking the garden lit by golden lanterns. She knew dozens of eyes were behind her.

Her gaze found Clarke again, standing beside her mother. Their eyes met. And just then, as if on cue, Arabella stepped forward—interrupting the toast before her scheduled turn.

“Forgive me,” she said with a light smile. “I’m sure Sir Griffin will pardon the intrusion.”

Polite silence settled over the hall.

“Tonight honors those who represent the future of English sport and tradition. Families that uphold honor without chasing glory overseas.”

The room tensed. Genevieve stiffened. Edward raised a brow.

Arabella continued:

“But what becomes of the sport when some present not dignity, but a mask? Too much theatre, too little principle. Like, say, competing where your father is the sponsor and your mother judges from the wings?”

Gasps. Whispers.

“Or when rivalry... hmm... turns into informal relations. Some young ladies, it seems, confuse the arena with the boudoir.”

Lexa froze. Her fingers clenched white. Clarke stepped forward, but her mother gently caught her hand.

“Excuse me, Lady Sinclair,” Genevieve’s voice was icy, “your monologue reeks of cheap ambition. Perhaps we should let those speak who are here by protocol, not by whim?”

“Oh, of course,” Arabella dipped her head. “I merely wanted to remind everyone—roots matter more than wreaths.”

Lexa turned and walked quickly into a side gallery, not waiting for reactions.

She couldn’t feel her legs. Just the blood pounding in her temples. Her shoulders—stone. Her mind—a storm.

Around the corner in a wood-paneled hallway lined with ancestral portraits, she stopped, leaning against a column.

“Lexa!” Clarke caught up with her, nearly running. “Look at me.”

Lexa wouldn’t. “I knew she’d try something, but not... this. In front of everyone. In front of my father.”

“You held your ground,” Clarke whispered. “You didn’t break. You didn’t cry. You’re still standing. You’re alive.”

“And inside?” Lexa turned. Her eyes—fire, fear, fury, and something else. “They’re killing us, Clarke. With words. With rules. With roles.”

Clarke stepped closer. Brushed a tear from Lexa’s cheek.

“Then let’s at least allow ourselves to be alive. Sometimes.”

And their lips met.

It wasn’t a kiss from youthful fantasies. It was a desperate gasp for air, a scream, a prayer.

Lexa pulled Clarke against the wall, her fingers gripping the fabric of her dress. Their bodies finally sparked what they’d long suppressed.

Clarke turned, her back to the wall, pulling Lexa closer. Hot breath, hands sliding down her spine. It teetered on the edge—about to break into something too real.

But…

“Forgive me,” came a velvet voice behind them, a little awkward. “I... didn’t mean to interrupt.”

They pulled apart. In the shadowed hallway stood Callum Sinclair, looking aside, not approaching.

“Arabella went too far. And that’s not an opinion—it’s a fact,” he said calmly. “She doesn’t speak for all Sinclairs. Some of us still know the difference between honor and fanaticism.”

Lexa said nothing. Everything inside her trembled. Clarke stood behind, flushed, almost faint.

Callum stepped forward.

“I didn’t expect to find... you two... but if you ever need someone to cover your tracks or lie better than anyone—I’m your guy. I have years of experience being the ‘inconvenient son.’”

He nodded and disappeared down the hall.

Lexa sank onto a cushioned bench near the window. Clarke sat beside her, taking her hand.

“We can’t afford to be weak. But maybe... we can be honest. Together.”

Lexa exhaled. Didn’t dare smile—not yet. But something inside, for the first time in a long time—thawed.

When they returned to the ballroom, everything seemed different.

The music louder, the laughter more forced, the crystal chandeliers blinding like interrogation lights. The masks thicker than ever.

Lexa walked tall, as if she wore armor instead of silk. Clarke beside her, like a quiet shield. They didn’t touch—but they didn’t need to. Their walk said it all: someone had dared to live.

Genevieve greeted them first.

“You’ve made yourself the center of conversation,” she said without moving her lips. “Congratulations.”

“I didn’t respond,” Lexa replied quietly.

“No need. You lost the moment you let emotion show in public.”

Those words were colder than anything Lexa had heard—even from Arabella.

“Have you ever tried being alive, mother?” Her voice trembled—but not from fear.

Genevieve looked at her like a crack in marble. No anger. No fury. Only disdain.

“I don’t need to be alive. I need to be eternal. Remember that.”

She turned and walked away as if the conversation had been nothing but a poorly delivered line in a play.

Clarke slowly turned to Lexa.

“I’ll kill her. Or at least trip her on the stairs.”

“Get in line,” Lexa smirked, but her voice held too much pain for the joke to land.

From the crowd emerged Edward. Tense, but composed.

“Alexandra. Of course you know your behavior will be discussed. In the committee. The press. Among shareholders.”

“What exactly? That I didn’t smash a glass on Arabella’s head?”

“That you didn’t rise above. You were supposed to be better.”

“I’m tired of being ‘better,’” she whispered.

He didn’t reply. Just nodded slightly and walked away, leaving behind expensive cologne and the weight of ancestral disappointment.

Then—Callum appeared again.

“Are you alright?”

“The definition of ‘alright’ has shifted in the last twenty minutes,” Clarke muttered.

Callum smiled faintly, though his eyes were serious.

“I know she crossed the line. But this isn’t just scandal. It’s a warning. To everyone who doesn’t fit. I know what that’s like.”

He turned to Lexa.

“You held your ground.”

“Was it obvious?” Lexa asked bitterly.

“To those who see with their hearts—yes. The rest are blind.”

He paused, then added:

“I can persuade my father not to support sanctions against you. We have... complicated relations. But he listens when I’m polite enough.”

Lexa nodded.

“Thank you.”

“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for... justice. Odd word in these halls, I know. But I still believe it exists.”

He vanished into the crowd, leaving behind something new. Not an ally. More a variable. In an equation where, for too long, there’d only been one result—loss.

An hour later, the ball was winding down. Music faded, waiters cleared near-untouched plates of caviar. Guests in gloves and pearls said their farewells, leaving behind only the scent of perfume and rumors.

Lexa sat by the window, hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain. Clarke beside her, their hands barely touching—but enough to keep her grounded.

“What now?” Clarke asked.

“Now they’ll expect me to fall. Withdraw from the tournament. Apologize. Disappear.”

“And you?”

“I leave for Ravenmoor tomorrow. Alone. I need to think. But I won’t withdraw. And I won’t disappear. Not for them. Not for you.”

Clarke squeezed her hand.

“Then I won’t disappear either.”

Chapter Text

Ravenmoor, Northern England. Three days later.

The gray dawn spread across the plains like ink on wet paper. The air smelled of damp moss and something primal — as if civilization ended at the estate gates.

Lexa was riding not for speed — but for control.

The arena was bathed in cold morning light, and every one of her movements was precise, like a note in a symphony.

She sat atop August with immaculate posture: fitted vest, tall boots, white gloves, and a starched shirt highlighting her composed austerity. Even her hair was tightly tucked beneath the helmet, not a strand out of place.

August, a black Friesian with a powerful neck and high-kneed elegance, moved with precise grace, as though he understood the meaning of discipline.

Piaffe — stationary, back taut, on the verge of an explosion. Passage — with perfect rhythm. Flying lead changes — every two strides, then every one. Each step defied gravity.

Lexa led him like a general — firm, but contained. No shouting, no whispering. Only a tense line between her hands and the reins, between breath and the horse’s motion.

She wasn’t just training. She was purging.

Each movement was a challenge — not to fear or pain, but to the chaos within. This was her only way to stay whole. In it — order. In it — grace, mastered by will.

She did not allow herself to falter.

August halted, snorted, lifted his head. Vapor from his breath rose off his dark coat like smoke.

Lexa stroked his neck and whispered with near gratitude:

“You’re the best thing I have left.”

When she dismounted, breathless, a visitor was already waiting.

“You never did know how to rest,” said Callum, leaning against the wooden fence.

“And you never learned how to knock,” Lexa snorted, but without malice.

He held out a thermos.

“Hot tea. No poison, I promise.”

She took it, sipped.

“Your spies reporting on my riding now?”

“My horses miss your cursing. And… I thought you’d be alone. Sometimes, it’s better not to be.”

Lexa sat on a bench. The wind hit her face.

“You know the tournament committee’s discussing my suspension?”

“I know. Arabella whispers to the right people. The chair of the board is her godfather. A well-oiled machine.”

“And my parents?”

“Not interfering. They think if you lose — it’ll cleanse the family name.”

Lexa gave a dry laugh.

“Cleanse me. From myself.”

Callum sat beside her.

“Ever consider that maybe you’re not the Ashborn mistake — but the only living part of it?”

She looked at him. Not as an ally. As a mirror.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

A silence fell. Behind them, in the arena, August pawed the damp ground impatiently.

“He’s even cleaner in his passages,” Callum observed. “But you’re holding back the inner drive. You give him rhythm, but not the impulse through the spine.”

“He’s not a machine,” Lexa said softly. “He senses when I’m broken. He just… adjusts.”

Callum sighed, leaning back on the bench.

“You’re not broken. Just tired of being who they molded you into. That’s not the same.”

Lexa lowered her gaze. The wind played with the edge of her glove. The thermos trembled slightly in her hand. The silence between them wasn’t awkward — it was gentle. As if the world, in that moment, didn’t demand her mask, didn’t demand strength.

“When I’m in the saddle,” she said at last, “I feel like I can breathe again. A little. Everything else… feels like it belongs to someone else. Even my name.”

“Alexandra Ashborn, menace to proper etiquette,” Callum said with a smirk. “You do realize that’s what makes you strong?”

“That makes me a target. And after last night’s ball, I’m not sure I have any bullets left.”

Callum turned to her, serious.

“You know, I didn’t realize right away how different you were. When we were kids, you just seemed… proper. Then you stopped obeying. Stopped being ‘the heiress’ in their eyes. And became yourself.”

“And what did that get me?”

“Freedom. And freedom always comes with side effects.”

Lexa smiled through the sadness.

“They forget I can still win. Even broken. Even alone.”

“Because you’re not alone,” Callum reminded her. “As long as you hold the reins and don’t give up — they haven’t won. And if you need, I’ll stand by you. Even if it’s from the back row.”

“On a donkey?”

“On a pony. With a bow. Just to impress Arabella.”

They both laughed softly. Warmly. Almost genuinely.

A neigh from the arena. August pawed the ground.

“He demands an encore,” Callum noted.

“He always knows when I’m not done.”

Lexa stood, brushing off her gloves.

“You coming?”

“Of course. On one condition.”

“What is it?”

“Stop riding like your life depends on it. Because it doesn’t. You’re not your results. Not your wins. Not your name.”

She paused, surprised. Then nodded.

“Alright. Just for today.”

He offered his hand, helping her back into the saddle.

“That’s enough.”

When Lexa returned to the arena, August snorted as if greeting her. She took the reins, settled into the saddle, and in that moment, she felt body and horse become one again.

She gathered him into a canter, smoothly transitioning into diagonal, giving shoulder-in. He responded with power and trust.

And inside… it was a little quieter.

Not peaceful. But quieter.

She was still here.

London. The Ashborn Estate. Later that morning.

Genevieve stood by the window, like part of the cold landscape beyond — severe, flawless, unshaken. Light rain trickled down the glass, as if time were flowing backward into harsher eras where mistakes were not forgiven.

Edward, dressed in a dark lounge suit, sat at the table with a cup of coffee. A newspaper lay beside him — untouched.

“Last night was a disaster,” Genevieve said evenly. “And worse — a predictable one.”

“Arabella’s always been a snake. But this time she struck in full view,” Edward replied quietly, not looking at his wife.

“Because she smelled blood,” Genevieve said. “We let Lexa get close to the Griffins. To Clarke. That made her vulnerable. Too human.”

“They’ve been friends since childhood, Genevieve. I remember she only ever laughed with her.”

“Exactly. Laughter is a luxury. For children. Lexa is no longer a child.”

Genevieve turned and approached the table, each movement precise as a scalpel.

“The Griffin family is a weakness. Academic, detached, always on the brink between influence and endless conferences. Their Lord Thomas may serve on the Heritage Commission, but he fears action. He’s no ally. And their daughter…”

“Clarke is smart. Kind. Loyal.”

“And those are her flaws. Lexa doesn’t see how Clarke’s moral attachments drag her down. Have you seen what she’s become? Hesitant. Conflicted. Exposed.”

“She’s not a Sinclair.”

Genevieve narrowed her eyes.

“No. But the Sinclairs know how to exploit every crack. Arabella sees where it hurts and presses — with a smile. You think that scene at the ball was her idea? That was a family strike. Her father, Richard, wouldn’t have allowed such a stunt unless the board was behind him. And you know who’s favored at the Ministry now. The Sinclairs. Not the Ashborns. Not the Griffins.”

Edward stood. His face had gone pale.

“We can’t let Clarke be the weak link.”

“We can’t let Clarke be around,” Genevieve said coldly. “Not now, with the committee reviewing Lexa’s eligibility. We need to show she’s not a sentimental girl, but an heiress with will and dignity. Otherwise, they’ll destroy her. First reputationally. Then professionally. And everyone’s involved. Even childhood allies.”

“And what do you propose?”

Genevieve stepped closer. Her voice held icy certainty:

“We offer Clarke a way out. Under a noble pretext. An internship in Geneva, a volunteer program in Cumbria — anything. Just away from the tournament. Away from Lexa.”

“And if she refuses?”

“Then we give her a choice. Family — or Lexa. Reputation — or feelings. She’s the daughter of Sir Thomas and Lady Abigail, Edward. They raised her to respect duty and order. If we remind her that emotions are shameful, she’ll make the ‘rational’ choice. Or she becomes our problem. And then — I’ll solve her.”

Edward was silent. He approached the fireplace. A portrait of a colonial ancestor — a colonel who crushed a rebellion in India — hung above. The scent of sandalwood filled the room.

“Lexa won’t forgive us.”

“She will. If she’s at the top.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder. It held no affection. Only cold strategy.

“She wants to be one of us. That means forgetting love. And learning to win.”

Ravenmoor. Later that day.

The sun barely pierced the clouds, casting silver over the damp earth. The sky hung low, leaning over the hills. The wind carried scents of wet grass, moss, and bark. Ravenmoor returned to what it had always been — a boundary between civilization and something older, almost pagan.

Lexa rode through the forest trail, narrow and soft from rain. August moved confidently, unhurried, enjoying the ride. His thick black mane glistened with moisture, breath fogged in the cool air. Here, there were no demands. No eyes watching. Just them. And silence.

The trees opened, revealing a lake — a black mirror nestled in the hills, smooth and icy. Lexa stopped, slid from the saddle, and ran a hand along August’s neck. He snorted softly.

“You’ve earned your rest. So have I,” she whispered, removing her gloves.

Boots, starched shirt, vest — all landed on the wet moss. A moment later, she dove into the frigid water with a sharp gasp, almost a scream. She hadn’t screamed since childhood, but the cold crept under her skin, and it was close.

The lake was silent. Only her arms slicing the surface. Only her heart pounding too fast.

No Genevieve. No committee, tournament, or legacy. No Arabella. No fear.

And in that silence — the phone rang.

“You always choose the perfect moment,” Lexa muttered, climbing out of the water, frozen, but somehow alive.

On the screen — K. Griffin.

Wrapped in a blanket from the saddlebag, she leaned against a tree and answered.

“Hi, love.”

“Hey, ice witch of the northern swamps,” Clarke’s voice smiled. “Swimming in your personal lake again?”

“Of course. I need somewhere to rinse off aristocratic disgrace.”

“I thought you just liked terrifying the local swans.”

“They’ve stopped reacting. Don’t care anymore. But you…” Lexa closed her eyes for a second. “How are you?”

“Sitting in the library. Pretending to write an essay. Really just thinking about kidnapping you from Ravenmoor and hiding you in a flat above a bakery where no one knows your name.”

“Is the bakery essential?”

“Absolutely. We need croissants. And coffee. And normal human problems.”

Lexa laughed — soft, for the first time that day.

“If I disappear, Genevieve will launch a manhunt. The old-fashioned British way — with hounds and cold steel.”

“Perfect. I’ll wear armor. Or a platypus suit. To confuse her.”

“You’re insane.”

“Do you miss me?”

A pause. August snorted in the trees.

“Very much,” Lexa said softly. “When are you coming?”

“Convince me.”

“The lake is warm. Almost like hell.”

“Then I’m packing. I’ll scare your horses and feed you real food.”

“I’ll consider it. Sounds like blackmail.”

“Call it… a special kind of care.”

Battery flashed — 5%.

“I have to go. Only one life left for today.”

“Protect it, Lexa.”

“Only if you’re near.”

The call ended. The forest fell silent again. But something stirred in her chest.

Lexa looked up.

A single bird rose over Ravenmoor. Free. Flying into the wind.

Chapter Text

Ravenmoor. The next morning.

The first rays of sunlight had only just begun to pierce the grey haze hanging over the hills. Everything was still asleep — the house, the meadows, the old stone paths. But Lexa was already awake.

The room in the west wing, with its windows facing the garden, filled with soft light. She sat on the edge of the bed, barefoot, a cup of tea in her hands, silently watching the wind tease the hydrangea branches outside. Her usual morning ritual: silence, tea, and the feeling that — in this moment — everything made sense.

She pulled on a crisp white shirt, dark navy breeches, and tall boots. Her hair — tied back into its familiar sleek ponytail. Her face — impeccably clean. No makeup. Not a single superfluous detail. In the stables, August was waiting — her pride, her silent strength.

She saddled him in silence. Every strap, every buckle — precise. August snorted, slightly impatient. He knew they were about to speak in a language only the two of them understood.

The arena was empty, wrapped in a light mist. Lexa led August in circles, beginning the warm-up — first at a walk, then into a rhythmic trot. Piaffe. Passage. Straight lines, serpentine curves, flying changes. Focus. Confidence. A symphony of precision.

And suddenly—

“You’re always so dramatically beautiful,” came a familiar voice.

Lexa halted August sharply and turned around.

Clarke was standing by the fence, wearing a light coat, coffee in hand. Her hair was a mess, her eyes tired from the road — but shining.

“You?”

“Me. Ravenmoor feels more welcoming than London today.”

Lexa dismounted quickly, walking over without a word. Their eyes met, and the cold of the morning vanished in an instant.

“You didn’t tell me…” Lexa murmured, but there was no reproach in her voice.

“I wanted it to be a surprise. Or a heart attack. Whichever came first.”

Lexa laughed, leaning her forehead against Clarke’s.

“How did you get here?”

“Secret royal tunnel. Or maybe a train from Paddington — can’t quite recall. Your housekeeper met me. Very suspicious lady. I told her I came to teach August Latin.”

“You’re insane,” Lexa whispered, touching Clarke’s cheek.

“And you’re wet, gorgeous, and still in love with your horse.”

Lexa leaned in and kissed her. At first soft — like an apology for the time apart. Then deeper — like a confession. August snorted behind them, pawing the ground.

“He’s jealous,” Clarke giggled, burying her face in Lexa’s neck.

“He’ll have to get used to it. Are you staying long?”

“Until you kick me out. Or until the sun comes out in London. Whichever happens first.”

Lexa ran her fingers down Clarke’s wrist, as if relearning her.

“Come inside. I’ll show you the garden where we can hide from the whole bloody world.”

“And where no one will find us?”

“Exactly. Just you, me, and ducks with suspiciously intelligent stares.”

Clarke smiled at her as if the world had become simple again.

They disappeared into the mist, hand in hand. Ravenmoor held its breath — unwilling to disturb a morning where everything still felt possible.

—

Later, the morning stretched slowly — like honey over warm bread. Clarke sat barefoot on the kitchen windowsill, wearing one of Lexa’s shirts. They drank coffee, shared a slice of lemon cake, and reread an old, dog-eared book full of Lexa’s handwritten notes — her biting commentary still made Clarke laugh.

“You wrote this when you were thirteen?” Clarke asked, flipping pages.

“Don’t remind me. Some of those lines still make me cringe.”

“It’s perfect. It’s you.” Clarke leaned over and kissed her temple. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

The fire crackled in the hearth. A gentle rain tapped against the windows. And suddenly, all the things that had once felt impossible — were here. Quiet. Simple. Real.

—

After breakfast, they went riding — Lexa on August, and Clarke entrusted with a snow-white mare named Astraea. The horse walked proudly, as if she knew she wasn’t just part of a ride, but part of a legend.

“You gave me a bride-coloured horse,” Clarke said, adjusting her reins.

“Too obvious a hint?” Lexa smirked.

“Transparent as your lake. What do you call it? The Northern Mirror?”

“You called it ‘a freezing bog where witches drown naive Americans.’”

“And you’re still proud of that, aren’t you?”

“A little,” Lexa laughed, guiding August down the woodland path.

The forest was alive — green, damp, almost enchanted. Branches creaked, birds sang, the wind danced through the horses’ manes. They rode in silence, yet that silence held more warmth than a thousand words.

Eventually, the trees parted to reveal the lake — nestled between hills, mirror-smooth and cold. The landscape looked like something out of a British folktale: emerald moss, black roots curling into the bank, mist hovering above the surface.

Lexa dismounted, gliding down from August’s back, and tied his reins to a familiar tree. She scratched his neck affectionately.

“Well?” she turned to Clarke, eyes narrowed playfully. “Care for a swim?”

Clarke stayed in the saddle, arching an eyebrow.

“Here? Now? In that... medieval potion swamp?”

Lexa laughed, pulling off her gloves and unbuttoning her vest.

“That’s why you call me the ice witch of the northern bogs.”

“I thought it was an insult.”

“Wrong.”

And with that, Lexa kicked off her boots and, eyes still locked on Clarke, slowly undressed — shirt, breeches, all with theatrical calm. Her dusky skin glowed in the morning light.

“Have you lost your mind, Ashborn?” Clarke was still mounted, her eyes darkening, her voice hoarser.

“Completely,” Lexa smirked, now fully naked. She stepped into the lake, unbothered by the icy temperature. “Otherwise I wouldn’t let you ride my best horse.”

Clarke dismounted, licking her lips as she approached the water.

“You sure this isn’t a trap? I dive into freezing sludge, and you inherit my trust fund.”

“No paperwork, Griffin. Just pure madness.”

Clarke grinned and started to undress — slowly, deliberately.

“Be honest. You just wanted to see me naked in the woods.”

“Didn’t you?”

When the last piece of clothing hit the grass, Clarke stepped into the water — and instantly yelped:

“Fuck! That’s not water. That’s Northern vengeance.”

Lexa swam closer and held out her arms.

“Trust the witch. Her intentions are burning.”

Clarke buried her face in Lexa’s neck, shivering and laughing.

“If I die of hypothermia, will you tell my mother it was for the art?”

“For the passion.”

Then Lexa kissed her. Soft at first, warming her lips. Then deeper. Their bodies pressed together underwater, slick and bare. Wet hair tangled, clinging to faces. Lexa wrapped her arms around Clarke’s waist, pulling her closer. Clarke moaned.

The cold stung her skin — but her blood boiled.

“God…” Clarke whispered against her lips. “Get me out of here.”

They stumbled onto the shore, soaked, trembling, but with fire in their eyes.
Lexa threw down a blanket beneath the tree, and Clarke sank onto it first without a trace of hesitation — pulling Lexa down on top of her.

“You do realise how utterly indecent this is?” Clarke said, lying on her back, gazing up at Lexa through strands of wet hair.

“No more indecent than living with the fact that I want you like this every night,” Lexa murmured, leaning over her.

Their kisses turned ravenous. Lexa grazed her teeth against Clarke’s neck, then moved down — to her collarbones, to her breasts — teasing a nipple, biting gently. Her own body pulsed with tension, that tight knot of heat growing low in her belly. But she held on. Barely.

She paused — just for a moment — as if needing to make sure this was real.
Clarke lay beneath her, eyes dark with desire, pleading silently.

Lexa’s hand slid down the length of her body — slow, reverent — then back up her thigh, toward the center. She was already soaked. Lexa could barely breathe. Her fingers moved delicately between her legs, gathering the slickness there.

“Lexa, fuck…” Clarke rasped, biting down on her lip. “Please…”

Lexa didn’t wait. She slid her fingers inside — and her lungs forgot how to work.

“Oh god… fuck—” Clarke arched beneath her, moaning through a breathless smile.

She gripped Lexa’s back, dragging her nails down, leaving marks. Lexa kissed her deeper, harder, her thrusts growing bolder.

Time dissolved. Sound merged with pulse — the forest vanished, the sky vanished. There was only this. This moment. This body. This need. All else burned away.

Clarke’s hips rocked into her hand. Lexa could feel her hot breath against her neck — broken, panting. She whimpered with every motion, grinding down, chasing release. Heat soaked through everything. It was unbearable. Intoxicating.

Clarke’s moans filled the clearing — wild, unashamed. And if someone heard them? Who cared.
Trying to hold herself together, Clarke finally dropped back down onto the blanket, her eyes fluttering closed — and then—

A tremor shook her body. A sharp pulse surged through her. Then warmth spread, flooding her limbs. She came with a cry, eyes rolling back, breath breaking into gasps.

Lexa clung to her, kissing her temple, smiling softly. Watching her like this — flushed and wrecked and radiant — it sent a jolt through her heart. Something inside clicked. The sound of a trigger. She wouldn’t let her go. Not again.

“I thought you were composed,” Clarke teased, her eyes barely open, lips curling. “Turns out you’re an animal.”

“Only with you.”

Clarke rolled her over and straddled her. Water trickled from her hair — down her breasts, her stomach — disappearing between their bodies.
Lexa watched her through hazy eyes, swallowing hard.

Clarke leaned in and kissed her — deep, insistent, dissolving.

“I dreamed of this moment. For too long. Every time you stood there like an ice queen, I wanted to rip everything off you. See if you tremble when it feels good.”

Lexa whimpered, hands gripping Clarke’s thighs.

“Did you find out?”

“I’ll check again.”

Clarke trailed kisses down her collarbone, then lower. Her lips moved along Lexa’s ribs, then her stomach. When she reached the inside of her thigh, Lexa shivered, and Clarke smirked.

Lexa’s fingers tangled in her hair. She whimpered softly, already on edge — barely holding back from crying out — until she felt the first lick of heat between her legs.

Clarke’s tongue was hot, slow, relentless.

Lexa’s mind blanked.

It felt like she’d been dropped into cold water — except she burned. Her ears rang. Her moans broke out uncontrolled. She couldn’t stop them.

Clarke held her hips like an anchor and devoured her — switching between tongue and lips, from clit to entrance, deeper, hungrier. When Lexa started to twitch, Clarke added fingers — and the world disappeared.

Lexa bucked against her, grinding into her mouth, fists twisting in golden hair, pulling hard — almost to pain.

Then the second wave hit.

Her body shook violently, every muscle taut. She gasped, her back arching, and came again — eyes rolled back, mouth open in a cry that shattered the morning silence.

Clarke kissed her gently, licking her clean, whispering:

“Now I know.”

—

Later, lying on the blanket, neither of them could speak.

Clarke traced the ridge of Lexa’s ribs with one finger and smirked.

“Nobility fucking in the woods like savages… This ruins the entire Victorian economy of morality. Also, I think you broke August’s psyche.”

“You’re right,” Lexa panted, pressing a kiss to her temple. “That was obscene.”

“Repeat later?”

“After a hot shower.”

They lay in silence.
Only breath. Only presence.
And above the lake, silence no longer felt cold — it felt alive.
Maybe even like happiness.

—

Back in the house, the world shrank to one room — the sitting room, the crackling fireplace, the sofa wrapped in a warm blanket.

Lexa curled up, legs tucked under her, dark wool sweater, tea in hand. Her hair loose, still damp. Clarke, in soft pyjamas and knitted socks, rested her head in Lexa’s lap.

They sat in silence. Rain tapped the glass. The rest of the world felt far away.

“To be honest,” Clarke murmured, playing with the edge of the blanket, “I still can’t believe you dragged me into that lake. Willingly.”

“‘Willingly’ is debatable,” Lexa smiled, stroking her hair. “But it looked heroic.”

“I just didn’t want you to think I was a coward. Or that I’d stopped loving cold water.”

“You screamed like I asked you to jump into the Arctic trench.”

“Didn’t I?”

They laughed. Then — quiet again.

“Do you think about the championship?” Clarke asked, not looking up.

Lexa nodded softly.

“Almost every day. Windsor isn’t just a qualifier. It’s a coronation. The Crown Princess’ Cup, as you call it.”

“The nickname stuck. Because that’s how it feels. A ritual. All the best pairs, the press, FEI judges, trainers… and that dinner at Round Hall where everyone looks like they walked out of Downton Abbey.”

“Don’t forget Prince William in the royal box.”

“If he sits front row again, I’ll fall off my horse from nerves.”

Lexa smiled, fingers brushing her cheek.

“We’ve wanted this since we were kids. No pressure. No parents. Just… the dream. The Olympic team. Not because we ‘should’. Because it’s part of us.”

Clarke stared into the fire.

“It’s terrifying. Not the failure. The idea that this is it. One chance. And it slips.”

“You won’t slip. We’re both top-ranked. You and Valkyrie have the strongest progression in the last two seasons. And August… he was made for Windsor.”

Clarke sat up, confused.

“You’re really riding August?”

“Of course,” Lexa said firmly.

“But… Friesians rarely make it. They’re not as elastic as Holsteiners. Trainers hate it.”

“I know,” Lexa said calmly. “But he’s mine. He feels me better than anyone. We’re a team. I won’t trade him for something more ‘convenient’. We finish together.”

Clarke smiled softly.

“You’re impossible. And ridiculously inspiring.”

“That’s because I have elegant fingers on the reins.”

Clarke laughed, burying her face in her lap.

“Think Arabella will make the team?”

“Absolutely. If not by merit, then by money or name.”

“Or sex. Or connections. Or all of it.”

“Her only riding style is piggybacking off others.”

Clarke smirked.

“If sarcasm were a sport, you’d have gold already.”

Lexa grinned.

“Sarcasm is how I breathe. Especially around you.”

Silence again. Comfortable. Clarke shifted, sipped her cocoa.

“I want to win. For real. Not just make the reserves. I want them all quiet. Even my father, sitting in the gallery, saying nothing but ‘well done.’”

“He’ll say you had a good horse.”

“Then I’ll remind him who trained her. Me. Not him. Not his friends. Me.”

“That’s why I like you,” Lexa whispered. “Stubborn. Real. No bullshit.”

Clarke blushed, turning to her.

“And still… if we both make it. If we’re on the same team. We won’t be able to sit like this. We won’t be an ‘us.’”

Lexa nodded slowly.

“No one can know. Not now. No weakness. Not in front of Arabella. Not the federation. Not our families.”

“Sometimes I want to say screw it all.”

“I get it. But we can’t. We’re Ashborn and Griffin. We have to win beautifully — and stay silent about what matters most.”

“Then promise me… if we both make the team — you won’t back down.”

“I won’t,” Lexa said, squeezing her hand.

“No matter what happens… we hold on.”

“Together,” Lexa repeated. “For the dream. For us.”

They fell silent again. Wind howled outside. Rain slid down the glass. As if the world was trying to shelter them — in this room, where it was warm. Safe. And where they could breathe.

Clarke closed her eyes and whispered:

“Let it all burn. Just stay.”

Lexa answered not with words — but a kiss. Not greedy. Not desperate. The kind that said they’d already won. That their names were already written — together — in the story that mattered.

Chapter Text

The stables of the Sinclair family’s training centre felt like a world apart — insulated from the noise of London, from expectations, from the voices demanding the impossible. Mornings began before dawn. Fog hung over the fields like the breath of the earth, and only the creak of the gate and Valkyrie’s hooves disturbed the calm.

Clarke was at her peak. There was no excess tension in her body — only honed strength, confidence, and experience. Valkyrie responded to her every cue as if reading her mind. The Holsteiner mare moved gracefully around the arena, collecting into a perfect diagonal, executing movements with such precision that even the stern coach, Miss Emerson, pursed her lips to hide a smile.

“Right after the supported piaffe — transition into passage. Don’t rush. You’re dragging her forward, not guiding her,” the trainer’s voice cut through the silence.

Clarke nodded, not slowing down. Sweat trickled down her temple. She knew she was being watched. Not just by Emerson — but by federation officials, and maybe even her father, hidden somewhere in the shadows of the stands. It didn’t matter. Right now, there was only her and Valkyrie.

Every morning began with warm-up on a loose rein, followed by stricter elements: serpentines, shoulder-in, collected canter, transitions. They circled the arena for hours, until the mare started breathing in perfect sync with her.

After training, Clarke hurried back to the stable, loosening the girth, whispering soft words of gratitude to Valkyrie. The mare breathed evenly, snorted, and gently touched Clarke’s shoulder with her lips. They were partners. Not just rider and animal. They were bonded by something far greater — years, pain, blood, trust.

She had barely removed the saddle when a familiar voice spoke behind her:

“Well, well. Looks like you’ve seriously decided you’re ready for the Royal Tournament.”

She turned. Arabella stood in a flawlessly pressed light suit, leaning casually against a post, wearing a smirk laced with both disdain and envy.

“Surprised you didn’t bring the press team to capture you getting in my way,” Clarke replied calmly, continuing to groom the mare.

“Just passing by. Couldn’t help but notice… Valkyrie’s trying, of course. But let’s be honest, she looks far more impressive on Instagram than in the arena. And you know it.”

Clarke straightened. Turned to face her, arms crossed.

“If you came here to play psychologist, don’t bother. I’ve got real people who believe in me.”

“Real people? You mean Lexa? That’s cute. You two are so different. She’s cold-blooded stock — nobility, elegance. And you…” Arabella leaned in. “You’re all impulse, collapse, heat and dirt under your nails.”

Clarke narrowed her eyes.

“What’s this — jealousy? Of her, of me, of the attention? Or do you just envy anyone who dares to feel alive?”

“I’m just reminding you: even if you ride into the arena on Valkyrie like some war unicorn — that still won’t make you Lexa. No judging panel will mistake the two.”

Clarke gave her a long look. Dry. Sharp as a blade.

“Fuck off, Arabella. While you still can.”

“Oh, such language. Truly Olympic material. Hope the judges are taking notes.”

“I hope they’re taking notes when you fall off your horse, if you come near me again.”

Arabella chuckled and walked away, leaving behind the scent of expensive perfume and the sticky residue of lies.

Clarke stood in silence, pressing her forehead against Valkyrie’s neck.

“It’s okay, girl. We’ll show them. I promise.”

Miss Emerson approached Clarke once Arabella was gone. She looked just as stern as always — dressed in a fitted black blazer, breeches the color of wet stone, and tall leather boots. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, her gaze sharp and composed.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, taking the brush from Clarke’s hand and beginning to groom Valkyrie herself. “Not physically. Mentally. The tournament’s close, and you’re keeping everything bottled up.”

Clarke sighed, leaning against the wooden partition.

“I don’t want to fail. Not in front of my father. Not in front of the federation. Not in front of myself.”

“Well, that last one is what matters most,” Emerson nodded. “You know you’re ready. And so is your horse. But doubt is part of mastery. Without it, a rider is blind.”

Clarke looked at her, letting herself show a flicker of exhaustion for the first time that morning.

“Do you really think we can make the team?”

Emerson paused for a beat. Then nodded with quiet confidence.

“I do. You and Valkyrie — you’re one of the strongest pairings I’ve seen in a long time. You don’t just ride her. You breathe with her. And if the federation can’t see that, they’re the blind ones. That’s not your fault.”

Clarke offered a small smile.

“Thank you.”

“Just remember one thing. Arabella is noise. Background. Dust. You are the work. The heart. The silence before movement. Let her talk all she wants — you show them what you’re made of. Not with words.”

Clarke nodded, feeling the tension in her chest ease. Emerson never said much, but she always struck true. And more than anything — she believed.

“We’ve got this,” Clarke whispered, meeting her horse’s gaze.

Valkyrie snorted softly, as if agreeing.

Clarke’s room in the Griffin estate looked out over the eastern garden, but the sunlight no longer brought her comfort. She used to love this — the gentle fog, the warm wooden tones, the soft chirping of birds outside the window. Now it all felt distant. Foreign.

She was sitting on the floor, back against the bed, knees drawn to her chest. One curtain was left open, and the shadow of the old maple’s crown moved across the floor like a quiet metronome, measuring time.

She was still wearing her training shirt, only the collar unbuttoned, hair tangled. The scent of sweat lingered — horse sweat, leather, dust from the arena. She barely noticed.

Valkyrie had moved perfectly today. Everything precise. Clean. But something inside her had clenched after the encounter with Arabella — like an old whip cracking, not on the body, but somewhere deeper. Confidence.

“You’ll never be Lexa.”
The words echoed in her head like a splinter too deep to remove.

Clarke exhaled and closed her eyes.

“I don’t want to be Lexa,” she whispered into the void.

But the void didn’t answer.

She had always known the world she lived in. In this world, everything had weight — names, titles, bloodlines, connections. To be a Griffin meant to be strong. But she didn’t feel strong. Not today. Not after Arabella’s words, not after her father’s glance that morning, when he had passed her and said, “Ninety percent — or forget the team.”

She clenched her fists.

What if I fail?
What if Valkyrie missteps?
What if I do?

No matter how much she trained — fear always returned.

But what scared her more wasn’t the tournament. It was the unknown between her and Lexa. Everything had felt… perfect. Too perfect. The walk, the lake, her voice close to Clarke’s ear, the touches. Like a dream too delicate to be real. And now… they’d parted again. Silence again.

She’s always so certain. So calm. And I feel like I’m coming apart.

In that chasm between training, expectations, and the storm inside — Clarke felt utterly alone.

She got up, walked to the mirror, turned on the light. Tired eyes, a red scratch on her cheek after the morning ride - and yet she stands straighter.

“You have Valkyrie. You have you. And you won’t let them break you,” she said to her own reflection.

Then she moved to her desk, pulled out an old notebook from the drawer. Flipped through the pages. Strategies, dressage diagrams, coach notes, saddle sketches, motivational quotes. And somewhere among them — an old photo. Her and Lexa. They were twelve. Both in dusty boots, faces smudged with dirt after yet another junior tournament. Laughing like the sky belonged to them.

I dreamed of the Royal Tournament not for medals. But for that girl. For us.

She pressed the photo to her chest.
Then turned off the ceiling light, leaving only her desk lamp on. Wrapped herself in a blanket and sat back on the floor cocooned by warmth.

Her pulse finally started to slow.
Tomorrow — the arena again. The waltz between mistakes and triumph.

But tonight, she could just be tired, afraid, real.

Ashborn Estate. Evening.

The grand dining room, lit by soft golden light, held the silence of a storm about to break. At the long oak table sat the Ashborn family. Genevieve, ever composed and precise, arranged the silverware with a surgeon’s care, her gaze slicing through the quiet tension like a blade. Edward, his posture regal and eyes like ice, gripped his water glass with restrained intensity.

Lexa sat in silence, observing her parents, feeling the familiar weight of their expectations, the pressure of what went unsaid. The air was cold, laced with a chill that raised goosebumps on her skin.

“Alexandra,” Genevieve began, tilting her head toward her daughter, pronouncing the name with deliberate weight, “I see you’re still playing those little games with Clarke.”

Lexa stiffened slightly, but kept her voice steady.

“It’s not a game. We’re both preparing for the championship. It’s serious.”

“Exactly,” Genevieve said coolly. “Which is why you must be certain this... friendship of yours isn’t a dangerous distraction. You understand there’s no room for weakness in your world.”

Edward remained silent, watching the exchange with quiet authority.

Genevieve continued, her tone softening just enough to become more strategic:

“Do you really believe Clarke wouldn’t do anything for a medal? For a place on the team? For her father’s approval? Perhaps even at the cost of your friendship.”

Lexa looked down into her glass for a moment, then raised her eyes.

“I trust her.”

“This isn’t about trust,” her mother said, shifting into the cadence of business. “In this sport, you are competitors. And no one gives victories away. Clarke is a strong player. Her father is influential. I have no doubt the Griffin family will do everything to keep her on top.”

“We both want the same thing,” Lexa said quietly. “The Olympic team. And we both deserve it.”

Edward finally spoke, his voice deep and weighty:

“But we can’t allow Clarke to threaten your place. Not just in the sport. Her influence over you — we won’t tolerate it.”

Lexa understood exactly what they meant. Her bond with Clarke wasn’t just a distraction — it was a threat to their plans, their control.

Her heart pounded, but her voice stayed measured.

“I know her better than you think. If she wanted to betray me, she would have already.”

“This isn’t about betrayal,” Genevieve interjected. “It’s about survival. And Clarke is a formidable rival. Her family holds power.”

“We are the two best riders in the country,” Lexa said, her voice steady. “If anyone deserves to be on that team — it’s us.”

“But only one of you can be first,” Edward reminded her. “And we can’t let Clarke’s influence derail your future. You are our legacy, Alexandra.”

Genevieve frowned briefly, then offered a smile so gentle it almost masked the blade beneath.

“I know your sister, Beatrice, was always... unconventional. She chose her path — one that often shocked us. But you… you are our hope. Don’t let us down.”

Lexa exhaled quietly. Beatrice’s name hovered like a ghost, a reminder and a warning.

“You are our pride,” her mother added softly. “And if you’re to stay on this path, you’ll have to choose. Family... or whatever this is with Clarke.”

Silence thickened the air. Lexa looked down at her hands, trying not to show how deeply those words cut.

“I’m not weak,” she finally said, raising her eyes. “And I know what I want. I won’t let anyone destroy what I’m building.”

“We’ll see,” Edward said coldly. “Soon, it’ll all be clear.”

Genevieve rose, taking a sip from her wine glass as if bracing herself for another blow.

“Remember,” she added in a near-whisper, “family isn’t just blood. It’s responsibility. And sometimes... sacrifice.”

Lexa knew those weren’t just words — they were prophecy.

Lexa’s room was quiet, wrapped in the glow of her desk lamp and the soft shadows cast by books and framed photographs on the wall. She sat on the edge of the bed, feet propped on a cushioned stool, staring out the window where the stars flickered faintly. But her mind was a storm.

Her mother’s words echoed like needles in her thoughts:

“Alexandra, you’re too young to play with fire.”
“You must understand — family comes first.”
“Clarke is a danger. Not just to your reputation.”

Her chest tightened with the familiar conflict: the desire to be herself, to walk her own path, to love who she chose — and the unbearable weight of her parents’ vision for her future.

She reached for her phone, fingers trembling slightly, and dialed a number by heart.

“Hello?” came Beatrice’s voice — warm, teasing, unmistakably her.

“Hey, Bea.” Lexa allowed herself a tired smile. “I needed to talk to someone who isn’t trying to shame me.”

“Oh, then you’ve come to the right place!” Beatrice laughed. “I’ll put down the croissants and prepare to rescue my little sister from the Ashborn dungeons.”

“You’re the queen of support,” Lexa chuckled softly. “Things are... complicated. The pressure’s getting unbearable.”

“Not the first time, darling,” her sister said dryly. “Remember when Mum tried to make me take ballet? I told her my ‘ballet’ was stomping through galleries and rearranging paintings in fits of artistic rebellion.”

“You were always the fun one. How’s life in France?”

“As chaotic as ever. I’m running a gallery in central Paris now. We’re showing everything — from classic oils to installations that look like a child’s bedroom after a cat attack. Yesterday I had to call the cleaner three times — one artist scattered broken bottles across the floor and called it a ‘symbol of transformation.’ I called it a bloody mess.”

Lexa laughed for real this time. “You’ve always had style.”

“Freedom’s an illusion, sis. The scale of disaster just changes. But at least I choose my battles. Unlike you, it seems.”

“I’ve got my own war,” Lexa said with a sigh. “Family, training, Clarke... You know they don’t want me anywhere near her.”

“I know. You’ve told me. But how can they not see that Clarke isn’t the enemy? She’s smart. Strong.”

“She’s also a serious competitor. That’s what they’re afraid of. Not just some emotional entanglement. They think she’ll outshine me.”

“Family politics,” Beatrice sighed. “The Royal Cup’s coming up, right? Are you ready?”

“We both want the team. Clarke and I. But the pressure’s... heavy. And Arabella — let’s just say she has her own ways of securing a spot. Not exactly limited to riding skill.”

“Do you believe in yourself?” Beatrice asked. “You’ve been killing it for years, but sometimes doubts creep in.”

“I do,” Lexa said quietly. “But if I crack under this pressure, it won’t be a defeat in the arena. It’ll be at home. And I can’t let that happen. Not to myself. Not to you. Not to Clarke.”

“You won’t crack. I’m always on your side. Even if you need a French rebellion at the gates of Ashborn Manor — I’ll be there with a baguette and a battle cry.”

“Thanks, Bea. You’re my light at the end of the tunnel.”

“Now go to sleep, Lady Aristocrat. Tomorrow’s another day — more peaks to climb, maybe a scandal or two.”

“I promise. Goodnight.”

“Night, sis.”

Lexa put down the phone and closed her eyes for a moment. Her heart, finally, felt a little lighter.

Sinclair Estate. That same evening.

Heavy velvet curtains were drawn shut, dimming the outside light. Only the flickering fireplace cast dancing shadows on the walls lined with portraits of ancestors whose gazes felt watchful and stern. The house radiated a kind of icy elegance — order, calm, and a discipline no one dared disturb.

Arabella sat at the grand piano. Her fingers flowed over the keys with a confident, almost commanding rhythm. The music was precise, polished — a manifesto of her character. Flawless. Cold. Unrelenting. Each chord echoed her ambition, her resolve.

By the fire sat Lord Richard and Lady Celestine, both clad in impeccably tailored attire, faces calm and composed. Yet beneath their stillness lay a quiet intensity. Their eyes drifted now and then toward their daughter — both pride and instrument in a game they played without mercy.

Callum lounged on a side couch, arms crossed over his chest. A book rested in his hands, though his gaze occasionally lifted, tracking the silent power plays around him. He was the calmest of the room — the most rational — and yet tension lingered in the air between him and his sister.

Finishing the piece, Arabella turned to them with a faint smile, her voice cool and dry:

“The tournament is near. Everyone knows who the real contender is. Lexa and Clarke won’t keep up.”

Richard gave a slight nod.

“You are the face of British dressage. There’s no room for doubt.”

Celestine, lifting her wine glass, cast her daughter a look that held more than maternal care — a look sharpened by expectation and quiet menace.

“Remember, Arabella. True strength lies in controlling the game without ever dirtying your hands. No one must ever question your purity. Our enemies must vanish without a trace.”

Arabella’s smile deepened, icy and merciless.

“They will. I’ll make sure their footprints are erased.”

Callum set his book aside and looked at her, voice quiet but edged with disapproval.

“You’re too confident, Arabella. Don’t underestimate them. Especially Lexa — she has a resilience you tend to overlook.”

Arabella scoffed.

“Resilience? That’s not enough.”

Richard interjected with a weary sigh.

“You’ve always been too soft, Callum. In our world, softness is weakness. We don’t fight fair. We eliminate the possibility of losing. That’s where our advantage lies.”

Celestine nodded, letting a pause fall before she spoke — her words meant to linger.

“Arabella is the continuation of our line. The embodiment of our ideals. Ruthless. Decisive. Unshakable. No one has the right to question her.”

Feeling the full force of their approval, Arabella allowed herself a faint smirk — but her eyes remained cold, focused.

Callum stood, surveying the room.

“I just hope your overconfidence doesn’t become your downfall. It’s not only your reputation at stake — it’s ours.”

Arabella rose as well, slowly circling the table toward him. Her voice softened, but only to conceal the steel beneath it.

“I know what I’m doing, Callum. You should worry less about how I play the game, and more about whether you have a place in the legacy I’m building.”

At that moment, the quiet shrill of a phone rang from the hallway, briefly cutting the tension — but not the certainty that lingered behind: an unshakable belief in her own supremacy, and a cold, deliberate will to destroy anyone in her way.

The library was cloaked in half-light — only the dim glow of a desk lamp illuminated the shelves of old books and deep red velvet armchairs. Soft music and voices trickled in from the drawing room, but here, away from it all, a far more fragile and charged atmosphere reigned.

Callum stood by the window, gazing out into the dark garden. He didn’t turn when Arabella entered — but he heard her settle into the armchair across from him. Her gaze cut across the room like a scalpel.

“You know why I came in here?” Callum asked at last, turning to her.

Arabella smiled. It was cold, restrained.

“Of course,” she said, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “You always watch my life a bit too closely, dear brother.”

“Not to watch,” he said, gaze steady. “To warn you. You’re planning something. I know you. You don’t play fair — and I won’t let your games spiral out of control.”

She smirked, her tone sharpening.

“My games are always under control. Unlike your constant doubt.”

“That’s not doubt,” he snapped. “That’s reason. You’re about to go too far. You want to remove Lexa and Clarke from your path — but what if you mistake ambition for madness?”

She leaned forward, voice laced with venom.

“Madness? No, Callum. You’re the one living in delusions. Still clinging to the idea that you can win clean. In our world, the winners use the dark. You’re afraid to get your hands dirty. I’m not. I know blood and filth are part of the game.”

“But you can’t afford to lose control,” he said flatly. “One wrong step — and it all falls apart.”

“You think I don’t know that?” her voice cut like ice. “Every move I make is calculated. You’ve spent too long hiding behind ideals that are already dead. Our enemies don’t fight fair — they’re deceitful, vicious. Why should I follow rules they spit on?”

Callum raised a brow.

“Have you forgotten we’re Sinclairs? Our strength comes from poise and legacy. You’re playing with fire — and it could burn all of us.”

Arabella scoffed, slowly circling the room.

“You choose to live in the shadows, Callum,” she said with disdain. “I chose the spotlight. And if someone has to burn in it — let it be them. Lexa and Clarke deserve nothing but total obliteration.”

“And what if you destroy yourself in the process?” he asked, his tone softening. “We’re family. We should be strong together — not tear each other down for ambition.”

Arabella turned to him, her eyes gleaming with equal parts fury and disdain.

“Family? Family is chains, Callum. Chains I intend to cut. I’m not just a daughter. Not just a sister. I’m the Sinclair heir. And my mission is to preserve our power. Even if it means becoming the monster.”

Callum sighed, his voice heavy with both concern and exhaustion.

“You already are a monster, Arabella. Don’t let your ambition destroy what little humanity you have left.”

She gave a slow, amused smile — like his words only fueled her fire.

“Humanity. You’ve always been too soft for this family.”

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But it’s because of that softness that I’m trying to save you.”

The silence that followed was loaded, suffocating. This wasn’t just disagreement — it was a fracture. One that could either shatter their family or redefine it.

Arabella moved to the window, staring out into the night.

“We’ll see who’s left standing in the end, brother. We’ll see who proves worthy of being a Sinclair.”

Chapter Text

The Royal Dressage Championship at Windsor. Day One.

The meadows around Windsor were already dotted with delegation tents, horse trailers, and heraldic flags. Horses were being led along cobbled walkways, flags snapped in the wind, and the whole scene felt unreal in its beauty.

The Royal Dressage Championship at Windsor — the most elite, most politicised, most decisive event of the season.

Clarke was the first to step out of the car. She wore a classic warm-grey riding suit — restrained, yet flawlessly tailored. Her hair was neatly pulled back, her makeup light but confident. Behind her came her mother and father. Thomas Griffin was on the phone, glancing around as if he were at a parliamentary meeting rather than at a tournament.

“Too crowded,” he remarked, “but… respectable.”

Clarke didn’t answer. She’d stopped trying to please him a long time ago. Right now, here, the only thing that mattered was Valkyrie — her power, her voice, her chance.

Miss Emerson was already waiting at the entrance to the stabling area — as strict as ever, though there was the faintest hint of approval in her eyes.

“You’re on time. Tonight, a familiarisation ride. Tomorrow at nine — final training. The arena’s yours for exactly an hour. We won’t show all our cards, but you know what to do.”

“I do,” Clarke nodded. “We’re ready.”

“Not just ready. You must be among the best. Everything that came before — irrelevant. This week is all that matters.”

They walked down the main thoroughfare: riders in tailored coats, grooms, judges, reporters all around. Every movement here was calculated. Every whisper — nearly a headline already. Everything was too expensive, too polished, too quietly hostile.

And then Clarke saw her.

Lexa.

She stood a little apart, in a perfectly fitted black riding jacket. Beside her was August, snorting nervously, coiled like a spring. One groom checked his tack while another held him steady.

Lexa didn’t look at Clarke.

She was studying something on her tablet, focused, precise, detached. Even when Clarke stopped just a few steps away — she didn’t lift her eyes. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn.

“You’re really going to compete on August?” — the recent words echoed in Clarke’s mind.

“He’s my choice. We’re a team.”

Clarke already knew. But seeing it in person — seeing Lexa poised at the edge of competition, ready for anything — was something else entirely.

Her chest tightened.

So this is how it’s going to be? she thought.

Their last conversation had been by the lake. Their last kiss — the same day. Since then, only silence. And chance meetings in federation corridors, cold and formal.

“Don’t look,” Miss Emerson said quietly. “Remember why you’re here.”

Clarke nodded and turned away. A coldness spread under her skin. A burning resentment she had no right to feel.

“She’s going first,” Emerson added, almost casually. “She’ll set the bar.”

Clarke said nothing. The fire was already lit inside her.

They stepped into the cool shade of the stable block. Shadows, hay, quiet. It smelled like home. Valkyrie was here.

Clarke stopped at the stall. The mare lifted her head, recognising her, and gave a low whinny.

“Hey, girl,” Clarke whispered, pressing her forehead to hers. “We’ll show them. All of them. Even her.”

Outside, hoofbeats passed, tack jingled, voices called. Everything was alive. Everything was breathing. Everything was building to the start.

The game had begun.

Four days. Everything still ahead.

Clarke left the stables and drew a deeper breath. The air was damp, thick, saturated with the sounds of the tournament: horses neighing in the distance, the ring of metal, muffled commands, footsteps crunching on gravel.

She wanted to walk the grounds, shake off the tension. But as soon as she turned the corner of the old brick block, her whole body tensed on instinct.

Arabella Sinclair stood there.

In a crisp white blouse pulled under a wrap vest, perfectly pressed. Her platinum hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. Beside her — her silent shadow, assistant with notebook, iPad, and a face that reflected nothing.

“Oh, Clarke,” Arabella purred, turning just as Griffin tried to pass. “What… an unexpected surprise.”

Clarke paused, squinting against the setting sun.

“Everything involving you is like a goddamn pimple — unexpected, unpleasant, and painful.”

Arabella laughed — quietly, brightly, with a pointed edge. Lillian scribbled something into the notebook.

“Charming, as always. Is this your new PR strategy? Or did you just overdo it at another party?”

Clarke stepped closer, tension humming through every muscle. Arabella didn’t move back an inch.

“Well,” Arabella drawled, tilting her head, “I understand it must be hard when an old friend pretends you don’t exist. And you two were so… close.”

The words dripped poison, and Clarke felt every drop.

“What, did Lexa decide you weren’t worth her time? Or did you screw it up? I hear you’re very good at that.”

Clarke’s fists clenched.

“Keep going,” she gritted. “One more word and I’ll smear that perfect face of yours all over this wall.”

Arabella stepped in, barely a metre between them.

“Threats? At the very start of the tournament? Careful, Griffin. You know how fast careers fall apart after… emotional outbursts. Especially for those already on the edge.”

“I’m not on the edge, I’m in the fight, bitch. And if you so much as come at me again — morally, politically, physically — I’ll rip your tongue out and shove it so far up your ass you’ll finally speak the truth for once in your life.”

That, Arabella clearly hadn’t expected.

Clarke closed the space, grabbing the lapel of her vest and shoving her sharply against the brick wall. Lillian stepped forward, then froze — either in fear or under strict orders not to interfere.

“Listen, Queen of Poisoned Looks,” Clarke hissed, her face inches from Arabella’s. “I know what you’re doing. I am not your puppet. Try to pit me against Lexa again, or drop some hint to a judge, the press, anyone — and I’ll destroy you. Not in court. Not on Twitter. In person.”

She released Arabella with such force the woman staggered.

“Watch yourself, Sinclair. Because I’m no longer someone you can intimidate behind the scenes.”

Clarke turned and walked away as if nothing had happened.

Arabella remained still, adjusting her collar, her eyes cold — but for the first time, there was a flicker of caution there.

And Lillian quietly wrote something else down.

Clarke had barely taken a few steps from the wall where she’d nearly smashed Arabella’s face when a voice called behind her:

“Mon dieu, Clarke Griffin — was that a threat or a campaign speech?”

She stopped. Took a deep breath.

“Not now,” she muttered through her teeth.

But he was already approaching, springy in his stride, the walk of a man who loved being wherever the trouble was hottest. Tall, beige trench, bright scarf, tablet under his arm, and that signature smile.

Oliver Wren. Pain in the ass and the face of scandalous society columns.

“You know,” he continued, flicking his fringe back and switching on his recorder, “if you’d pressed her against that wall just a bit harder, you’d have had the front page of Horse & Hound with the headline: ‘Griffin vs. the Viper.’”

Clarke turned slowly, wearing the expression of someone whose patience and faith in humanity had run out simultaneously.

“Are you following me?”

“I’m following the story, darling. And you — you’re the epicentre of the most intriguing plotline this season. The princess with a Valkyrie, the mysterious Alexandra on a Friesian, and the brewing storm between houses. How could I resist?”

Clarke rolled her eyes.

“Delete whatever you just recorded.”

“And you delete that temper of yours, and we’ll call it even. Come on, let’s do a quick interview? No dirt. Just a couple of questions. You and Lexa… you really don’t talk? Is that personal or tactical?”

Clarke leaned in, a predatory half-smile on her lips.

“You want an honest headline, Wren?”

“Always.”

She gripped his hand, pulled the mic closer to her face.

“If you put a microphone in my face again without my consent — I’ll shove it up your ass. Live.”

Oliver blinked. Then smirked. And to her surprise, gave a slight bow, as if appreciating the performance.

“Bold. Unfiltered. You’re a natural icon.”

“Get out of here before I drop you next to Sinclair.”

“Ow. Right in the heart. But fine, I’ll go. This time. Only because you’re dangerously gorgeous today.”

He pivoted away, still writing something into his tablet as he walked.

Finally breaking free from the orbit of drama and media provocation, Clarke headed toward one of the side arenas — just to walk, to breathe, to lick the wounds of her patience. Horses around her snorted, hooves marking out a nervous rhythm.

She was just about to round the corner when someone awkwardly yet decisively stepped into her path.

“Lady Griffin!”

Clarke stopped dead.

In front of her stood a girl about her age, with warm brown skin and striking eyes. Short, but wiry, with a strong posture and working hands. On her vest — the emblem of the Southern Riding Academy; on her face — a mix of awe and nerves.

Mother of God, another one, Clarke thought, raising a brow.

“I’m sorry to approach you like this… but I know you. Of course I know you. I’ve watched your Oxford performance three times in a row, it was… incredible. And Valkyrie — divine. I’m—” she swallowed and straightened her shoulders, “Octavia Blake, Southern team. It’s an honour, milady.”

Clarke blinked.

“Did you mistake me for Princess Anne?”

“What? No! I mean… no, of course not. I just thought… that’s what you say. You know… aristocracy. Griffin Hill. I just wanted to show my respect. You inspired me to get into this sport. Really.”

Clarke stared at her. She was still boiling inside, adrenaline from the clash with Arabella not yet gone. And now this — an earnest girl with eyes full of sincerity.

“Look,” Clarke said flatly, “I just nearly threw Sinclair into a fountain, then almost punched a journalist, and my throat’s still tight from sheer rage. So if you want an autograph — bad timing.”

“I— uh…” Octavia stepped back, but didn’t leave. “I don’t actually want an autograph. I just… wanted to say you have great style.”

Silence hung between them for a beat.

Then Clarke exhaled — and laughed, low and rough.

“Great style,” she repeated, shaking her head. “You mean my threat with a microphone or the part where I almost planted my fist in Arabella’s teeth?”

“Both, honestly.”

“Well, you’re a dangerously devoted fan.”

Octavia laughed properly now, her shoulders loosening.

“Only on special occasions. And only for those who’ve earned it.”

“Alright, Blake. Consider yourself officially the first person today not to make me want to scream. That’s an achievement.”

“I’ll put it on our academy’s coat of arms.”

Clarke snorted.

“You competing?”

“Yeah. Pair cross-country, day two. My mare’s name is Roxy. Stubborn bitch, but we get along.”

“Clearly, you’ve got a personality.”

“Told you — inspired by you.”

Clarke smiled — genuinely, this time. Something inside her shifted: it had been a long time since anyone approached her like this. No agenda, no game. Just respect. And in a world where every step was under a microscope, that was worth something.

“You know,” she said, “if everyone who came up to me was even half as nice as you, I might not entertain the idea of breaking someone’s nose.”

“I’ll take that as the highest compliment I’ve ever received,” Octavia replied with mock seriousness, then snorted. “Especially from someone who, according to the tabloids, has a trophy-to-enemies ratio of one to one.”

Clarke chuckled, folding her arms.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue.”

“Mum says one day it’ll get me in trouble. So far, so good.”

“Where’re you from?”

“We’re a national team but train at a private school in the south. No flashy crests or family silver spoons, if you know what I mean.” Octavia hesitated a moment before adding, “Scholarship. Got lucky.”

Clarke nodded. She understood. More than Octavia could know right now.

“It’s not luck if you earned the spot. Means you’re good.”

Octavia flushed slightly, dropping her gaze. Then, with a conspiratorial grin, leaned closer.

“Can I admit something? I thought you’d be… you know, arrogant. Minimum. The phrase ‘ice queen bitch’ got thrown around a few times in training camp.”

Clarke laughed — short but sincere.

“Oh, I can be. Especially if Sinclair’s nearby.”

“Everyone says she’s a snake.”

“They’re wrong. Snake’s too noble. She’s poisonous mould. The kind that grows on your career before you notice.”

Octavia burst out laughing.

“Alright. Officially want you as my mentor.”

“I don’t even know your course.”

“Fixable. I’ve got a run-through on the small arena tomorrow. You can come by — if you’re not busy intimidating the press or morally destroying aristocrats.”

“Tempting,” Clarke smirked. “If I don’t drop dead after morning training — I’ll swing by.”

“Deal.”

For a moment, they just stood there in silence — a silence without sharp whispers or cameras. Just two riders. Two girls. One — an icon, the other — at the start of her path.

“Clarke?”

“Hm?”

“Thanks for not telling me to get lost. Though, by the look on your face, you almost did.”

“Not almost. I was literally rehearsing it in my head. But you stopped me. That’s a skill.” Clarke grinned at her. “Good luck, Blake. And… lose the pomp next time, alright?”

“Alright, milady.”

“Careful, I might change my mind about liking you.”

They both laughed. And for a moment, the world felt just a fraction lighter.
Octavia gave a broad smile, waved easily, and skipped off toward the training zone. Clarke watched her go, feeling the last traces of anger dissolve into the air.

Sometimes… sometimes in this world, there were still people who wanted nothing in return.

Dusk settled over the castle like antique velvet — soft, but heavy with weight. The arena lights were already on: diffused, golden, reflecting off the smooth surface of the sand and glinting against the stained glass panels along the far wall. Each one depicted a scene of royal hunt — crimson capes, deer, spears, galloping horses. In the shifting glow, the images seemed to move like ghosts, ready to unsettle any stallion.

Clarke rode at a walk, Valkyrie beneath her alert but collected. The mare’s ears flicked in every direction, catching every sound: the dull thud of hooves on wood, the swish of a jacket, even the click of a pen somewhere in the stands.

“Only walk and trot,” Miss Emerson reminded her from the centre of the arena. “Remember — this isn’t training, it’s familiarisation. Let her memorise the smell, the light, the texture of the walls.”

Clarke nodded silently, guiding Valkyrie along the rail. They approached the royal box — a pompous, elevated platform with velvet chairs, gilded cornices, and a massive crest flanked by griffins.

“See that?” Emerson gestured subtly toward the box. “She’s holding her gaze there. Look at the ears — pointed right at it. Pass by during your test and she might expect trouble there. Practise the pass. Let her get used to applause, to the echo.”

Almost on cue, one of the assistants at the far end of the stands clapped twice. Valkyrie tossed her head slightly, but Clarke remained impassive. Her hands — soft, steady. No reward, no panic.

“Good. Just like that. Give her her nose. Softer, Clarke.”

At the other end of the arena came the sound of hoofbeats. A horse in full tack entered from the opposite side — posture flawless, stride lifted high, carrying the natural presence only a Friesian could. August.

The rider on him — unmistakable. Lexa.

Clarke tightened the reins. Valkyrie tensed, catching the spike in emotion. Emerson noticed immediately.

“Relax your shoulders. You’re not competing with her right now. You’re next to her. That’s all.”

“I’m always next to her,” Clarke muttered under her breath. But she obeyed.

Lexa guided August at a trot along the stained glass, her focus distant, almost mechanical. Her trainer — an older man with a rigid posture and a clipped accent — spoke to her, gesturing toward sections of the arena.

“There, you see? Stained glass. Flickers. He may try to shy away.”

“He won’t,” Lexa replied shortly.

Clarke watched how August moved under her — not as supple as Valkyrie, but heavy with grace, like a sculpture made flesh. Lexa barely glanced around. And not once — at Clarke.

They moved toward each other. Two circles. Two fates.

“Tomorrow you’re running the double system,” Emerson’s voice pulled Clarke back. “Second line on the left. That’s where your beauty likes to lean on her left shoulder. I want you to break the distance down to centimetres in rehearsal. Without it, we lose a full point.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Clarke said.

They kept moving. August snorted as Valkyrie passed. Clarke’s chest clenched. And still… not a single glance. Not a single word.

As if she were air.

“Why won’t she even look at me?” Clarke murmured — almost aloud for the first time.

“Because she was taught that feelings make you weaker,” Emerson replied without changing tone. “But you know that’s a lie. The most dangerous lie of all.”

Clarke said nothing, eyes forward. The hush of the arena wrapped around her, the rhythm of hooves the only thing reminding her this was still real.

Ashborn Estate.   Two months before the tournament

The library was empty. Heavy curtains were already drawn; the fire in the grate crackled with measured steadiness. In all that calm, there was only one element out of place — her.

On the desk lay her phone. The screen was dark, but her fingers gripped it as if it were the last thing keeping her afloat. The last reminder that it had been real. The lake. The early morning. Voices, entwined bodies, a trembling whisper:

“You know I’d choose you even if the whole damn world was against us?”
“It already is.”

“Then to hell with it.”

Lexa almost smiled. And then — the click of a latch. The door swung open.

“Alexandra,” her father’s voice — cold as a blade. “Take your place.”

She turned. He entered — immaculate suit, a face that didn’t betray a single flicker. Behind him — her mother. Her steps were softer, but her silence carried the weight of a storm.

“What’s happened?” Lexa didn’t rise. Her throat tightened, but her voice stayed level.

“You ask as if you don’t know,” her mother said. “One of the staff saw you. With her.”

Silence.

“At the lake. Undressed. In indecent proximity.”

The words were chosen like traps. Her body began to tremble.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” Lexa forced out.

“You’re wrong,” her father cut in. He stepped closer, looking down at her. “You are the Ashborn heir. You are bound to be an example. To control yourself. To think beyond yourself.”

“I am thinking,” she snapped. “For the first time in years, I’m alive.”

“Alive?” Genevieve’s voice dripped with venom. “After you trampled our reputation? After you made us a laughing stock for footmen, for grooms — for the entire federation, if this comes to light?”

Her father moved closer, his shadow falling across her face.

“This is a warning, Alexandra. I won’t repeat myself. You’ve put everything we’ve built at risk. You will make this family a disgrace. Like Beatrice.”

The name hit like a slap.

Beatrice — the one whose name was no longer spoken here. The one who refused to play by the rules and vanished — exiled, cut off, erased.

“You don’t dare compare me to her,” Lexa’s voice shook, but her gaze stayed hard. “At least Beatrice stayed true to herself.”

“She stayed a failure,” her father hissed. “You can still avoid her fate.”

He came so close she could feel the cold off him.

“You will end whatever… relationship… you have with Clarke Griffin. Or…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

Or — the loss of title.
Or — cut from the will.
Or — barred from any tournament where the Ashborn name was a ticket, a brand, a guarantee.

“You will choose the honour of this family,” her mother said coldly. “Or leave this house as the shameful shadow of your sister.”

Silence.

The air tasted of ash and fear.

Then Lexa rose. Slowly. Calmly. Almost detached.

“Understood,” she said.

And walked out.

No shouting. No tears. No battle.
Because inside, everything was already burning.

Lexa closed the door behind her — quietly, almost soundlessly. As if being silent could somehow stop the pain from resonating in her bones. The room — her own private world — suddenly felt foreign. Everything seemed stripped of meaning. Even her reflection in the mirror.

She stood by the bed, unbuttoning her jacket slowly, as if in a trance. And then — as if her body remembered there was still a soul living inside it —

Her chest constricted. Her hands began to shake.

And she collapsed — to her knees, right at the foot of the bed, pressing a fist to her mouth to stop the scream.

The tears came hot, furious. She hated it. Hated her weakness. Hated their power. Hated the sound of her father’s voice — cold as a blade. Hated everything that stripped her not just of happiness, but of the right to be herself.

“Clarke…” she whispered into the dark. “God… Clarke, I’m sorry…”

The phone buzzed — an incoming call. Clarke. She picked it up. Opened the chat. Her fingers shook as she typed:

[L. Ash.] They found out. I can’t… I mustn’t… I love you so…
She deleted it.

Typed again:

[L. Ash.] You don’t deserve this. But I don’t know any other way…
Deleted again.

Instead — short, cold:

[L. Ash.] Can’t talk now. Everything’s fine.

Sent.

Her chest twisted. Clarke replied almost instantly:

[K. Griffin] What’s going on?
[K. Griffin] Lexa, if I did something wrong — tell me. Just don’t go silent.

Lexa stared at the screen until the letters blurred. Then switched the phone off.

Training became torture.

Lexa arrived first, left last. No one knew that in the evenings she sat alone in the darkened arena, stroking August’s neck and murmuring,

“I’m sorry. I chose not you.”

She avoided eyes. Especially her eyes.

Clarke would approach — during breaks, in the lounge, at the hitching post — and Lexa would retreat, as if every second near her burned her skin.

“Will you at least look at me?” Clarke snapped once, grabbing her by the arm.

“Not now,” Lexa pulled free without looking.

“For fuck’s sake, Lexa, you can’t just cut me off like— like a severed seam!”

But that’s exactly what she did.
Cut.
With every attempt, another layer of armour. Another fracture inside.

She was in the arena again. The light was dim. August stood quietly, chewing hay, snorting softly. Lexa pressed her forehead to his neck.

“If I could… if only…”

A tear slid down her cheek. She knew — every cold answer, every silence — it wasn’t protection from Clarke. It was protection from herself. From how badly she wanted to believe they had a future.

She sat in the stands in the pitch-dark arena.

The phone buzzed again. She didn’t open it. Couldn’t. Was afraid.

Three unread messages from Clarke.

Her fingers trembled. She tapped.

[K. Griffin] …you could at least explain.
[K. Griffin] If you never loved me — say it.
[K. Griffin] I deserve the truth, for fuck’s sake.

Lexa’s lips pressed into a thin line. She typed:

[L. Ash.] This isn’t about you. It’s about me. I’m sorry.
Paused. Deleted.

Typed again:

[L. Ash.] I can’t talk. It’s complicated.
Deleted. Infuriated.

Finally:

[L. Ash.] You’d be better off forgetting me.

Sent.

Barefoot, in sports trousers and a grey hoodie with the academy crest, she padded over the cold stone. She didn’t turn on the lights — she knew the path by heart. This was her world. Her only reality left. Or what was left of it.

August lifted his head before she even reached him. His black coat shimmered faintly in the dim light from the high windows. He snorted, as if sensing the pain before she spoke it.

“I’m sorry, boy,” Lexa whispered, pressing her face into his neck.

He stood, breathing steadily, holding her weight — as if he knew he carried more than just his saddle.

“I pushed her away… I…” Her voice cracked.

The tears came like blood from a wound she’d been pretending didn’t exist. She hugged him tighter, almost clutching his mane. Her shoulders shook, her breath turned ragged and helpless.

August let out a low, comforting sound. He shifted slightly, as if to embrace her back.

“They don’t understand what it means to be with her. That she’s not a weakness. She’s light, damn it. And I’m the one turning it off…”

She slid down to sit in the straw, wrapping her arms around her knees, resting her forehead against them.

“I hate myself. God, I hate myself so much right now…”

Silence. Only her breathing, her quiet sobs, and August’s occasional snort. He didn’t move away. He stood there, the way Clarke would have, if she’d been allowed to.

Lexa lifted her head. Her eyes were red, her lips trembling.

“But if I choose her… I’ll have nothing left. No title. No sport. Not you…” She stopped. “And if I don’t choose her — there’ll be nothing left of me.”

It felt like cutting her own heart out.

Chapter Text

The Royal Dressage Championship in Windsor. Day two.

The morning was crisp with coolness and ringing with tension. The courtyard in front of the arena hummed in a low murmur — like before a storm. Thin threads of mist still drifted over the fields beyond the castle, and the sun was only just beginning to pierce through the glass peaks of the training arena’s roof.

Clarke pulled on her gloves — slow, deliberate. Every movement was part of the ritual. Beside her, Valkyrie snorted — restrained, yet collected, just like her rider. Clarke could feel the excess adrenaline trembling in her fingers. Not fear — anger. At herself. At Lexa. At the fact that even here, in the heart of one of the most important tournaments of her career, Lexa’s shadow wouldn’t leave her.

“Five minutes,” Miss Emerson reminded her. “We’re showing form, not playing all the trump cards. Work for clean lines and contact.”

Clarke nodded without replying.

The arena was almost empty. Lexa had gone first. Now — it was her turn.

Clarke mounted. Guided Valkyrie at a walk, then moved into a trot, warming up across the diagonals. Calm, precise, like reading sheet music. Then came the canter, flying changes, half-pass, gallop across the diagonal. Valkyrie went beautifully: smooth, without a single misstep, as if reading the score of an invisible orchestra.

Clarke didn’t show everything. No transitions into piaffe, no risky extended trot where Valkyrie seemed to fly. But the judges would see what they needed to: confidence, purity, contact. Lines — sharp as a blade. Impulsion — precise. Control — flawless.

When she halted the horse in the center of the arena and turned toward the judges’ table, someone in the stands gave the faintest hint of applause.

“Very clean,” Miss Emerson said as Clarke dismounted. “Shoulders further back in collection. The final is the day after tomorrow. Today you showed yourself exactly as much as you needed to. No excess. Everything under control. Good girl.”

Clarke only gave a small nod — there was less joy in it than there should have been. Because as she turned at the exit, she saw her.

She approached from the other end of the corridor, still in her show attire: graphite tailcoat, white gloves, hair neatly pulled back. Lexa’s gaze was restrained, her face like a mask. Only her hands, curling into fists, betrayed the tension.

“You looked…” She hesitated, then steadied her tone. “Very strong. Almost flawless.”

Clarke froze for half a second, processing it.

Almost.

Almost?

She turned to Lexa, slowly, with such cold fury that the air between them seemed to crack.

“Don’t talk to me,” she hissed.

Lexa flinched ever so slightly, but stood her ground.

“I just wanted—”

“Wanted what? To pretend you didn’t tear everything to pieces and just vanish?”

Lexa’s chin lifted almost imperceptibly. Everything about her was tense, collected — as if this conversation were part of some mandatory discipline, nothing more.

“I just wanted to acknowledge your performance. Nothing else.”

Clarke looked at her. At every line of that familiar face.

“Acknowledge?” Clarke gave a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You sound like you’re talking to me as a rival, not as…”

She stopped herself. As what?

No. Not now.

“You know what, Lexa—” she stepped closer, her voice lower, sharper. “You play the part so well. So cold, so disciplined. Pure calculation. But the corner of your mouth trembles when you lie, remember?”

Lexa stayed silent. Didn’t even blink. Her face remained impassive, as if Clarke were speaking into a void.

“What do you want? For me to pretend everything’s fine?” Clarke hissed. “Not happening. I’m not that naive girl anymore, running after you with wet hair and a broken heart.”

“I didn’t expect you to be,” Lexa finally replied. Even. Detached.

“Go fuck yourself, Lexa.”

Lexa raised an eyebrow slightly. Still stood tall, not a single muscle twitching.

“Emotion doesn’t suit you, Clarke.”

“And what suits you? Betrayal? That kind of cold that makes you sick?” Clarke stepped almost right up to her and leaned toward her face. “You’re good at looking at me like I’m nothing. Like there was never anything between us. Only you forgot one little thing.”

She jabbed a finger into her chest.

“I remember how you moaned my name. How you trembled when you kissed me. How you clung to me like the last damn island while your life was sinking.”

Lexa’s gaze lingered for a second, and something flickered in her eyes. A shadow. But it vanished instantly.

“It was a mistake, Clarke,” she said evenly. “We allowed ourselves… to forget who we are. We allowed ourselves too much.”

“No. No, you forgot, Lexa. You forgot who we are. Or you sold out. Or you got scared. Or all of it at once. And I just got off my knees.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“Of course you don’t. You don’t seem to owe anyone anything. You soar above everyone like a damn frozen comet, and everyone just pretends it doesn’t hurt you.”

Clarke threw her hands up.

“Oh, fuck this! For once, just once, say something real! Scream! Break something! Admit you’re not some soulless machine!”

Lexa clenched her jaw. Very quietly:

“And what would that change?”

“Everything, damn it! Everything, Lexa!” Clarke’s voice was hoarse — whether from held-back sobs or rage, it wasn’t clear. She shoved her away. “But no, you can’t let yourself be real. Too dangerous, right? God forbid someone thinks the glass princess has a heart.”

Silence.

And then only Lexa’s footsteps, as she turned and strode toward the exit, her cold voice coming from over her shoulder:

“Good luck, Clarke.”

Clarke snarled:

“Get the hell out. Take your luck and shove it up your ass, right where your conscience is.”

But Lexa was already leaving. And Clarke remained standing there, heart pounding, fists clenched until they hurt, anger throbbing in her temples.

The silence of the arena was deafening.

Lexa walked away with quick strides, almost running, not looking back. The air scraped her throat raw. Every word Clarke had thrown at her echoed inside like a knife scraping bone from within.

Hold it together. Don’t break. Don’t scream.

She turned into the nearest empty row, where the unoccupied stalls for reserve horses stood. Inside — coolness, dim light, and the smell of dust.

Shutting the door behind her, Lexa collapsed back against the wooden wall. Her fingers trembled. Her breath came in shallow bursts, like after a furious gallop. There were no tears. Not now. Not here.

Fucking Clarke. Explosive, proud, alive to the point of pain.

Lexa squeezed her eyes shut.

“Well, well,” came a voice, quiet as a snake’s hiss, “I thought you’d be a little… less emotional.”

Lexa’s eyes snapped open. Oh no. Not this.

Arabella Sinclair stood in the doorway of the stall. Of course. That bitch always appeared as if from under the ground — not a person, but a bad omen. Lexa flinched not from surprise, but from pure, instinctive rage. Behind her stood her assistant, eyes forever lowered, as if hoping that if she didn’t look, no one would notice her sins.

“Were you eavesdropping?” Lexa’s voice was quiet. Very quiet.

“Not eavesdropping. Just… passing by. The arena is a public place. And Clarke, you know, was speaking rather loudly.”

“Get out.”

Arabella laughed.

“I came to express my admiration, Lady Ashborn. You’ve finally made the right choice.”

Lexa stepped forward. Her face remained outwardly calm, but her fingers curled into a fist. Her breath faltered. Fire burned in her chest.

“Shut up, Arabella.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it, Lexa? With Clarke, you were unstable. Not the way you were taught to be. Her problem is that she believes the world will bend to her rules. Your strength is that you know how the game is actually played.”

“I said — get out.” Lexa closed her eyes, forcing herself to hold back her emotions.

“What, are you going to lunge at me? In public? Right here?” Arabella stepped closer, her voice silk and venom. “Like her. Like some savage. You’re above that. Or…”

She didn’t finish. Lexa’s patience snapped.

She slammed her hand into the wall beside Arabella’s face, just a couple of centimeters away.

The boards rattled. The assistant yelped, but Arabella didn’t even flinch. She only arched a brow slightly.

She smiled, as if savoring the moment.

“Ah, youth,” she murmured, almost dreamily. “So much passion. So little sense.”

Lexa said nothing, breathing heavily. Her hands still trembled, clenched into fists. Arabella took a few steps toward the exit, her heels tapping a measured rhythm across the floor.

“You two are, of course, exquisite. Together. Almost tragic. But fortunately for everyone, this little performance has reached its finale.” Her gaze slid over Lexa like a scalpel. “You made the right choice. Feelings can wait.”

“You want me to hit you?” Lexa exhaled, not moving. “Because I’m honestly two steps away from not holding back.”

“Go ahead. But then you’ll have to explain yourself to the judging committee. And I’ll just be shocked.” She smiled broadly, falsely. “Oh my God, poor Lexa Ashborn, so… unstable.”

Lexa shot her a look full of hatred.

“Clarke is a weakness,” Arabella went on, her tone now softer, almost sisterly, “and weakness is a luxury we cannot afford. Right now she’s angry, you’re broken. How sweet. But neither of you is in focus. Which means you’re out of the game.”

Arabella smiled in triumph, relishing the moment.

“You’re strong. But only if you listen to your head, not your heart. And certainly not to Clarke Griffin. She’s too loud. Too impulsive.”

With those words, she left, leaving behind the sensation of a trap snapping shut. Her assistant followed without a word.

Lexa was alone — in the heart of the empty stall, filled with anger, pain, and a silence in which even the air felt alien.

The right choice. The right one.
So why did it hurt so much?

The grand apartments in the private estate on the outskirts of Windsor felt cold and far too spacious. Heavy curtains muted the daylight, casting long shadows across the antique parquet. Lexa stood by the window, gazing at the faded garden, but her thoughts wandered far from that stillness.

Behind her came her mother’s clear, firm voice.

“Tomorrow is the reception at the castle, Alexandra. You know what is expected of you. This isn’t just a social event. It’s a stage where you are the face of the Ashborn family. Judges, sponsors, high society… and, if we’re lucky, Princess Anne herself.”

Lexa clenched her palms into fists, struggling to remain composed.

“I understand, Mother,” she answered quietly, without turning.

Lord Edward, standing in the shadow of the fireplace, added with cold precision:

“Understanding isn’t enough. You must be flawless. No missteps. Not before anyone. Not before yourself.”

Her mother stepped closer, her eyes steel.

“You cannot afford to appear vulnerable. Tomorrow you are not just an athlete. You are the representative of an ancient bloodline, carrying the weight of a thousand generations on your shoulders.”

Lexa drew a deep breath, feeling the crushing weight of responsibility press into her chest. Her eyes filled with tears against her will, but she pushed them back instantly.

“I will do everything as it should be done,” she said evenly, her voice only barely trembling.

“Good,” her mother nodded, though there was not a trace of warmth in her gaze. “We are all watching you. And we will not tolerate the slightest weakness.”

Lord Edward moved to the table, lifted a glass of water, and sighed heavily.

“Remember: family above all. Duty above desire.”

Lexa lowered her gaze and clenched her teeth.

“I know.”

Silence filled the room, the tension palpable.

Her father’s words hung in the air, pinning Lexa to the spot. She kept her eyes on the window — anywhere but them. In the old garden beyond the glass, the branches of the centuries-old oak bent in the wind, its black silhouette shivering as if mirroring her own strain.

Duty above desire. They had drilled it into her since childhood, like a prayer. Like a curse.

Her mother turned her back to her, smoothing the folds of a perfectly pressed dress. Her voice was even, but there was a warning in it.

“And, Alexandra… be sensible. Don’t you dare behave… provocatively again. We have more than enough rumors after the incident at the charity gala.”

Lexa flinched almost imperceptibly.

Her father folded his arms across his chest. His stance was straight, carved from stone. His face — devoid of the slightest doubt.

“Have you forgotten how much damage that caused to our name? We had to do a great deal to smooth it over.”

Lexa said nothing. For a moment, it felt as if the air in the room had thickened, like before a storm.

“Clarke,” her mother said, each syllable cold and clear.

Something tightened in Lexa’s chest.

“You’re not planning to… resume that… contact, are you?” Her mother turned to her, narrowing her eyes.

“I’m focused on the tournament,” she answered evenly, expressionless. “Nothing else matters.”

Genevieve nodded in satisfaction. Her father said nothing — only delivered curtly:

“I hope you’re telling the truth. Because in the event of another disgrace… the Ashborn name will no longer be yours.”

The silence became deafening. Lexa didn’t move. She didn’t even blink.

“Understood.”

Inside, everything burned. Her pulse pounded in her ears like the tide. She wanted to scream, to shatter the silence. But she did nothing. Only uncurled her fingers, barely noticing the crescent marks of pain her nails had left in her palms.

And again — silence. Only the antique clock in the hall counted down the moments until the next battle, one she could not afford to lose.

Home Park. Windsor Castle.

Clarke stood by the rail of the small arena, tablet in hand. She watched as the chestnut mare with a white star on her forehead — Roxy herself — carried Octavia through her warm-up: walk, trot, an easy canter.

“You came,” came the familiar voice.

Octavia rode up to Clarke, slightly out of breath, wearing a protective vest and tightly fastened gloves.

“I told you I’d drop by,” Clarke replied, looking at her over the rim of her cup. “Surprise — I keep my word.”

“And here I thought you were out beating up reporters again. Or choking someone with your spurs.”

Clarke’s lips twitched — not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one.

“I decided not to injure anyone today. Physically, at least.”

“Splendid. Maybe start with the judges, if they fail me?”

“You’re better than you look,” Clarke said, shifting her gaze to the horse. “Your seat is steady, but your hands are stiff. Roxy trusts you — that’s rare. Especially for someone who wasn’t born with a silver spoon in their mouth.”

“Wasn’t even born with a silver one. The best we had was an aluminium bucket.”

“At least you’re not spoiled. That’s a plus.”

Octavia rolled her eyes.

“You say that like you grew up in a ditch yourself.”

Clarke smirked, and for a moment something human flashed in her face.

“Almost. Only the ditch was called ‘Griffin Hill.’”

“Well, if you ever need it — the Southern Academy is always happy to take in aristocrats with a rebellious crisis.”

“I’m not rebelling. I’m… resisting.”

“That sounds pretty. I should have it embroidered on a saddle pad.”

Clarke sighed and looked at the arena.

“Take the line from the right. Don’t rush the second fence. Roxy’s shoulder drifts — if you give her an inch, she’ll slam into the sixth pole.”

“And if I survive?”

“Then I’ll buy you a coffee.”

“Now that’s motivation.”

“Although,” Octavia drawled, adjusting the strap on her glove, “if you buy me coffee, it’ll probably be the most expensive cup of my life. Can you afford that?”

Clarke leaned on the rail, amused.

“I can afford to lose a few pounds. Especially if it saves someone from eating sand face-first.”

“A chivalrous statement,” Octavia snorted. “Almost sentimental.”

“Careful. I’m allergic to adjectives ending in -mental.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t even make the top ten on your list of diagnoses.”

Clarke huffed.

“You’ve got attitude. I like it. For now.”

“Well, you didn’t think I’d worship you, did you? I had a Clarke Griffin shrine in my locker, not in a church.”

“Merciful God,” Clarke muttered with half a smile. “I’d flee the country in fear if I knew my face was on a candle somewhere.”

Octavia burst out laughing, backing Roxy away.

“Blake, on position,” came her trainer’s voice.

“All right, Griffin. Off to conquer some jumps before you change your mind about morally supporting me.”

“Just don’t break. I’m not good at comforting.”

“Perfect. I’m not good at losing. We’re a match.”

Clarke nodded, winking.

“Go on, Blake. Show these old-school kids that you can jump just as high without a family crest.”

“And sometimes — with a running start,” Octavia threw over her shoulder, clicking her tongue to send Roxy toward the starting line.

Clarke watched her go, her lips twitching again in that barely-there, genuinely alive smile. She was still angry. Still boiling inside. But damn it, with girls like Octavia — the world seemed just a little less rotten.

Clarke stood in the shade of the grandstand, leaning against the wooden rail. In her hand — two cups of coffee. One was already half-empty. The other — waiting patiently.

Out in the arena, among the grey obstacles with flags and the whistles of trainers, Octavia was flying. Clarke wasn’t particularly interested in show jumping, but even she could tell — this pair had something special.

She watched the girl, who just yesterday had shyly managed a “milady,” now confidently take the double combination, and the corners of her mouth curved in the faintest shadow of a smile.

When the round ended and the mare was led away, Clarke made her way through the side passage, toward Octavia, who was flushed and beaming as she headed for the stands.

“You survived,” Clarke said dryly, handing over the second cup. “Impressive. Roxy didn’t take your head off.”

“And you came,” Octavia grinned, grabbing the coffee. “Now that’s motivation.”

“As far as I recall, you already had some. Your horse didn’t look especially inclined to compromise.”

“Stubborn, I told you,” Octavia said proudly. “But she’s mine.”

“Listen,” Clarke turned to her more seriously, “do you actually want to see the main arena? Not during training — during the real thing?”

“What?” Octavia blinked. “You mean the tournament?”

“Yes. The place where it all actually happens. I can get you an invitation.”

“You’re joking,” Octavia muttered, as if afraid to even believe it.

“I’m not. I have access. One guest is no problem.”

Octavia stared at her like Clarke had just announced she was adopting Roxy and moving her into Buckingham Palace.

“Seriously? You want me to… come watch you compete?”

“No. Come watch me win. It’s more interesting.”

“Or watch you intimidate the press again,” Octavia added with a crooked grin.

“The show wouldn’t happen without that,” Clarke shot back. “So, Blake — what’s it going to be?”

Octavia opened her mouth, closed it again, and finally breathed out:

“Shit. Yes. Of course. I’ll come. Even if I have to stand on my head. You realise I’m going to have a new badge of honour at the academy? ‘Once Clarke Griffin gave me a ticket to the tournament.’”

“Let me know if you need me to autograph your forehead,” Clarke smirked.

“Just not with a permanent marker.”

“No promises.”

“Wait—” Octavia’s eyes went wide. “There are members of the royal family at the tournament, right?”

“Yes, sometimes Prince William or Princess Anne attend. She’s there most often.” Clarke looked at Octavia with a smile.

“Oh. My. God.” Octavia made a theatrical show of fainting. “And I’ve gone and left my tiara and weekend diamonds at home — how am I supposed to appear before them?”

Clarke laughed, rolling her eyes.

“Octavia, if I had the connections to get an invite to the royal box, no offence, but I’d give it to Gal Gadot.”

“Ouch!” Octavia put a hand to her chest as if deeply wounded. “Oh, I’d give her something too… an invite.”

The girls laughed, and in that moment Clarke caught herself actually starting to like this girl. Bold, free, with no prejudice and no urge to please her surroundings — a breath of fresh air in her pompous world.

“Although honestly,” Octavia squinted, “I’d rather have Princess Anne personally hand me a medal. For patience. Since I’ll be sitting there watching you play queen of the arena.”

“A medal?” Clarke scoffed. “You’ll make do with me letting you hold my ribbon after I win.”

“Oh, what an honour!” Octavia threw up her hands in mock rapture. “And if I drop it in the mud? By accident, of course.”

“Then I’ll accidentally aim Roxy in your direction at a gallop.”

“Threats? Really?” Octavia crossed her arms. “Fine, fine… But if Princess Anne actually wants to talk to me, I won’t turn her down — in solidarity with you.”

“Of course,” Clarke nodded with exaggerated seriousness. “Because you’re not at all a petty, vengeful—”

“—but a very important person,” Octavia cut in, lifting her chin. “Who, by the way, demands her own seat with a cushion. And champagne. To properly witness your triumph.”

“You’ll get champagne only if you bring me water after the round.”

“Water?” Octavia pulled an offended face. “I thought you drank the nectar of the gods or the tears of your rivals.”

“Nectar of the gods is for after the final,” Clarke grinned. “For now, tears of rivals will do. Or have you changed your mind?”

“Not a chance. I’m already picturing the hat I’ll wear to the royal box.”

“Then keep your tiara ready, Blake. Might come in handy.”

“Oh, don’t you worry,” Octavia gave her a challenging look. “I’ll make sure everyone forgets who even competed that day.”

“Dream on,” Clarke turned toward the exit. “But I’ll still be the only one in the arena.”

Chapter Text

The Royal Dressage Championship in Windsor. Day Two.

The Griffin House. The evening before the reception at Windsor Castle.

The house was filled with a quiet hum — the rustle of expensive fabrics, the faint scent of roses, and the subtle murmur of conversations. The luxurious mansion, built many years ago, prided itself on its grand marble staircases, ornate stucco ceilings, and heavy emerald-green velvet drapes that gently muted the light of the evening lamps. The golden glow of chandeliers reflected in crystal glasses, neatly arranged on the tables in the drawing room.

In one of the spacious rooms on the second floor, there was an air of creative chaos — make-up artists and hairdressers moved around Clarke, seamstresses and assistants making final adjustments to an elegant gown. White satin with a barely noticeable silvery sheen glimmered under the lamplight, the delicate embroidered patterns seeming to shimmer with a living glow.

“Please, lift your lashes a little higher,” the make-up artist asked softly, deftly working with a brush.

“And go easy on the eyeshadow,” added the hairdresser, adjusting the low chignon with intricate curls. “The make-up should be restrained, but striking.”

Clarke sat motionless, feeling a faint flutter of nerves and, at the same time, a deep exhaustion. Her gaze kept flicking to the mirror — the reflection there was almost unfamiliar: her eyes framed in muted smoky tones, her lips a soft rose hue, her skin like porcelain.

In the doorway appeared her mother, Abigail Griffin. Her long dress of soft silk in the shade of ashen rose fit perfectly, and pearl bracelets — the legacy of several generations — shimmered on her wrists.

“Clarke,” her voice was soft but measured, “tomorrow is an important day. The reception is not only a social event, but a test. You must shine.”

She came closer, carrying in her hands a small dark-wood casket, adorned with fine carvings and silver inlays.

“These diamonds belonged to your grandmother. She wore them to her first reception and always said they carried strength and confidence.”

Abigail opened the casket, and inside, the stones glittered — serious, without excessive ostentation, perfectly suited to the strict white-tie dress code.

“Wear them tomorrow. Let them remind you who you are and why you are here.”

Clarke carefully took the jewelry, feeling the coolness of the stones and as if accepting the weight of the history they carried.

“Thank you, Mom,” she said quietly, and for a moment, an unspoken connection arose between them — a blend of pride and apprehension.

“You’ll do well,” Abigail smiled, lightly touching her daughter’s shoulder. “And remember — true strength lies in composure.”

Around them, preparations continued, but in that instant it felt as though time had stopped. Clarke’s gaze returned to her reflection — now it was not merely an image of elegance, but a symbol of determination and inner resilience.

The house continued its steady yet tense rhythm — the rustle of dresses, the muted commands of make-up artists, the hushed exchanges of assistants, and the soft tapping of heels against marble floors. In the corner, the warm light of table lamps danced across the walls; the air was scented with a mixture of fresh roses, a hint of vanilla, and the crisp undertone of expensive perfume, trailing after each woman who entered the room.

Clarke turned to her mother as she set the casket of diamonds down on the oak vanity.

“Mom,” Clarke began quietly, “what if I can’t… be the way everyone expects? I… I’m tired of always having to be an example.” Her gaze dropped to the sparkle of diamonds in the casket.

“Clarke,” Abigail smiled gently, smoothing a strand of her daughter’s blonde hair, “at the reception, you are the family’s representative. This is a chance to show that we are stronger than any pressure. These stones aren’t just adornments — they’re a symbol of your line, of our truth.”

“This world is a cage of rules and expectations,” Clarke sighed, looking into the mirror, catching the glints of light on her own face.

“I know,” her mother agreed, “but remember — you are not just the Griffin heiress. You are our future. And I believe in you.”

At that moment, her father entered the room. His stern gaze and upright posture were a reminder that behind the warmth of family lay the weight of responsibility.

“Clarke,” he said, his voice firm but not harsh, “tomorrow is more than just a reception. It’s the beginning of a new chapter. We are all on your side. Be attentive, and carry yourself with dignity.”

Clarke nodded, feeling both the support and the weight settling on her shoulders.

“Thank you, Father. I’ll do everything I can not to disappoint you.”

Abigail glanced at her husband with a faint smile and a touch of encouragement in her eyes.

“Time waits for no one,” she reminded. “Let’s help our daughter focus and be there for her when this important evening begins tomorrow.”

The make-up artists were already starting to pack away their brushes and palettes, while the seamstresses gave the gown one final inspection, checking every fold and seam. Soft classical music — the whisper of strings and piano — filled the room, weaving an atmosphere of refinement and elegance.

The room gradually emptied. Clarke still sat before the mirror, her thoughts drifting toward the night ahead. The reception at Windsor Castle — an event where every glance and every movement would be under close scrutiny, where reputations and power shifted through the subtlest of games. She felt conflicted.

She would especially miss Octavia. They had known each other only a short while, but Clarke liked her — bold, sarcastic, sincere, unburdened by titles or expectations; someone in whose presence Clarke could be, if only a little, herself. Her absence would make the evening feel even lonelier.

And then there was Lexa. Of course. After their last conversation, Clarke felt a growing tension at the very thought of her presence.

I need to stay on guard, Clarke told herself, fingers closing around her grandmother’s diamonds — cold, like the embodiment of eternity. They were meant to be more than adornment; they were to be a talisman, a reminder that even in a world of lies and intrigue, there was still a place for truth and strength that could not be broken.

She drew a deep breath and, as if peering into the future, murmured softly:

“I can do this.”

Clarke looked at herself in the mirror once more, and in her eyes, a spark of determination ignited. The evening promised to be a long one.

The Sinclair Estate. That same evening.

The silence was deliberate, almost ominous — the kind that hangs in the air before a storm. The spacious study, paneled in black walnut, was lit only by the fireplace. The flames quivered, casting restless shadows over the portraits of ancestors whose haughty gazes seemed to follow every movement.

Arabella Sinclair stood by the tall window, her silhouette etched in the orange glow of the fire. A gown of deep navy velvet clung to her frame, emphasizing a fragility that was both deceptive and dangerous. She looked out from her height like a bird of prey — calm, focused, assessing.

“You don’t look pleased, sister,” came Callum’s voice from behind her.

He stopped beside an armchair without sitting down. His dark grey waistcoat was unbuttoned over a crisp white shirt — a rare deviation from his usual perfection, though perhaps intentional. He studied his sister without concealing his disappointment.

“Pleasure is a privilege for those who aren’t obliged to win,” Arabella replied coolly, without turning. “I am obliged.”

Callum approached at an unhurried pace, took a glass from the tray, and lowered himself into the leather chair by the fire.

“Tomorrow, as always, you’ll dazzle, Your Ladyship. What’s the strategy for the evening?”

Arabella turned slowly. There was nothing frivolous in her gaze. Only calculation.

“Lexa will be there. And Clarke, of course. Both far too proud to stay away. Court drama in three acts. I’ll simply adjust the script.”

“Ah, back in the role of director?” Callum gave a faint smile. “And what play are you planning to stage this time?”

She stepped closer to him. Her voice was quieter now, yet no less assured.

“Not a play, Callum. A test. Lexa’s limits. The mask behind which Clarke hides her gilded weakness. And the mood of an audience that loves to watch legends fall.”

Callum let out a slow breath.

“You speak of them as obstacles, Bella. Not as people. Even enemies deserve a measure of respect — if only to avoid becoming what you despise in them.”

Arabella turned her gaze on him, her eyes glacial, gleaming with contained fury.

“Respect? For one who hides sentimental weakness behind her family name, and another who’s spent her life running from who she’s meant to be? They’ve survived only because I allowed it. But I have no intention of remaining silent any longer. Not at the tournament. Not at the reception.”

He arched a brow.

“So you truly mean to turn the reception into a theatre? In full view of ambassadors, dukes, members of the royal family? Do you think they’ll be impressed by your intrigues?”

“Not impressed,” she said with a cold smile. “But they’ll remember. And in this circle, memory is power. Bring down one rival, and they start to fear you. Bring down two, and they start to reckon with you.”

Callum rose, closing the distance between them, his eyes locked on hers.

“And then? When you’re left alone. In an empty hall full of shadows. With medals, with titles, with dossiers of ruined lives — and the utter inability to trust even the reflection in your mirror.”

She held his gaze. And for just a moment, something flickered in her expression — almost regret. Almost.

“I don’t need trust. I need power.”

“And I need you,” he said softly. “The you that was left somewhere in our childhood. Not this face of stone, not the strategist. Just Arabella. But I think I’ve lost her.”

He turned to leave, pausing for a heartbeat at the door.

“I’ll be there tomorrow. Because Sinclairs don’t run. But don’t think I’ll look away from what you’re planning. Not tomorrow. Not after. Careful, sister. Lightning often strikes those who stand too high.”

Arabella remained at the window, staring once more into the city at night. Her fingers trembled — only slightly. She stood there until the darkness beyond the glass seemed safer than the one beneath her skin.

After the heavy conversation, Callum didn’t go straight to his room. Instead, he stepped out onto the second-floor terrace, where the gardens lay under a deep, silk-black night. The air was still. Too still.

He closed the glass door behind him, leaned against a column, and ran a hand over his face.

Too much in her tone had been familiar. Not just confidence, not ambition — something more. A fervor. An obsession. A hunger that could not be sated by recognition, glory, or even revenge. And all of it — on the eve of a public reception where the Sinclair name would once again be in the spotlight, among the smiles of duchesses and the measured nods of lords.

He glanced upward. The wind stirred the delicate curls of leaves overhead.

If she does what she’s planning…

Callum clasped his hands behind his back.
Her intrigues were like a powder trail leading straight to the family crest.
A scandal — even a subtle one, even disguised as principle or an exquisite sense of justice — would instantly reverberate through the family’s reputation. Their father had barely smoothed over the consequences of her latest stunt at a charity gala. Callum himself had spoken with representatives from two houses afterwards.

And now — Windsor.
The royal reception.
Cameras, whispers, diplomats.
And Clarke.
And Lexa.

She had chosen this moment deliberately. The most vulnerable point. In public, among gowns and orders, no one would raise their voice — but words spoken in a whisper could cut deeper than any blade.

He remembered how, as a child, Arabella would hide in the library with books on ethics and history, arguing with adults as if she’d already felt older, above it all.
But once, there had been softness in her. A trace of tenderness, however well hidden — for him, for their mother, for the past they shared.

Now — only steel.

He pulled out his phone, scrolling through his calendar. Tomorrow — the reception, the formal presentation of athletes and team representatives. Afterwards — the diplomatic dinner, possibly a meeting with the Minister for Culture. No room for error. The invisible pressure of the family name weighed on him like an ancient shield he was forced to hold, even when his arms were tired.

If she made a scene… if she touched Clarke… or tried to wound Lexa in front of royal advisers…

He exhaled and sank into the wicker chair by the balustrade. The flame of his unease burned him the way it always did — silently, without shouting, without flaring, without allowing himself to loosen the reins.

He was no hero.
No villain.
He was a brother.
And the only person still trying to keep Arabella from falling into the darkness she had chosen for herself.

But with each passing day, his grip was slipping closer to the edge.

He sat hunched on the terrace when suddenly — without warning — a summer came back to him.

He had been twelve, Arabella seven.
Their father had gone to a reception at Baron Elsmere’s estate, their mother was resting at a clinic in the south of France, and the nanny had left for the village to visit her sick sister. The house was quiet, echoing, and lonely.

They had spent the entire day racing through the garden, barefoot on the damp grass, fleeing from sudden showers, building a cherry-blossom fort out of old pillows and tulle stolen from their mother’s ballet room. By evening, Arabella had curled against him on the library sofa, studying the illustrations in The Tales of King Arthur , and whispered:

“Callum… If we were knights, would you protect me?”

“Of course,” he’d said without hesitation. “I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you.”

She smiled — soft, childlike, dimples showing in her cheeks. Then she covered his hand with her small one and added, with a seriousness strange for a seven-year-old:

“But what if I became the enemy? If I stood on the other side, against you?”

He hadn’t known how to answer. Arabella wasn’t joking. Even then.

“I’d still protect you,” he’d said quietly.

She looked at him intently, frowned a little. Then nodded, as if making some decision.

“Then you’re weak. But kind.”

He’d smiled, and she never returned to that conversation.

Since then, Callum had thought of that evening many times. Especially now, when protecting his sister meant sometimes staying silent when he should speak. Meant closing his eyes to what could no longer be excused. Meant being not kind, but cowardly.

He closed his eyes, breathing in the night air.

Sometimes kindness isn’t in covering for someone. It’s in stopping them.

He rose. Inside, the worry still burned. But for the first time in a long while, there was resolve.

If Arabella began tomorrow — he would be there.
But not to stay silent.

Chapter Text

The Windsor Castle Reception

Windsor gleamed.

Against the crimson backdrop of sunset, the castle rose like a memory of an old empire—untouched by time, haughty in its permanence. Tall arched windows burned with the reflection of evening lights, while the gilded crests above the entrance glittered as if to remind: only those who have long forgotten the meaning of fear may enter here.

Inside — a world from an age long since buried in books.
Antique mirrors reflected the shimmer of hundreds of candles in crystal candelabras. Vaulted ceilings disappeared into shadow, adorned with stucco and reliefs of royal hunts. The marble floor, polished to a mirrored shine, caught the reflections of stilettos, lacquered shoes, and the razor-sharp tails of immaculate dress coats. In the side galleries, echoing the splendor, a string quartet played Vivaldi’s Winter, Allegro non molto. The hall shivered with cold — and with lies.

They entered in pairs — ancient houses with their crests, the modern aristocracy in white gloves, judges in chains of office, influential investors in flawless evening tails. Members of the royal family, shadows of history themselves, inclined their heads from the royal box above. Patrons, Olympic officials, trainers, the wealthiest horse farm owners from Britain and the continent — all were here.

White bow ties and gleaming cufflinks, dark tuxedos and floor-length gowns — etiquette from the turn of the last century, yet sharpened with the predatory sheen of the present. Around necks hung diamonds and ancestral sapphires; on wrists, timepieces worth more than some estates. And yet, beneath the rustle of fine fabrics, beneath the practiced smiles — the grind of teeth.

The air rang with restrained tension.
Here, every word could be overheard, every movement interpreted.
Here, deals were struck, careers undone, and crowned champions lifted to the pedestal.
Here, they waited for mistakes.

Which meant — no one dared breathe too freely.

The Griffins arrived first.

The car stopped beneath a white awning embroidered with a golden crest. A liveried court attendant, buttons gleaming with heraldic insignia, opened the door — and Abigail stepped out first. The flowing silhouette of her gown, the shade of ash rose, wrapped around her figure like smoke spilling down the stone steps. Her posture was straight, her stride assured: Lady Griffin was a woman who could keep her composure even in burning buildings.

Beside her was Sir Thomas, in a deep navy tailcoat, an order pin on his lapel, wearing the weary expression of a man long past being impressed by such halls. He inclined his head to someone in the crowd and led his wife inside, toward yet another round of diplomatic courtesies.

And then came Clarke.

In this light — as if from another world.
A gown of pure white satin with the faintest silver sheen cascaded down, as though light itself had taken the shape of fabric. The embroidery — almost invisible — caught the crystal chandeliers as she moved, flaring suddenly to life, as if awakened by a glance. The family diamonds framed her neck — cold fire against porcelain skin.

Her back was straight, shoulders set, chin high. Yet her fingers on the clutch betrayed her tension — slightly clenched, like a drawn string. She could feel the eyes upon her.
And the shadow in the crowd that was drawing closer.

The Ashborns arrived almost at the same time.

Stepping out of the car, Lexa seemed to rise out of the darkness of the leather seats — a figure in classic black, the matte texture sharpening every line. Her gown was restrained, almost military in its cut — no excess, only precision. Which made it all the more dangerous.

Beside her — her father, stern as a seal of state, and her mother, an ice engraving come to life. They moved like a formation: three in step, not a single glance to the side.

But for Lexa — it was all in her eyes.

She didn’t look at the hall. She wasn’t seeking familiar faces. Her gaze cut through the crowd, discarding silhouettes, until it found the one it sought.

Clarke.

She was even more beautiful. Even further away.
Lexa paused for a fraction of a second. Her lashes trembled. And then — the mask again.
All by the protocol.

The Sinclairs arrived last — as always, so that everyone would already be waiting.

Their entrance was theatre. Lady Sinclair advanced with an expression of gracious disdain. Her husband walked at her side — but not with her. His role had long been reduced, almost ornamental. He didn’t even bother to hide his boredom.

Beside him — Callum. He looked dignified, immaculate — but there was a watchfulness in his eyes. He already seemed to know he needed to be on guard. He disliked these evenings, disliked their staged perfection, and most of all — disliked the way his sister thrived in them.

Arabella was magnificent. And she knew it.

A gown of deep navy velvet, fitted, with a high collar and long sleeves like a Victorian figurine. It heightened her fragility, made her almost spectral — without diminishing her power.

She posed before the camera flashes as though the evening belonged to her alone. On her lips — a smile, light and dangerous. Her gaze — sliding, like a hunter’s before choosing its prey.

She was looking at Clarke. At Lexa.

Callum felt something heavy knot in his stomach.
He would keep an eye on his sister. He always had.
But could he stop her when she began?

The game had started.

The hall slowly filled — light diffusing through stained glass, reflecting in glass doors, fracturing across crystal goblets. Conversations whispered, smiles scattered, but in the center of the room time seemed to stop.

Clarke turned. She wasn’t looking for her — but found her.

Lexa stood by a marble column, surrounded by her parents like a bronze barricade. Not a step, not a gesture betrayed her — only her eyes. Eyes without a shield.

And Clarke froze.
Her whole body seemed to straighten instinctively: back rigid, chin lifted a touch higher, but her fingers on the satin clutch trembled. She couldn’t look away.

Neither of them moved.

No nod. No smile. Not a shadow of greeting.
But in that gaze — there was too much.
The past. Pride. Pain. Memory.

Lexa didn’t look away. Her lashes flickered — and that was all.

“Alexandra.” Her mother’s voice was barely audible, but sharp as the tip of a pin. It demanded no explanation. Only underlined the boundaries.

Lexa turned her head slightly toward her. In silence. Beside her, her father pressed his lips together.

He had seen. They had all seen.

And behind them — a hall full of eyes. And those eyes were watching. The Griffins. The Ashborn heir. And what hung in the air like the faint scent of ozone before lightning strikes.

Lexa didn’t move from her place. But in her chest — something pressed, almost physically. Unbearably familiar.

Go. Just go to her.

But she couldn’t.

Fingers hidden inside her glove tightened — barely perceptibly. Only she knew how much tension was in that small motion. How much restraint it took to remain still.

You no longer have the right. You’ve cut yourself off from that road.
You chose.
And you will hold your ground — like an Ashborn.

Clarke’s gaze shifted slightly away. Her chin trembled. And that was enough to leave nothing but emptiness in Lexa’s chest.

She straightened a fraction more.
And became a mask again.

The gallery lay in half-light, illuminated only by the reflected glow of stained glass and crystal chandeliers. Beyond the windows stretched the winter garden, shrouded in shadow. Lexa stood by a column, spine straight as if still under the gaze of hundreds of guests, though there was no one left around. Only the cold air, and the faint rustle of fine fabric when she tightened her hands just slightly.

“Ran away?” The voice behind her was soft, almost lazy in tone. But beneath that softness, poison stirred. “How sweet. Still afraid of your own reflection?”

Lexa turned. Arabella Sinclair emerged from the darkness like a shadow. The train of her deep blue velvet gown slid across the floor like water. She stopped two steps away, not closing the distance, yet invading Lexa’s space without invitation.

“I just stepped out for some air,” Lexa said evenly.

“Of course,” Arabella nodded. “Just as you ‘simply’ avoid certain surnames on the lists, and ‘simply’ forget who you shouldn’t sit at the same table with.”

Lexa drew a slow breath. Without turning her head, she shifted her gaze to the window.

“You spend far too much time watching what I do.”

“Just concerned.” Her voice dipped lower, wrapping around the words. “You know, many believe you’re the future of this team. A symbol. An example. But symbols can’t afford… dirty associations.”

“Careful, Arabella,” Lexa murmured. “Sometimes the dirt sticks to the one who throws it.”

Sinclair let out a quiet hum.

“I’m simply reminding you. The Olympics aren’t about friendship, or weakness. They’re about the weight of our contracts and our decisions. You’re not someone who can afford to make a mistake.”

Lexa turned sharply to face her. Her expression remained perfectly polite. But in her eyes… there was something Arabella had never seen. Quiet, contained fury.

“If you think you can dictate to me what I should do, then you understand me even less than I thought.”

For a moment — silence.

“I’m not dictating to you, of course not. You could think of it as… concern.” Arabella’s smile wavered. “Concern for our arrangements.”

It hit its mark. Lexa straightened, drawing herself taller still, as if a shell closed around her. Slowly, almost ceremonially, she uncurled the fingers that had been clenched into a fist — then curled them again. Control.

She stepped past Arabella without touching her, without looking back.

“Watch yourself, Sinclair. While it’s not too late.”

And when she disappeared into the depths of the gallery, Arabella remained alone. But the smirk was gone from her face.

The hum of the reception hall had softened; some guests had drifted into adjoining galleries, others into the orangery, or stood in small knots discussing the upcoming events. In the main hall, adorned with crests and archival portraits of champions, there was an undercurrent of tense anticipation. Everything appeared proper, royally restrained — yet beneath the polished surface churned the familiar aristocratic game of influence.

Arabella moved through the room with flawless grace. The velvet of her gown barely whispered, her heels made no sound. She stopped before a tall man in a tailored suit, the gold emblem of the Federation gleaming on his lapel.

“Mr. Fremont,” Arabella’s voice was even, almost gentle. “I wanted to thank you for joining us tonight. And of course”—she inclined her head just slightly—“for your invaluable work on the judging panel. It’s always so… reassuring when competitions are evaluated with complete objectivity.”

The man smiled faintly, offering a polite nod, though a flicker of caution crossed his eyes.

“Thank you, Miss Sinclair. We strive to remain impartial.”

“Of course,” she agreed, her tone still carrying that almost angelic lilt. “Especially when it comes to certain debutants who might not quite… meet the expectations of the traditional circle. Or who don’t yet understand the cost of courtesy, reputation, and… heritage.”

From a short distance away, Clarke caught it — the turn of Arabella’s head, the poised stance, the small movement of her hand.

Something pricked at her. A premonition. She took half a step forward, as if to approach.

Arabella’s fingers brushed the judge’s lapel — as if to adjust it. As if in friendly familiarity. As if harmless.

That was when Callum crossed the floor toward them with quick, purposeful strides. One hand in his pocket, his face composed, but his eyes carried a warning.

“Forgive me, sir,” he interjected politely, stepping neatly between his sister and the judge. “Mother’s asked you to join her in the Winter Gallery. I believe it’s about the schedule for Saturday’s race. Quite urgent.”

Fremont blinked, surprised, but inclined his head.

“Of course. Thank you, young man.”

He departed, and for a moment, the hall seemed to still again. Arabella turned to her brother.

“You’re interrupting me.”

“I’m saving you,” Callum replied evenly. “From overconfidence and stupidity.”

Her brow arched.

“I merely reminded him of the rules.”

“You were about to set Clarke up. Or Lexa. Or both.” His voice remained calm, though his jaw was tight. “And I won’t let you. Not in front of us. Not this season.”

Arabella studied him intently, as if trying to gauge which side he was truly on. But Callum had already turned away, moving toward another cluster of guests.

Clarke saw it. She saw all of it. And though she couldn’t hear their words, a shadow of unease crossed her eyes. But also — a flicker of hope.

Clarke stood by a column in one of the side galleries, a glass of lemonade in her hand — nearly warm by now. She watched the guests with measured detachment, as if searching for someone to anchor her gaze to — but every face blurred into a single endless portrait of idle breeding.

“Lady Griffin. What an unexpected pleasure to find you here.”

The low voice came almost from behind her. Clarke turned. Elias Firefox stood there. His posture, his smile, his tone — everything about him was calculated, as if he’d stepped straight out of a recent feature on “the new generation of Britain’s elite.” He inclined his head slightly, as though they’d known each other for years.

“I didn’t think evenings like this were your sort of thing.”

Clarke arched a brow, keeping her irritation in check.

“We’ve never met. What makes you so sure?”

“You just don’t strike me as the type who’s spent her childhood rehearsing curtseys for duchesses.”

“And you do.”

Elias laughed — briefly, without any real amusement.

“Fair enough. I’ve always been told I have a talent for… the right impression.”

He stepped a little closer, as if testing her reaction. Clarke didn’t move back, but there was a flicker in her face — a wish to end this exchange as quickly as possible.

“Do you open every conversation like this? Or only with people who don’t smile at your parties?”

He didn’t have a chance to answer.

“I imagine you already have a partner for the evening?” The voice was calm, cool. Imogen Rowe stepped out from behind the column as if she’d been there all along. Her gown was the colour of a blood-red sunset, her step assured, her slim wrists loosely folded before her.

Clarke turned toward the voice. No way.

“Rowe,” Elias acknowledged, stepping back a precise pace. “Clearly, I’m the third wheel.”

“As always — impeccable instincts.”

Clarke allowed herself a smile — for the first time that evening.

“Immy, you’re like a teleport.”

“I just know when to make an entrance.”

Imogen’s eyes moved from Clarke to Elias.

“I hope you didn’t shock Clarke with your list of titles. You still carry it around, don’t you? Laminated?”

Elias smirked — tight, but not offended. He gave a formal little bow, lifted one brow, and moved off, leaving the two of them alone.

Clarke exhaled.

“Thanks. I mean it. He was… odd.”

“He’s a Firefox. That’s a diagnosis, not a description.”

“You’re really here,” Clarke said quietly, still not quite believing it. “I thought you were in Geneva.”

“I was. But when I heard that Griffin herself would be gracing a Windsor gala, I knew — this was a historic event.”

Clarke tilted her head, smiling faintly.

“You’re still dramatic.”

“And you’re still terrible at hiding your face when the person you like is in the room.”

Clarke froze.

“What?”

“Oh, please. I’ve been watching you for the past thirty minutes. First — glance at the crowd. Then — at your glass. Then back at the crowd. Bored British aristocracy doesn’t behave like that.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her.

“Fine. It’s… Lexa. Ashborn.”

Imogen gave a low whistle.

“Well, that’s a twist.”

“We’ve known each other a long time. We used to be… close. Now I’m not sure where we stand.”

“Close as in ‘I like you but I’ll burn everything between us’? Or ‘we’ve kissed but never talk about it’?”

Clarke snorted.

“More the second. With complications.”

“I love complications. They’re so… theatrical.”

A pause. Imogen tilted her head, her gaze sharpening.

“She’s watching you. You know that, right? Not directly. More like she’s afraid someone will notice. But she can’t not look.”

Something fragile and restless stirred under Clarke’s skin. She gave a small nod.

“I saw it the moment I came in,” Imogen went on. “Then of course I got distracted by Firefox and his golden smile, but Ashborn’s look — that was the clearest thing in the room.”

“Did you come here specifically to destabilise my entire psyche?”

“No, I came for the caviar tartlets and the drama. But if, in the process, I manage to give you back a little ground under your feet — consider it a bonus.”

Clarke laughed — not loudly, but for real.

“God, Immy… I missed you.”

“And I’ve been keeping tabs on you. Through the press and your mother.”

Clarke’s brows rose.

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me?”

“Of course. I need to stay informed. At least partially.”

They fell silent for a moment, standing side by side by the column.

Imogen leaned in slightly and whispered:

“Let’s find a corner where no one will bother us. I’ll tell you why I ran from Geneva, and you’ll tell me how you managed to fall for someone who looks at you like she’s cutting you open.”

Clarke nodded slowly.

“Deal. But first — tartlets. I hear that’s why you came.”

Imogen smiled.

“Knew you were a good listener.”

They moved deeper into the gallery, and for a fleeting moment, Clarke felt safe.

Chapter Text

The hall seemed to blur at the edges of perception—warm chandelier light danced on glasses, glinted off gold trim, and multiplied endlessly in the mirrors.

Imogen, leaning her elbow on the marble balustrade, regarded Clarke with a half-smile.

“You’re still drilling holes into Lexa with your eyes, or have you already moved on to the uncontrollable reminiscing about past kisses phase?”

Clarke snorted, rolling her eyes.

“First of all, I’m not drilling. Second, I’m not thinking about kisses.”

“Of course,” Imogen leaned in a little. “You’re just… mentally analyzing her jawline?”

“No, I’m just looking at the dress. Very interesting cut, you know.”

“So that’s what we’re calling it now.” Imogen smirked. “Noted.”

Before Clarke could come up with a dignified reply, she heard a voice that made her want to groan and smash a crystal glass at the same time.

“My God, I’ve missed the spiciest corner of the ball.”

Oliver Rowe appeared beside them as if he’d teleported through a veil of pomp. His tux fit flawlessly, his hair was artfully tousled, and judging by his tone, he’d already scandalized at least two other clusters of guests.

“Lady Griffin herself, and with a new companion. I must know—do you also want to hit her, or is this more of a ‘hold hands and escape the castle’ situation?”

Imogen looked at him without blinking.

“Who is this, and why does he talk like a character from a third-rate romance novel?”

“That’s, unfortunately, Oliver,” Clarke sighed. “He’s like a December cold—shows up uninvited and always thinks he’s wanted.”

“Ah, sharp as ever,” Oliver beamed. “It’s almost a turn-on when you threaten me.”

He stepped closer and gave Imogen a theatrical bow.

“Forgive me, lady-companion, but may I know the name of the one who’s managed to distract Clarke Griffin from her eternal state of sarcastic solitude?”

“Imogen Rowe,” she said, lifting a glass of water to her lips. “And you’re, I assume, the resident court jester?”

Clarke snorted into her hand, trying to stifle her laugh.

“Pure gold,” Oliver drawled. “The two of you need your own miniseries—The Princess of the Ball and Her Cold-Gazed Friend Who Withers Aristocrats on Sight.”

“I warned you,” Clarke said calmly. “One more word and I’m throwing that vase of roses at you.”

“Again?” He sighed dramatically. “You’ve just made my evening, Clarke.”

He stepped back, smiled at Imogen, and disappeared into the nearest archway, where fresh victims of his poisonous charm awaited.

Imogen blinked.
“He’s real? How did he even get in? This is a closed event.”

“No one knows,” Clarke shook her head. “Some say he was cursed by the gods of pretension at birth.”

“I suspect he’s reborn every morning. With a self-portrait in hand.”

They both giggled, and for a moment, a light but very warm silence settled between them.

“You know,” Clarke said quietly, “I’m really glad you came.”

Imogen looked at her, and all the bravado stepped back a pace.

“And I’m glad you can still laugh, Griffin.”

The hall seemed to blur faintly at the edges of perception—warm chandelier lights danced on crystal glasses, glinted in the gilded mouldings, multiplied endlessly in the mirrors.

“The organizers are thrilled with the line-up,” said a man in his forties, his smile measured and politely warm. One of the federation’s representatives. “The press offices can hardly keep up with the requests. England is back in the spotlight.”

“As it should be,” Lexa’s father replied smoothly. “We’re here to remind them that tradition and stability outweigh flashy names.”

“Of course, of course,” the man agreed at once. “Your approach is valued. Everyone’s looking forward to tomorrow’s round, Miss Ashborn. Especially after your training course—it impressed everyone.”

Lexa inclined her head, lips curving into something almost like a courteous smile. She knew how to be polite. She knew how to be proper. Especially with her mother standing beside her.

“We’re confident you won’t disappoint,” Genevieve Ashborn said quietly, but with a clarity that cut through the noise, raising her glass to her lips. “Expectations are high. They want discipline and perfection from you. As always.”

Leaning closer, Genevieve added:

“We’ve already discussed the PR strategy before the next stage. We’ll emphasize continuity, family heritage, your work with the coaching team. No unnecessary distractions.”

Lexa nodded, though she wasn’t listening. They spoke as they always did—every syllable precise, every consonant clipped, smiling in a way that never reached their eyes.

She stood with her back straight, outwardly the embodiment of control. Inside—she wasn’t.

A passing waiter brushed by with a tray, and Lexa’s gaze drifted across the room—only to stop dead.

Clarke.

She was standing by a column, next to a girl Lexa didn’t recognize. There was something in the way they stood—shoulders tilted toward each other, gazes meeting, a warmth in Clarke’s smile—that caught Lexa’s breath. The girl was a little shorter, her bright red hair swept into an elegant updo, her grin quick and daring. She spoke fast, assuredly, and Clarke laughed as though the two of them shared a private world, sealed off from the rest of the room.

Lexa looked away sharply. But her heart jolted, and something sharp and corrosive began to rise slowly between her shoulder blades.

Who is she?

And why… why is Clarke looking at her like that?

No—Lexa had no right to ask herself that question. She was the one who’d destroyed it. Who’d decided. Who’d erased. It had been the right choice—rational, strategic.

So why did she feel like she was suffocating?

“…Lexa?”

She turned. Her mother was watching her intently, her eyes a silent warning. Her father said nothing.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Lexa said softly, forcing herself to stand taller. “PR strategy. I understand.”

The federation representative launched into talk of important guests, partnership showcases, plans for the next season.

Her heart beat evenly—too evenly, like in the middle of a dangerous maneuver. Reason told her it meant nothing. Just an acquaintance, a friend escorting a guest. Just Clarke laughing. Clarke knew how to laugh.

But the tightening knot in her chest refused to loosen.

She had no right to feel this—not now, not after everything, not after she had erased Clarke from her life. And yet…

What if Clarke had truly stopped looking her way?

Clarke was still smiling. And Lexa felt as if all the air had been drawn out of the room.

The orchestra began the first notes of a waltz—light, almost weightless. The room seemed to hold its breath, as if the opening scene of a ballet had just unfolded. Couples drifted toward the center, onto the marble floor, while mirrors and chandeliers caught and fractured the light.

Clarke had every intention of staying on the sidelines. She’d already taken a glass and positioned herself beside Imogen, ready to make some dry remark, when—

“Lady Griffin,” came a voice behind her.

She turned. Arabella. Of course.

That faintly mocking smile on her lips, the predator’s glint in her eyes.

“Would you be so kind…” She extended her hand with elegant precision, a slight tilt of her head. “One dance? For the sake of old, good traditions?”

People were already turning to look. Watching. Someone smiled faintly, as though anticipating something deliciously scandalous.

Clarke felt Imogen stiffen beside her.

“Are you sure you know what ‘good traditions’ are?” Clarke asked, making no move to step forward.

Arabella tilted her head slightly, her smile sweet as poison.

“Of course. For example: never refusing when one is invited to dance.”

Her tone was polite, impeccably so—nothing to seize on. All of it played out under the glow of the chandeliers, the crystalline chords, and the weight of a hundred eyes.

Clarke exhaled. She could feel the trap here. This was a test. Or a performance. Or a challenge.

She handed her glass to Imogen with a brief look: it’s fine. Then she placed her hand into Arabella’s outstretched one and walked with her into the center of the room.

“How touching,” Arabella murmured once they began moving to the waltz’s rhythm. “You look so… traditional. Almost like a princess.”

“And you’re still trying to figure out who I was before I started scaring you?” Clarke’s mouth curved. “A princess? Or a hunter. Of snakes like you.”

Arabella drew her in a fraction closer—gracefully, dangerously.

“You know how it works,” Arabella’s tone stayed impeccably social. “Here, talent matters less than reputation. Manners. Connections. And you… already have a few stains.”

“Says the one whose parents had to make her apologize for her little adventures in the press.”

Arabella’s fingers tightened subtly at her waist, though their movements remained flawless.

“I do hope you’re not forgetting who makes decisions here. Who holds influence. Who has contacts in the Federation.”

“And yet you still can’t take me down,” Clarke scoffed. “Funny, considering your… resources.”

“I’m simply waiting for you to ruin it yourself. And you will. You have a talent for it. Turning everything to ash—people, relationships, maybe even… your career.”

Arabella’s smile sharpened. Their steps swept them around the room—perfect, measured, almost mirrored. And yet tension thrummed between them, tangible even to those watching.

Clarke leaned in slightly.

“You know what my thrill is? I don’t have to pretend. I see something that’s mine—I take it. And if it gets in your way? Shut up and step aside.”

“How crude.” Arabella’s brow arched, lips curving into a cold smirk. “I’m certain your mother wouldn’t be quite so proud if she knew her darling daughter spoke like some guttersnipe.”

They spun as if this were nothing more than a waltz, a ball, a polite society dance. But Arabella’s nails pressed sharply under Clarke’s shoulder blade, and Clarke was a breath away from shutting her up right here on the dance floor.

Clarke’s grip on her hand tightened abruptly.

“Careful, Sinclair. You might accidentally step on a brain—if you didn’t already lose it somewhere in here.”

“You do a convincing job of looking like you don’t care. It’s… charming.”

“And you do a convincing job of hiding a vicious bitch behind a smile. It’s… predictable.”

They finished their turn, the music fading.

Arabella dipped into an elegant curtsy, releasing her hand.

“Thank you for the dance. Your resilience is almost worthy of respect. Almost.”

Clarke held her gaze for a beat.

“Thanks. I finally understand why your partners retire early. Poisoning.”

Arabella’s smile sharpened, and as she walked away she tossed over her shoulder—

“Only those with the antidote survive.”

Clarke all but strode off the floor, her gown whipping around her legs, cheeks flushed not from the dance but from pure anger. Inside, everything boiled. Damn Arabella knew exactly which buttons to press—precise, dirty, deliberate.

Imogen was waiting, her eyes tracking the whole scene.

But there was concern there, too.

“You’re… not fine,” she said, then added, “to put it mildly.”

Clarke exhaled, pushing her hair back from her forehead.

“Fucking viper in a Givenchy dress. Next time I’ll just hit her.”

“Give me a heads-up. I want front row seats.”

Imogen studied her for a moment.

“You’re shaking.”

“It’s not fear.”

“I know. Rage.”

Imogen stepped a little closer.

“But you looked fucking incredible. Very dramatic. Almost legendary. And definitely—dangerous.”

Clarke gave a short laugh, though the corners of her mouth trembled.

“She went straight for under the skin. Mother, career, status…”

“I hope you gutted her right back.”

Imogen glanced toward the crowd, where Arabella now stood with a cluster of guests, her perfect expression just a touch tighter than before.

“Think I went too far?” Clarke asked quietly.

“I think you hit her with words the way others hit with fists. She deserved it. For every thorn. For every little sting wrapped in a smile.”

Clarke looked at her.

“Are you always this…?”

“This what?”

“Like you’re reading me faster than I can figure myself out.”

Imogen shrugged, though her gaze stayed steady.

“Let’s just say you’re not the first person in this room I’ve seen on the verge of shattering. You’re like a storm in a crystal glass. And I know exactly how it sounds when the glass starts to crack.”

Clarke looked down at her own fingers—they were, in fact, trembling.

Imogen took her hand—calm, but firm.

“Come on. Let’s find the sane people. Before you start a revolution in this gilded snake pit.”

Clarke nodded.

“Only if there’s not a single bitch in diamonds.”

Imogen smirked.

“No promises. But with you, I feel… safe.”

“Safety’s overrated,” Clarke said, but with the ghost of a smile. “The important thing is knowing who to aim at when the fire starts.”

The hum of the room swallowed them again, and within minutes Clarke was standing beside her parents. Thomas was speaking to a Federation representative, Abigail listening and nodding at the right moments—but Clarke barely heard any of it.

Something else caught her attention—or rather, a certain combination of faces.

By a mirrored side table stood Arabella, Callum and Celestina Sinclair, Lexa and Genevieve Ashborn. The patriarchs lingered a few steps away.

They didn’t look like friends, but they stood together, exchanging low words and polite laughter.

Callum said something, smiling. Arabella cast a quick glance at Lexa—and Lexa gave the smallest of nods.

Mechanical. Or… approving?

Lexa in the company of the Sinclairs.
Lexa, who avoided balls.
Lexa, who once said their manners were “poison wrapped in velvet.”
Lexa, nodding to Arabella.

Clarke’s chest tightened like it had been pierced with ice. The whole tableau looked like a bad dream.

“What is going on?” she murmured, mostly to herself.

“What?” Abigail asked, turning from the conversation. Her gaze followed Clarke’s—and she understood.

Clarke pretended not to hear. But Abigail stepped a little closer, lowering her voice.

“Rumor has it the Ashborns and the Sinclairs are discussing some joint project. Financing, politics—no one knows for sure.”

“What project?” Clarke narrowed her eyes.

“Something to do with Federation rule changes, or the new season’s tournaments. I don’t know.”

Clarke looked again. Lexa and Arabella weren’t standing together, but they felt like part of the same frame—cold faces, hidden agendas.

And that nod.

Her grip on her glass tightened, too much.

Maybe that’s how it works. At first you fight. And then—you just become part of their world. You get used to the poison. You sell off the last of your principles for influence and survival.

Or you just pretend.

Lexa stood a little apart from the main crowd, near a tall window where the cold London air seeped in. The smell of dust, polish, perfume, and crystal wove itself into the rhythm of the waltz, and the chandelier light pulsed faintly behind her eyes.

Clarke and Arabella spun in the center of the floor.

Like a scene rehearsed countless times—and still false. Lexa saw it instantly.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass, but her gaze stayed even, outwardly calm. She’d learned that long ago: to pretend, to freeze, to watch without moving.

She knew every line of Clarke—how the curve of her neck tensed when she was angry; how her lips pressed together when holding back a retort sharp enough to cut. And now all of it was there, right in front of her—close enough to feel, and yet impossibly out of reach.

Arabella leaned in. Whispered something. Clarke lifted her chin, and Lexa saw it: fire, barely restrained under a mask. Even from here it was clear—this wasn’t a dance. It was a duel. And Arabella, as always, played dirty.

Let her go. Just let her go.

But the voice inside didn’t listen.

She wanted to step forward. To stand beside her. To say anything at all.

Don’t touch her. Don’t come that close to her.

Then—cool fingertips on her elbow. Her mother’s hand. The faintest pressure.

Turning her head, Lexa met her mother’s eyes.

Cold. Measured. Silent. No words necessary—only a quiet sentence:

One more step, and you are no longer an Ashborn.

So Lexa stayed.

She clenched her jaw. Slowly, painfully, she set her glass down on the nearest table. Bit the inside of her lip. All she could do was watch. Watch Clarke fight on the ballroom floor alone.

You’re the one who left her, remember?

The music faded. Clarke let go of Arabella’s hand and walked away—proud, sharp, as if she’d just thrown someone’s title to the floor. Arabella stayed behind with a smile—tight, hollow.

And in that moment, Lexa thought how strange it was: both of them knew how to pretend. But Clarke’s disguise was fire, and Arabella’s was ice.

“You’re quiet tonight,” her father murmured, standing beside her, posture straight, eyes scanning over the room.

“Just observing,” Lexa replied.

He nodded, seemingly satisfied.

But inside, Lexa was burning—burning with helplessness, with fury, with the knowledge that the only person who had ever truly seen her… was now forbidden to her.

When the Ashborns and the Griffins drifted off to smile their hollow smiles for the sake of propriety, Arabella stood at a side table, lazily turning the stem of her glass between her fingers. She looked flawless. Too flawless.

“Callum,” she said languidly, turning toward her brother.

He stopped a step away from her, tension in his eyes.

“Arabella,” he began, trying to keep his voice level, “what was that?”

She turned slowly, as if it were too much effort to spare him her energy. A smile ghosted over her lips but never touched her eyes.

“Just a dance, Callum. Surely you’re not against harmless entertainment?”

“You know perfectly well it wasn’t just a dance.” His jaw tightened. “You’re playing again.”

She smirked and took a sip.

“Arabella…” Callum ground his teeth. “You shouldn’t provoke her.”

Arabella raised a brow.

“Provoke?” she echoed, as if the word were foreign to her.

He stepped closer, glancing toward the ballroom where Clarke was now speaking to Imogen.

“It’s just a game. And she… she slips into the role too easily.”

Arabella tilted her head.

Callum froze. Something in her tone—in that soft, icy lilt—made his heart skip a beat.

“Arabella…” he said slowly. “You’re not just playing. You’re planning.”

“I’m always planning.” She gave a careless shrug, letting him know the conversation was already boring her. “Unlike most people, I know how to look ahead.”

She ran her fingertips along the rim of her glass and added, almost in a whisper:

“If you don’t want to drown, learn to read the tide before the others do. You’re still so noble. Protector of the wronged. How quaint.”

With that, she turned and walked back into the crowd, leaving him alone with the unease already clawing its way beneath his ribs.

Clarke stood in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by people yet completely apart. Conversations reached her muffled, as if through water. Her heart pounded in her temples. Her mother’s words still rang in her ears:

“A joint project.”

Lexa with the Sinclairs.
Lexa nodding to Arabella.
Lexa—in the shadows, not the light. Gone.

What if everything she had once believed in had been nothing but an illusion?

Once before, Lexa had already chosen—not her.

The lights dimmed slightly, the orchestra beginning a new melody. The evening was drawing to its close.

Clarke turned her head without thinking—
and caught Lexa’s gaze.

That same steady, restrained look she knew by heart.

But now… there was no answer in it. No gesture. No step forward.

Clarke was the first to look away.

Their game was only just beginning, but she had too few pieces left on the board—
and not a single ally she could trust.

Chapter Text

Windsor Royal Dressage Championship. Competition Day.

Usually, Windsor woke up at nine.
Today — it hadn’t slept at all.

A thin mist lay over the grass, lit by the rare glow of lamps and the flash of distant trucks pulling up to the stables. Above the arena, dawn was rising — silver, damp, like winter’s breath on glass. Somewhere far off, a horse neighed, restless in the morning chill. Every sound was muffled, as if under a glass dome.

It was that strange, hollow morning when everything had already begun — but no one had yet taken the first step.

Clarke walked quickly along the service path between the stables, wrapped in her training jacket. The coffee in her hands had gone cold, as had her fingers. She avoided looking at the arena on instinct — the arena where, in just a few hours, she’d be expected to deliver one of the best performances of her life.

Someone was already waiting at the turn toward the west wing of stalls. A figure in a red hoodie, hood pushed back, face in shadow — but Clarke would have recognised that walk anywhere.

“You actually showed up. I’m shocked,” Clarke said hoarsely as she approached. “Thought you’d fall asleep in a stall somewhere.”

Octavia turned to her, squinting. She had an energy drink in one hand and a stick of gum in the other.

“Sleep?” She smirked. “I’ve been running on caffeine and panic for the past twenty-four hours.”

“Sounds like a winning formula.”

“No worse than yours.” Octavia nodded toward the empty cup. “Black coffee at six a.m.?”

“Psychological defence. Feels like if I keep it in my hands, I won’t have a heart attack.”

They stood in silence for a few seconds, watching Windsor wake up — the rousing of the horses, the grooms’ voices, the soft thud of hooves on rubber matting. It was getting lighter. It was getting real.

“Clarke!” A sharp, suspiciously chipper voice called from behind.

Imogen was heading toward them — hair a mess, thermos in hand, wrapped in a striped college scarf.

“Well, look at that. I thought you’d only show up for the finals with a sign saying ‘Griffin, I love you’,” Clarke said with a grin.

“That was the plan. But then I realised your pre-death meltdown wouldn’t be nearly as dramatic without me.”

Imogen stopped beside them, immediately giving Octavia an appraising look.

“And you must be the friend who likes to jump fences and shove people off podiums?”

“Only if they deserve it,” Octavia replied smoothly, offering her hand. “Octavia Blake.”

“Imogen Rowe.”

They shook hands. A direct stare, a brief moment of tension — then almost simultaneous nods.

“Well, at least someone here’s got a backbone,” Imogen remarked, turning back to Clarke. “Honestly, there are so many polished porcelain dolls around that I’m starting to miss Oxford rain and awkward botanists.”

“Careful,” Clarke muttered. “Around here, the porcelain dolls spit venom with sniper precision. Especially one whose last name starts with S.”

Octavia gave a short laugh.

“I heard she does Vogue interviews.”

“She gave Vogue an interview about how ‘sport fosters true femininity in a woman,’” Clarke added grimly.

“Oh, perfect,” Imogen said. “So today we’re competing against fascism in spurs.”

“Welcome to the Royal Tournament.”

They fell silent. Morning deepened, now touched with gold. From somewhere in the stands, a commentator’s voice boomed through the speakers:

“Welcome to the Windsor Royal Dressage Championship. Today you can expect…”
The sound faded abruptly, as if someone had turned the volume dial down. Too close. Too real.

Clarke exhaled and tightened her grip on the cup.

“You’ll be fine,” Octavia said quietly, without looking at her.

“Just don’t crash into the royal box,” Imogen added. “The Olympics can wait.”

They laughed — for the first time that morning. Nervous, brief, but laughter nonetheless.

Clarke stepped away from them, leaving Imogen and Octavia by the service entrance.

The rows of stalls began behind brown wooden partitions painted sometime before the war. The scent of hay, damp earth, leather, and something ineffably home-like filled her chest at once. Warm. Calming.

Valkyrie’s stall was at the far end. Her name was written in neat calligraphic script on a brass plate:

Valkyrie
(Sired by Wotan | Dam: Silhouette)

Clarke stepped inside, holding her breath.

Valkyrie stood by the wall, quietly chewing hay. She didn’t turn her head right away at the sight of Clarke — only pricked her ears and gave the faintest ripple along her withers. Then, slowly, she turned, as if to say: You’re here. Finally.

“Hey, beautiful,” Clarke whispered, closing the stall door behind her.

Her fingers found the favourite spot beneath the mare’s mane, and Valkyrie lowered her head slightly, accepting the touch.

“Easy. Everything’s fine. Everything’s under control.”
Was she saying it to the horse — or to herself?

The mare snorted, pressing her warm, heavy muzzle against Clarke’s shoulder. The simple, familiar gesture made Clarke’s throat tighten.

“We know how to do this, you and I.”

She leaned her forehead against Valkyrie’s broad neck, closing her eyes for a moment. They stood like that in silence. Clarke’s heart was pounding — deep and fast — but her fingers remained steady, gentle. Here, among the scents of wood, warm breath, and soft coat, she could simply be.

“One shot, girl. Five minutes. Just you and me. Deal?”

Valkyrie bumped her cheek. Agreement accepted.

By the time Clarke left the stables, the sky above Windsor Park had begun to take on that particular brightness that only appears at the start of an important day.

The tournament grounds were waking. Slowly, like an orchestra before a prelude, each instrument entering one by one, on its own note.

From beyond the parking area, horseboxes rolled in — massive white trucks adorned with club flags and family crests. Their doors swung open like theatre curtains, revealing pearl-greys, blacks, bays, coats gleaming from withers to hooves.

People bustled, but without chaos. Everything was organised with the kind of British precision that bordered on ceremony. Someone unpacked saddles, polishing stirrups to a mirror shine. Someone else laid out monogrammed silk rugs. Grooms hurried by with woven baskets full of treats, brushes, and vet paste.

From somewhere on the grounds came the sound of the first brass trumpet. The Royal Orchestra was rehearsing. The notes weren’t loud — they carried authority. The kind of voice that never needed to be raised, because the power was already there.

At the far end of the field, a bright blue-and-white ribbon rose into place — the main arena, dressed in flowers and the Federation’s crests. The arena boards were lined with deep red roses and twined with silver ribbons. The stands emerged one by one, like a shell opening.

In the background stood pavilions draped with banners, flags of participating nations rippling in the light breeze. Elegant women in hats, men in morning coats, the shimmer of silvered passes — all of it said: this wasn’t just a tournament. It was an event.

From the right, a black motorcade rolled in. Camera shutters clicked in a flurry. Security in dark suits moved as one, a single mechanism in motion.

Over the loudspeakers, the announcer’s voice — that classic, aristocratic British tone, steeped in ceremony and protocol — carried across the grounds:

“Her Royal Highness Princess Anne has arrived on the grounds.”

A low murmur rippled through the crowd. Somewhere, a camera shutter clicked. The Princess had been the tournament’s patron since its inception. Her arrival marked the official start.

Clarke stilled for a moment, watching as centuries-old tradition met the frantic pulse of the modern world. Aristocracy, dressage, politics, and media — all on the same stage, each playing their part.

Nearby, stallions moved in a slow, measured walk under saddle, riders already in full uniform, spurs gleaming, manes braided tight and perfect. Clean lines. Symmetry. Precision. Beauty that demanded absolute control.

Less than two hours until the start. And everything around her was a reminder: today, the stakes were as high as they could possibly get.

By the entrance to the draw tent, the riders had already gathered. Spacious and cream-white, the Federation crest embroidered above the flap, the place carried a faint charge in the air — as if the very oxygen hummed with static. Every competitor stood in formal uniform, every seam pressed, every boot polished to a mirror shine.

One by one, they stepped up to the table where sealed envelopes lay, numbered slips hidden beneath wax.

Clarke drew hers slowly. Fifth.
Lexa — first.
Arabella — third.

As if fate had decided to open with tension, keep the venom in the middle, and draw blood at the end.

Clarke returned to her coach. Miss Emerson stood as always — spine straight, folder in hand.

“Fifth,” Clarke said, her voice carrying neither disappointment nor delight. Just a fact.

“Good,” Emerson replied. “Enough time to focus, not enough to burn out. Lexa will set the bar, you’ll gauge your score against Arabella’s.”

Her hand brushed Clarke’s wrist — almost maternal.

“Focus on your breathing. Steady. Four counts in, five out. You know this. You’ve got it.”

Clarke nodded.

“And remember,” Emerson added, gentle but firm, “this is your moment. Not for revenge. Not for them. For you.”

Clarke drew a slow breath.

“I’ll manage.”

“I have no doubt,” Emerson said, a faint smile touching her lips.

The Ashborn team stood a little apart. Lexa was scanning the starting list, her gaze controlled, deliberate. But her coach’s eyes weren’t on the paper — they were on her.

“First,” Erich said. “Perfect.”

“You wouldn’t say that if it weren’t me,” Lexa murmured.

“Of course not. Most would crack under the pressure. You won’t.”

Lexa’s fist flexed slightly at her side.

“Remember,” the coach pressed on, relentless, “every eye will be on you. First impression. You set the pace. No emotion. Structure. Control.”

“I know.”

“Good. Because the Olympics aren’t about emotion, Lexa. They’re about politics. You’re here to win more than gold. You’re here to win the image.”

Lexa nodded. Not a single muscle in her face moved. But inside, something cold shifted.

Arabella sat in the black tent beside her horse. No one from her team in sight — only a tall, spare woman standing nearby, hands clasped behind her back.

Their exchange happened almost without words.

The woman stepped forward, fingers brushing the lapel of Arabella’s jacket, checking the seam. She plucked a speck of lint from her shoulder.

“Third,” Arabella reported.

“Acceptable,” came the cool reply.

The woman met her eyes.

“No surprises.”

Arabella inclined her head.

“No unnecessary gestures. No stray glances. This isn’t a circus. This is the demonstration of superiority.”

Then she turned and walked away.
Arabella remained where she was — motionless as a statue.

Everything was already decided. Everything would happen exactly as it should.

Somewhere in the distance, the loudspeaker crackled to life:

The warm-up arena is now open. Riders for the first test, prepare your horses.

The chess match had begun.

The arena filled with the soft murmur of hooves, the creak of leather, the occasional voice.
Lexa was the first to enter. August — the embodiment of darkness and grace. His black coat gleamed like lacquered armor, his mane falling in heavy waves along his neck. He moved as if he knew every eye was on him.

Lexa rode with a rigid, almost detached composure. Every turn — flawless. She didn’t stroke his neck, didn’t smile. She was iron beneath skin.
But her fingers were tighter on the reins than necessary. August felt it — answering with the occasional extra half-step, a slight shift through his body. Not rebellion, but a reaction to control drawn too sharp.
Lexa adjusted, drew a deeper breath, and only then did the spine beneath her truly soften into fluidity.

No emotion. Control.
She repeated it to herself like an incantation.

The bay mare moved lightly, lifting her legs high as though dancing. Valkyrie radiated confidence, grace, and her own inner rhythm.
Clarke breathed in sync with each step. Miss Emerson stood at the rail, silent. This was their ritual.

The warm-up flowed smoothly. Movements clean, without tension. Clarke didn’t rush. She allowed herself to feel every stride, every curve of the neck beneath her fingers.

Not for revenge. For freedom.
The words echoed through her chest.

She passed Lexa — and didn’t look back. Only her hand on the reins trembled, just slightly.

Walter — a ghost. Pure white, as if carved from marble, moving without a single fault. Not like a horse, but a mechanism.
Arabella sat as though poured into the saddle. Her face — stone. There was no soul in her warm-up. Only choreography, precision made flesh.
Every pass — calculated. Every movement — as though in a rehearsal for a performance where mistakes did not exist.

She didn’t glance around. Didn’t seek a gaze to catch.
She knew they were watching. She wanted them to watch only her.

The air around her seemed to thicken. Even the other riders unconsciously edged their horses aside when she passed.

Young riders from different countries worked their mounts in an even, measured tempo.
A dark bay Bavarian gelding pirouetted under a young German rider — her face serious, her posture unyielding.

Nearby, a coppery-chestnut stallion moved through an energetic passage — the French rider murmuring something under his breath, patting his horse’s neck.

Two Spaniards rode side by side, their circles almost synchronized — their horses lightly lathered but full of spark, every step a burst of impulsion.

Everyone here was a contender. Everyone here was someone.
But the air carried a truth: some presences weren’t merely noticed. They weighed.

Clarke, Lexa, and Arabella — against the backdrop of all these polished, diligent performances — stood like chess pieces: the black queen, the white, and the bronze rebel.

And the war on that board had already begun.

Imogen caught Clarke by the entrance to the warm-up zone, her hand closing firmly around Clarke’s wrist.

“You’re ready,” she said quietly, searching her friend’s face. “I… I’m proud of you.”

Clarke gave the faintest of nods. Words lodged in her throat. For a heartbeat, her breath caught — not from fear, but from the ache of being seen. Seen through the armor.
But there was no time.

Up in the judges’ stand, a familiar figure in a light coat appeared. Callum Sinclair, leaning over the rail, eyes fixed on the arena. His gaze anchored itself to the start list — and, it seemed, to only one name at the bottom.

Clarke was adjusting her gloves when her eyes, without meaning to, flicked toward the entrance tunnel. And stopped.

Lexa stood just a few steps away — a man in grey beside her, from the Sinclair entourage. The same man who had shadowed Arabella at the last tournament. Now he was here, at Lexa’s side, his smile far too familiar. He said something to her. She nodded without meeting his gaze — but she didn’t pull away.

And that was it.
Clarke couldn’t hear the words. She didn’t need to.

They were on the same side now.
On the same team.

A dull, stabbing pain cut through her chest — as if the air around her had tightened.
Everything from the past, everything they had shared, dissolved into that single image: Lexa, silently nodding to a man who worked for the one who had tried to break her.

Clarke lowered her eyes.
Emerson’s words still rang in her ears — “Not for revenge” — but with each passing minute, Clarke felt the pull to break that rule growing stronger.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Chapter Text

Windsor Royal Dressage Championship – Competition Day

In the starting zone, Lexa stood beside August. Black as midnight, his mane tightly braided, he looked like a warhorse from an old engraving—proud, menacing, carved out of shadow itself.

She adjusted her gloves, tightened the straps, and gave the reins the slightest tug.
Not a drop of sweat. Not a tremor in her fingers. Not a single wasted glance.

She was coiled to the limit—a spring drawn taut. Adrenaline hummed under her skin, but her body remained perfectly still. She could hear the low murmur of the crowd beyond the arena walls, could feel the tension in her own muscles vibrating in time with music that had yet to begin.

From around the corner came Erich, her coach—tall, silver-haired, voice rough with an accent, eyes like a hawk.

“He’s ready. You’re ready,” he said curtly, resting a hand against August’s neck. “Don’t worry—he’ll hear you from the first note. Show them what it means to face a force that can’t be stopped.”

Lexa nodded, but didn’t answer.

“And don’t forget your breathing,” he added. “You always lock up on the third turn. Don’t. Let the music lead you.”

“Understood,” she replied. Quiet. Even.

From the left, Arabella appeared as if out of thin air. Her voice was a razor’s edge.

“Beautiful. Almost heroic. Shame to waste an image like that… on second place.”

Lexa didn’t look at her. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

“If I’m second,” she said evenly, barely above a whisper, “you’ll still be forever in my shadow.”

Arabella arched a brow, tilting her head slightly, as if studying her—evaluating a piece of art.

“You try so hard to be a legend.”

There was no reply. Lexa turned toward the gate, brushing her fingers along August’s neck. The stallion responded instantly, muscles shifting under his skin.

The crowd’s hum dropped to a hush, like the breath before a gunshot. The arena gates were still closed, but everyone already knew who would ride first. On the scoreboard, her name appeared in glowing white:

ALEXANDRA ASHBORNE – AUGUST – UK
Music: “Blood and Stone” by Audiomachine

Her chest tightened—but not from fear. From readiness.

She wasn’t a daughter anymore. Not an heiress. Not a pawn in a family feud.
Now she was a rider. Alone. Against everyone.
And the black stallion beneath her, shadow incarnate, would carry her forward.

When the gates opened, her silhouette emerged into the light like a mirage.
The silence was instant—no sound, no breath. Only the rhythmic beat of hooves and the first low notes of Blood and Stone.

The music rose from the depths like an ancient hymn. Every turn, every stride of August’s was measured to the millimeter. It wasn’t the horse obeying Lexa—it was the world bending to her will.

Volte. Pirouette. Half-pass.
August danced to the command of an unseen maestro, and Lexa was the conductor of that darkness. Her seat—flawless. Her hands—firm, yet elegant. Her shoulders square, her gaze turned inward—to the place where control lived.

At one point, the light struck just so, and for a heartbeat she looked like a statue on an ancient monument.

Somewhere in the stands, someone whispered:

“She’s not human. She’s an event.”

Clarke, standing in the starting zone, tightened her fists. Her heart pounded—not from envy, but from something else. From the ache she’d sworn not to feel.

The music swelled to its peak. August rose into a crisp piaffe, hooves striking like a drumbeat, then shifted into a smooth rein-back—almost a bow. A punctuation mark. The finale.

Silence. A beat.
And then—the explosion of applause.

Lexa left the arena without glancing to either side. Only August tossed his head, as if sensing they had conquered more than just the pattern today.

The scoreboard lit up. The audience froze.

Score: 92.438%.

“That’s impossible,” one of the commentators whispered live on air. “We haven’t seen scores like this since Anna von Eberg.”

In the royal box, Princess Anne sat composed, murmuring something to her aide. He bent down and took notes.
Genevieve watched the exchange like a predator—patient, calculating. Her face was calm, but the black-gloved hands gripping the armrests had tightened. There was more than pride in her expression—there was hunger.
This was the first strike.

Genevieve sat straighter, eyes locked on her daughter. She knew: the stakes were now higher than gold.
The stakes were the entire empire.

“Shit,” Imogen exhaled, rising to her feet beside Clarke in the starting zone. “She just made history.”

Clarke stood with her jaw clenched, feeling a heavy, unspoken emotion coil in her chest. Not anger. Not envy.
It was the feeling of the world suddenly moving forward—without asking her.

Imogen’s gaze darted to her, worry flickering there.

“Are you alright?”

“Of course,” Clarke said. Her voice was dry. “Just impressed.”

Imogen didn’t believe her—but she nodded.

In the team boxes, Arabella’s entourage stirred.

“The girl played it beautifully,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the scoreboard. “Mother will be pleased.”

“But it’s not a victory,” her assistant observed softly.

Arabella’s glance was pure ice.

“Not yet. But this performance has three acts. The first can be conceded. What matters… is the finale.”

She rose, adjusting the cuffs of her flawlessly pressed shirt, and stepped out of the box. At the door, she met a camera head-on—and smiled the way only someone can when they know the entire arena is watching.

Following Lexa, Justine Marot of the Bordeaux team entered the arena—a tall, nervous girl with a long dark braid and the faintest tremor in her fingers. Her grey gelding resisted the collected frame, threatening to drift left with each stride.

The music—classical, airy—came in late, and it was immediately clear: something was off.
On the second loop, the horse broke into the wrong gait. Midway through the diagonal, the rhythm faltered; during the passage, he stumbled ever so slightly.

Justine fought with all she had, paling under the spotlights, but the judges’ lips pressed thinner with each movement. By the time she dismounted after her final halt, it was obvious she already knew the score.

69.1%
Far too low.

The silence in the hall was taut. A few polite claps. A few heads already turning—toward the next rider.

Arabella Sinclair stepped into the corridor with the grace of someone descending marble steps in her own palace. Her hair was pulled into a sleek knot, not a single strand daring to stray. White gloves gleamed under the spotlights, mirrored in the dark eyes of Walter.

Her ever-present aide offered the reins.

“Good luck, milady.”

Arabella did not answer. Her lips stayed perfectly closed.

She placed a hand on the stallion’s neck, whispered something only he could hear, then mounted without effort. For a moment she glanced over her shoulder—her eyes locking with Clarke’s. Direct. Empty. Sharp.

A warning.

The first notes of an orchestral remix—Lana Del Rey’s Gods and Monsters—rolled out, dark and sultry, as Walter arched his neck and strode forward.

Every movement was painfully precise. Clean lines, flawless amplitude, impeccable timing. Transitions from piaffe to passage rehearsed to the millimetre. On the diagonal—an elegant lengthening of the trot, perfectly in rhythm. Her turns were drawn with a compass. She sat not as a rider, but as a queen on her throne—a symbol, an ideal carved for victory.

But there was no soul in it.

Only power. Only technique. Calculation. The horse obeyed—perfectly, dispassionately. It was a Swiss watch of a performance: costly, exact, and heartless.

And still, when Arabella delivered her final salute—haughty, almost lazy—the stands erupted. It wasn’t emotion; it was admiration for precision.

89.695%

“Another shot fired,” Imogen murmured, eyes on the scoreboard.

“Didn’t feel a second of it,” Clarke replied. “No truth. No passion. Just ice.”

“And it worked.”

Clarke’s fists curled. Her gaze snapped back to the arena. She felt a low hum of resolve starting to build in her chest.

The announcer’s voice thundered overhead—names, scores, the crackle of applause. The roar of the stands seemed to live inside her ribs. Someone was polishing tack in haste. Someone whispered to their horse. Someone else let their hands drop, too tired to keep pretending everything was under control.

Clarke walked the length of the stalls as though through a smoking front line. Step by step, through something viscous. Heat simmered under her skin, but her face stayed smooth as a mask. Only her clenched fists betrayed her.

The announcer’s voice cut through again, a reminder: you’re next.
Nothing before this mattered now. Not the judges. Not the crowd. Not Lexa.
Only her and Valkyrie. Only this ride. The last of the round.

She stopped for a heartbeat, closed her eyes, and drew in a slow breath. Her whole body was singing with tension.

Now. Just take her. Just lift your head. Just ride.

She unclenched her fists. Turned left—and opened the stall door.

Lexa was there.

And Clarke froze as if struck. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

Lexa stood beside Valkyrie, stroking the mare’s neck, but turned sharply toward the sound of the door.

For a moment, Clarke thought it was a hallucination. Then anger rose—not from her chest, but from her spine. Hot, caustic, like vomit in the cold.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Clarke threw her whip to the floor and stepped forward. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Lexa flinched away from the horse as if the blow had already landed. She straightened abruptly.

“I… I wanted—” Her voice caught, as if she’d lost her breath.

“You didn’t want shit, you hear me?” Clarke’s voice cracked into a near-scream as she shoved her. Lexa slammed into the stall wall, the thud muffled by wood. “You haven’t even looked at me since you got here! What the hell gives you the right to come near my horse?”

“Clarke—”

“DON’T.” Clarke stepped closer. Her eyes glinted—not with tears, but with hatred, with the boiling point. “You… just… you threw me away like a doll. And now you come here, petting Valkyrie like nothing happened?” she hissed in her face.

“I couldn’t—”

“Get the fuck out!” Clarke wasn’t just angry—she was incandescent, a breath away from losing control entirely.

Silence. Only the sound of two ragged breaths.

Lexa stared at her, as if afraid to move. And then—suddenly, like something detonating—

She grabbed Clarke’s face and kissed her.

It wasn’t tenderness. It was a rupture. Pain. Panic. Regret.
No softness. Too much hurt to be beautiful.
Her lips bit down, her hands trembled, and Clarke—froze, stunned.

A second. Two.

And then Lexa pulled back, recoiling along the wall as if terrified of what she’d just done. Her lips shook. There was something close to horror in her eyes.

“Good luck, Clarke.” Her voice broke. And she turned and ran, disappearing down the stable corridor as if every demon in hell was on her heels.

Clarke stood there, barely breathing. Her lips burned.
Her chest heaved.

Valkyrie whickered in distress.

Clarke leaned against the doorframe, unable to draw a full breath. Her throat constricted. Something heavy rolled in her chest like a stone. She closed her eyes and brushed the back of her hand over her lips. They were still burning.

Fuck.

She shouldn’t have allowed it.
Not a touch. Not a word. Not… a kiss.
Especially that.

Footsteps behind her.

“Clarke?” Imogen’s voice was soft, almost dangerously gentle. “Are you alright?”

Clarke opened her eyes. Tilted her head without looking directly at her friend. Words fought to get out, but instead she swallowed air.

“I’m fine,” she said flatly.

Imogen stepped closer quickly, her gaze flicking toward the direction where Lexa had just disappeared.

“Was that—?”

“Don’t ask.” Clarke’s voice was firm, steel-edged. “Just… not now.”

Valkyrie was already ready—shifting from hoof to hoof, as if she could feel her rider’s anger, as if she’d absorbed it into herself.

Imogen took Clarke’s hand for a moment.

“You’ll do it. Like always. She’s nothing next to you, you hear me?”

Clarke looked at her. And for the first time that morning, managed a faint smile.

“Thanks, Immy. Really.”

“Then go. Get to the stands. You want to see the whole performance, don’t you?”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Clarke nodded. “I need a moment alone.”

Imogen squeezed her hand, firmly, sister-like, and jogged off, leaving Clarke in the stall’s half-shadow with Valkyrie.

Clarke stood silently.
A deep breath. One. Another.
She slowly pressed her forehead to the mare’s neck.

“We didn’t come this far just to falter now, did we?”

The mare snorted, tossing her head slightly.

Clarke straightened, glanced toward where her friend had gone—
and froze, catching sight of Lexa again, far down the corridor.

Beside her stood a girl from Arabella’s team—Henrietta Rhodes, famous for her golden sponsorship deals. They were talking. Lexa nodded to her, short, almost businesslike. No smile, but it was enough.

Clarke watched Lexa’s hand touch Henrietta’s shoulder.
Nothing intimate. And yet—it burned.

Her heart skipped a beat.

That’s all I need to know.

Clarke pulled on her gloves, the movements precise, mechanical.
The echo of the kiss was still there—not as a memory, but as a burn.
She heard someone calling out the previous rider’s score, heard footsteps behind her, heard her own name—but all of it came through a layer of cotton.

Valkyrie tossed her head, lips working as if she were trying to say something. Her nostrils flared. She pawed at the bedding. Too nervous. Far too much.

“She’s picking up on you,” came a voice to her right.

Miss Emerson, in her ever-present navy coat with the club’s crest embroidered on the chest, stood with a folder in hand, her brow drawn tight.

“Clarke. Look at me.”

Clarke lifted her gaze, reluctantly.

“You’ve got every step mapped out. You know each turn. Each transition. Every risk. But if you take her out there like this—she won’t pull herself together. And neither will you.”

Clarke pressed her lips together.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re angry,” Miss Emerson said coolly, stepping closer. “Whoever you’re angry at—leave it here. It doesn’t work in the arena. You can’t ride in a fight. This isn’t a fencing bout.”

“And if to me, it is?”

“Then you’ve already lost,” she cut in. “Listen. This is your shot. Whoever you hate out there—this is your damn chance. So pull yourself together and stop burning your horse with your rage. She doesn’t deserve it.”

Clarke looked away. Her chest was still rising and falling too fast. She shook out her hands as if she could scatter the last sparks of tension. Stepped up to Valkyrie, ran her hand down the mare’s neck—slow, deliberate.

“Sorry, girl,” she murmured, and something human, something fractured, rang in her voice.

Valkyrie snorted, but less sharply now.

“Good girl,” Clarke said softly, almost smiling.

Miss Emerson said nothing for a moment, just watching. Then she nodded.

“That’s it. Calm. Control is your best suit.”

Clarke lifted her head.

“I’ll manage.”

“Yes. You will,” the trainer replied shortly. “Now listen: on the diagonal—watch the shadow from the flag. Cut that corner and you’ll lose your straightness. In the medians, don’t freeze—breathing sets the rhythm. Hold the collection with your seat, not your hands. Trust your legs. Don’t pull. Let her sing, and you lead.”

“Understood,” Clarke replied, already gathering the reins and checking the bridle.

The announcer’s voice rang out, calling her name.

“Go,” Miss Emerson said. “It’s your stage.”

Clarke glanced at her, then at the arena beyond the gate. Everything felt strangely distant—like she was watching through a sheet of film, not her own eyes.

Just before stepping into the light, she paused. One last breath.

You’re a Griffin. And Griffins don’t flinch before the storm.

When Clarke rode into the arena, she was met by tense silence. No rustle, no cough—only the steady, humming thrum of anticipation hanging in the air. The sand beneath Valkyrie’s hooves felt dense and even, like parchment ready to absorb every movement. Shadows from the flags trembled along the arena boards, the sunlight creeping slowly across the stands.

And in that moment, the music began.
Two Steps From Hell – Victory. Strings, brass, a swell of rising tension. Almost sacred.

Clarke straightened her spine. Head high, hands exact, as if drawn with a compass. Valkyrie moved into a collected walk—steady, the soft coil of power held in her hindquarters. They moved as a single organism. Every half-halt, every extension—almost to the note. Clarke felt the mare’s body respond to the smallest shift of her hips, the weight passing from her center to the reins, and back again.

On the diagonal—a lengthened trot. Smooth, but full of power. Sand sprayed lightly underhoof, and the audience let out a quiet gasp. First flying change into canter—flawless. Clarke rode it as if along a taut string, letting the music guide her. Each turn slid into the rhythm as though the score had been written for her alone.

In that moment, she was greatness itself. She had been born for this.

Past the judges’ stand—shoulder to shoulder with Valkyrie. Clarke caught a glimpse of Miss Emerson. No smile, but the taut approval in her eyes was unmistakable.

The spectators didn’t clap, didn’t murmur—they were frozen. Watching, spellbound.

Transition into passage—short, precise. Valkyrie’s knees lifted high, as if she were walking down a royal carpet. Then piaffe—a rhythmic tremor of legs at the center of the arena, almost a dance on the spot. Clarke could feel Valkyrie’s heartbeat through the saddle, pulsing in unison with her own.

But then—

Something shifted.

Subtly, like the brittle crack of ice beneath the surface. Valkyrie flinched. The arch of her neck tightened. Clarke closed her legs, trying to keep the contact steady. But the mare’s attention was drifting. Her ears pricked forward, nostrils flaring.

Clarke loosened the reins slightly, tried to speak—softly, almost without moving her lips.

“Easy… It’s all right…”

But instead of calming, Valkyrie jolted back a step. Clarke barely kept her balance. The judges were writing something down. The stands began to stir with noise.

And then Valkyrie reared.

Sharp. Almost vertical. Her hind legs flung sand into the air. Clarke instinctively leaned forward—but it was already too late. The saddle shifted under her, the contact slackened, reins slipping from her fingers. Valkyrie twisted sideways, losing her footing.

The world tipped.

Clarke fell backwards—shoulder forward, just as she’d been taught. But in the next instant the massive weight of Valkyrie’s body followed. The mare toppled onto her side, legs flailing in the air, and with a dull, sickening thud her weight crashed down onto Clarke.

A crack.

Clean and sharp, like a snapped twig. Pain exploded in her leg—and then drained away all at once, like water retreating.

She tried to draw breath, but her chest refused to obey. Somewhere, someone screamed. The sound in her ears turned muffled, cotton-thick.

Everything swam before her eyes. The crowd. The stands. The judges. She saw her parents’ panic, Octavia surging to her feet, Imogen sprinting down the stairs. And Lexa—sitting utterly still.

The trembling bulk of the horse lay beside her, struggling to rise. Clarke couldn’t move.

In her head, echoing through her chest—Good luck, Clarke.

The roar of the stands grew louder, chaos breaking loose.

The last thing she heard before the darkness took her was Imogen’s voice—

“Clarke! …Get the medics! …God, she’s under the horse!”

Pain flared again in her leg, a fresh surge ripping through her—

And then—silence.

Chapter Text

Oxford. Merton College. Present day.

The hall was filled with the low hum and rustle typical of a large university lecture before it began. Students took their seats, murmuring to each other in subdued tones, arranging laptops and notebooks. Light fell muted through the old stained glass, glinting off worn wooden desks, bathing the room in the weight of centuries.

Clarke sat in her usual place by the window, slightly apart from the center. A cup of black coffee, already cooling, trembled faintly in her hands. Her fingers gripped the paper so tightly the rim had creased, but she didn’t notice. Her gaze flicked across the room, though it was clear her mind wasn’t on the subject of the lecture. Today was different. Something had kept her taut with tension since morning.

A knock at the door — and then Lexa Ashborn entered, almost like a ghost from the past, eclipsing everything around her. The evening finery from the ball had been replaced with an everyday elegance: a tailored dark green coat, perfectly cut trousers, and thin-rimmed glasses. The same predatory grace, but now laced with a colder resolve.

Clarke’s chest tightened. Something deep inside pulled taut, like an invisible thread yanked too sharply. No fear, no hope — just a sharp, cutting anger, building for far too long. Lexa crossed the room and took a seat on the far side. She was in a different faculty, but some courses overlapped.

Almost at her heels slid Arabella Sinclair, whose eyes had already picked out all the important figures in the room. Leaning in close, her voice was a low murmur:

“See her? By the window — Clarke Griffin. Not so easy to hide, even if you try.”

Lexa kept her gaze fixed on the professor, but the faintest edge of a smirk tugged at her lips.

“Funny how she still tries to look strong. Do you think she’ll last this fight?”

Clarke heard it as if whispered directly into her ear. Her temples throbbed. At that moment, Imogen Rowe slid into the seat beside her — all calm poise and quiet irony, the opposite of Clarke’s tension. She leaned on the armrest and spoke softly:

“Noticed the way she’s looking? Like it’s not just an enemy — it’s a whole storm.”

Clarke’s mouth curved in a thin smile.

“A storm is putting it mildly. Lexa’s like a blade — precise, sharp, always right at the edge.”

Imogen tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

“Could almost call it theatre. Only… one side of the stage is raw emotion, and the other — cold masks.”

Clarke drew in a slow breath, the air burning her lungs like splinters of ice.

“I just don’t want her thinking I’m shaking in fear.”

Imogen’s hand rested briefly on her shoulder.

“And you won’t. You’re stronger than she thinks. And you know what to do.”

Meanwhile, the professor’s voice wove through the room, lecturing on the intricate interlacing of power and betrayal in history. For those watching Lexa and Clarke, the words sounded less like an academic analysis and more like the echo of their own battles.

Arabella, still low-voiced, leaned toward Lexa again:

“She’s like a wound that never heals. No matter how much you try to ignore it, it’s always there.”

Lexa didn’t answer, eyes narrowing slightly — and for a heartbeat, there was a shadow of something. Regret? Or challenge?

Clarke and Imogen exchanged a look — a silent promise that this game was only just beginning.

Lexa turned her gaze to Clarke, and in it was not just resentment but something harder to place — regret? Or a dangerous dare?

The lecturer’s question cut through their stare. The class went on, but the tension in the air didn’t ease. Clarke kept her face forward, pretending to follow along, though she caught Arabella leaning in toward Lexa again, speaking with a satisfied smile. Lexa’s only response was a slight nod, her face a mask.

Clarke’s lips twisted.

“Looks like Lexa and Arabella get along just fine. Quite the alliance.”

Imogen smirked without looking over.

“Please. I’d say Arabella found her angle, and Lexa’s just too polite to jam a pen in her eye in the middle of class.”

Clarke’s mouth twitched, holding back a laugh.

“I doubt she’d bother with politeness if she wanted to.”

“Or maybe she’s just too drained to fight. You know — constant contempt wears even the coldest down.”

Clarke didn’t answer right away. She kept her eyes on Lexa, slightly hunched over, focused yet detached — as if she wasn’t really here at all.

Arabella leaned in again, her voice low and almost intimate:

“You’re not going to disappear again, are you? We’ve only just… started to reconnect.”

Lexa’s shoulders shifted slightly, as if shaking off a persistent insect. She didn’t turn her head when she answered:

“I’m here to study. Not to ‘reconnect.’”

Arabella’s lips pressed together, but she didn’t back down.

“Still bristling like a porcupine. I wonder when you’ll finally stop defending yourself from everyone.”

“When there’s no one left who makes it necessary.”

Lexa’s tone was almost tired. She kept taking notes, as if their exchange were nothing but background noise.

A beat of silence. Arabella’s faint smirk twitched, as though Lexa’s words had landed deeper than she’d admit.

“Always did have a temper. That’s why I missed you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“And yet, I did.”

Lexa gave her nothing further — silence now her best armour.

Clarke watched the scene without looking away, something unfamiliar knotting in her chest — not quite anger, not jealousy, but the brittle ache of burned trust.

Imogen caught the look.

“You okay?”

Clarke gave the faintest nod.

“Just… sometimes it feels like I’m still stuck back there, and she’s already far away in another life.”

Imogen glanced at Lexa and murmured:

“Or maybe it’s just a well-rehearsed mask. You’re the only one who knows what’s under it.”

“No. Not anymore. Maybe I never did.”

When the lecture ended, the room filled with the scrape of chairs and voices. Clarke slowly closed her notebook, tucking her pen between the pages, drawing out the moment.

“Come on, before we get trampled,” Imogen said, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

They made for the door — and of course, ran straight into Lexa.

Lexa stopped short, as if hitting an invisible wall. Clarke froze too. For a heartbeat, time slowed. Their eyes locked, and a chill ran down Clarke’s spine, lodging like a stone in her throat.

“You could at least try not to cross my path,” Clarke said quietly, almost without looking.

Lexa’s gaze stayed steady, her voice flat as ice:

“It’s a campus, not a labyrinth.”

“Then here’s hoping it eats you someday.”

Lexa’s fingers tightened slightly on her bag strap, tendons taut. Then she turned away and walked past. Imogen caught up with Clarke outside.

“Well, that was warm. Almost cordial.”

Clarke didn’t answer.

Outside, the air was cool, still damp from recent rain. Imogen silently handed her a lighter. Clarke took it without thanks, lit up, and drew deeply. Smoke trembled between her fingers.

“You shouldn’t,” Imogen said softly.

“I know,” Clarke replied, eyes forward. “Doesn’t mean I regret it.”

She exhaled toward the sky, as if trying to breathe out all her irritation.

“You just miss her,” Imogen observed.

“No. I just don’t want to endure her icy contempt — or that delicate ‘I can’t even bother to hurt you, you’re beneath me’ routine.”

And right on cue, Arabella appeared — soundless, smiling faintly, hands in the pockets of an expensive coat. That smug satisfaction in her gaze was enough to grate on sight.

“Smoking?” she asked with feigned surprise. “Really? I didn’t think Princess Griffin would slide downhill this quickly.”

Clarke turned to her slowly, locking eyes. Her voice was low but clear:

“Fuck off, Arabella.”

Imogen snorted. Arabella’s smile only widened, as if she’d been waiting for that.

“Charming. I’m glad to see you finally dropping the masks. They always looked too tight anyway.”

She pivoted on her heel and left, as if the scene had been staged for her alone. Clarke watched her go in silence, the smoke from her cigarette curling into the heavy air.

“She’s a walking ulcer,” Imogen said. “Don’t forget she’s just provoking you — she won’t bite. You’re smarter.”

Clarke’s mouth quirked faintly before she stubbed out the cigarette.

“Sometimes I forget who I even am.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll remind you.”

The crowd was thinning, voices fading under the chime of the college bell. Clarke walked quickly down the corridor with a folder in hand, focused — until she turned a corner and almost collided with someone.

Lexa.

The impact was slight, but Clarke drew back with a sharp breath as if it hurt. Lexa steadied herself, her hand still on her bag strap.

“Of course,” Clarke muttered, looking up from under her brows. “Wherever I go — you’re like a damn shadow.”

“I just left a lecture,” Lexa replied evenly, though her gaze tightened.

“Yeah. Right into my path. Or are you timing it now?”

“Not everyone lives by your schedule, Clarke. The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Really? Because it seemed like you went out of your way to convince me otherwise.”

Something flickered in Lexa’s expression, almost like a flinch. She moved to leave, but Clarke caught her eyes again.

“You can walk around here with that ‘I don’t feel anything’ look all you want, but I remember. Every second you actually did feel something.”

Lexa exhaled slowly, not breaking eye contact.

“You should let it go.”

“And you could, just once, say: ‘I’m sorry.’”

Silence. Someone walked by, but neither moved. Then Lexa tilted her head slightly.

“I’m sorry you’re still stuck in the past.”

She walked away without looking back. Clarke stood there, her fingers clenched white around the folder.

You’re still stuck in the past.

As if all the pain, all the sleepless nights, every fight to hold herself together was just weakness. As if it could be forgotten. As if Lexa had the right to judge, to cut it away.

Clarke’s jaw locked. Inside, it wasn’t even anger — it was that hollow, cutting unfairness that always seemed to follow Lexa.

Something old and worn stirred inside her, a familiar ache. For a moment, she wanted to scream. Instead, she turned and walked the other way, as fast as her legs would take her.

Chapter Text

The room was small, with high ceilings and smooth white walls, the kind you find in university student housing. One of the posters on the wall—a faded art-house film print—was held up by two pins and a piece of chewing gum. By the window stood a desk cluttered with paperback books, makeup, and empty coffee cups; on it, too, lay invitations to yet another party. A black jacket with heavy metal hardware hung over the back of the chair.

Clarke stood by the mirror, leaning against the wardrobe door. Light fell from above, the usual ceiling lamp, slightly yellow. Her hair now barely brushed her jawline. Sharp lines of a bob, two thin braids, tight, almost like cords. Lipstick in a plum-gray shade. Brows, defined and severe. In the reflection, instead of the former “polished Griffin girl” stood someone who smoked on an empty stomach and no longer looked her professors in the eye.

“You know, when you were seventeen, you looked like a delicate princess,” said Imogen, sitting on the edge of the bed where jeans, dusty sneakers, and a printed exam question sheet were strewn about. “Now—like a fallen icon on the cover of Vogue.”

Clarke smirked without taking her eyes off the mirror.

“Nice when progress is obvious.”

Imogen stepped closer, her shadow falling across the reflection. In her hands was a tall wine glass, rings on her fingers, her light dress sliding off her shoulders like water.

“You’re sure you want to go there? The whole class will be there. And Arabella.”

“Perfect. Then, if I want to break her nose, I won’t have to go looking for her,” Clarke said dryly, fastening the clasp at her neck. The black velvet choker clung softly to her skin.

“Charming,” Imogen nodded, taking a sip. “Drama and alcohol. Everything you love.”

“You’re boring. We balance each other out.”

Silently, Imogen offered her the glass.

“Planning to get drunk before or after the disaster?”

“After. But it’s best to start early. Makes it easier,” Imogen smirked.

She looked at Clarke longer than she should have. Then, quietly:

“Sometimes you have that look… like someone who’s decided to die but hasn’t told anyone yet.”

Clarke turned away from the mirror. Her fingers trembled slightly, but she pulled on her gloves and became a statue again.

“You sound like my mother. Only with a better wardrobe.”

Clarke stood, throwing on a black shirt over her top. Dark jeans, heavy boots. The only accessories—a bracelet and a hair tie on her wrist. No elegance. Everything was deliberately rough. No heels, no frills. Even the perfume—sharp unisex with tobacco and sandalwood.

“Just don’t hit anyone before nine.”

Clarke drained the glass in one go.

“No promises.”

Out in the hall, with the sound of Imogen’s heels on the tiles and the fleeting glances of other students, Clarke could already feel the outside air beginning to burn her skin. She didn’t walk—she slid. And if someone looked at her too long, she wanted to smile. Dangerously.

Because if anyone looked too closely—they’d see the cracks.

They were standing on the pavement by the main entrance to campus. It was a little chilly—one of those September evenings when the air was no longer summer but not quite cold yet, just… dry and mean. The lamp above the door flickered. Behind them, the noisy hall and someone’s laughter from the staircase. Ahead, the sparse streetlights and the dark road where their ride was supposed to pull up in six minutes.

Clarke lit a cigarette. Imogen stood beside her, hands in the pockets of her blazer. She kept sneaking glances at Clarke—at the slight squint when she inhaled, at the way she held the cigarette carelessly, like it belonged there. Like she hadn’t vanished for an entire summer. Like nothing hurt.

What if she disappeared again? What if all of this was just a polite, public agony before the inevitable?

Even after all these years of friendship, she feared that most—especially now. When Clarke looked like this.

Imogen clenched her teeth and looked away toward the street. Her worst fear was becoming just another spectator—helpless, politely silent—when Clarke began to crumble again. And everything pointed exactly that way.

Clarke, meanwhile, was watching the campus at night and thinking how little she cared anymore. People, faces, voices. Arabella. Lexa. All of them were noise—distant, irrelevant. She just wanted to drink enough to feel nothing, dance a little, maybe flirt with someone dangerous she wouldn’t remember in the morning. Just not be herself for a couple of hours.

“You’re wound tight like you’re headed to a funeral,” Clarke muttered, flicking ash. “It’s just a party.”

“Right. Just a party,” Imogen said flatly. “Where you can pick a fight with anyone, say things you’ll go silent about for months, and then vanish straight to the bottom again.”

“Sounds like a perfect plan.”

“Not funny, Clarke.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

They fell quiet. A car passed— not theirs. The air felt heavier, like even the waiting had weight.

Imogen held back a sigh.
Do you have any idea how much it hurts to watch you?

Clarke stubbed out her cigarette under her heel.

“You’ll still come get me if anything happens, right?”

“Always,” Imogen said softly.

Headlights swung around the corner—a black car with a rideshare logo. Clarke moved first.

“Let’s go. Time to see what rock bottom looks like with bad music and a dress code.”

The door clicked open, and the sound, light, smell of alcohol, perfume, and other people’s desire hit them all at once. The house was modern—glass walls, gray concrete, designer furniture, abstract art on the walls, and too-perfect people in clothes that cost more than a month’s rent. Like a magazine spread—only Clarke immediately felt the gloss stick to her like lip gloss from someone else’s mouth.

Her gaze slid over the guests: the golden youth in all their glory. Lawyers’ sons, investors’ daughters, dukes’ granddaughters, heirs of stock market kings. Familiar faces—some from her private school days, some from charity galas she’d attended with her parents. Cold smiles, calculated ease. People in a rush to seem grown up, still playing at empires.

Journalists lurked in the hedges. Clarke caught the flash of a camera in the backyard. One “guest” was far too obviously trying to blend in, darting between groups with a phone in hand. The whole thing was theater—familiar, disgustingly so.

“Welcome to paradise,” Clarke said dryly, not slowing her pace. “Only the angels are plastic, and heaven’s just cocaine in the bathroom.”

Imogen said nothing, just walked half a step behind, trying to keep her balance on the slick floor while making sure Clarke didn’t vanish into the crowd.

Clarke’s eyes swept the room. Whiskey—there. Bartender—there. The music was already thrumming in her chest. Everything in her was tightening. The disgust built with every passing glance, every fake “Hi, it’s been ages,” every gesture dripping with polished, upper-class politeness. The same elite performance, like when she was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Only now, no parental supervision and open access to alcohol.

She felt the anger spreading under her skin, the irritation pounding in her temples. Nothing had changed. Same elite. Looser dress code. Same pure blood. Same fucking walls.

“I hate this place,” she threw over her shoulder. “These people. Their fake smiles. Their manners.”

“Then why are you here?” Imogen asked quietly, without judgment.

Clarke glanced back, her eyes gleaming—not from the light.

“To drink and dance,” she said sharply. “And forget I was ever part of this.”

She pushed forward into the crowd. Her spine was strung tight as a bow. Imogen stayed where she was for a moment longer, watching her go, then exhaled slowly and followed.

Clarke had just taken her first sip—whiskey, strong, on the rocks, exactly right—when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Clarke Griffin?”

The tone was slightly lifted, like the speaker wasn’t sure if they were allowed to be that happy to see her. Clarke turned slowly—and of course, it was Olivia Payne.

Chestnut hair shining, flawless makeup, a dress that was clearly Valentino. She’d hardly changed—if anything, she was even more self-assured, if that was possible. Still the same. Still that girl.

“I’d never have recognized you,” Olivia said with a light laugh, eyes running over Clarke head to toe. “You’ve… changed.”

“Amazing how people grow up,” Clarke replied dryly, raising her glass.

Olivia ignored the tone.

“I remember when you came to the ball in that blue Dior. Everyone lost their minds. And now—bob, braids, leather. A rebel princess.”

She sipped her champagne and leaned in a little.

“Listen, I really was worried back then… that fall, the Windsor tournament. God. It was awful. The press… your father… everyone talking.”

Clarke froze—like someone had yanked on an old scar inside her. Her heart stalled for a beat. Cold crawled up her spine. She exhaled sharply through her nose, not smiling.

Off to the side, Imogen stood still, wineglass in hand. Her shoulders tensed; her gaze darted between Clarke and Olivia. She knew that tone. Knew that stony, frozen expression. This was the look Clarke wore when she was done holding back.

Imogen took a slow step forward, ready to intervene. Clarke’s eyes met hers for a fraction of a second—sharp, like a spark. A warning: don’t. Let me kill this myself.

Oblivious, Olivia kept going.

“You vanished completely afterward. People said you went abroad. Rehab? Or something like that…”

Olivia’s expression was sincere, almost naive. No malice. But it didn’t matter.

“Yeah, I broke my leg,” Clarke said, “and maybe a little bit—my whole life. Thanks for the reminder. I really needed that right now.”

Olivia flinched, stepping back half a pace.

“I didn’t mean—”

“That’s how it always starts, isn’t it? ‘I didn’t mean to.’ And yet, people always talk. Always remember.”

Clarke stepped in; now there was barely half a meter between them.

“And you? Still smiling for the camera? Still holding a glass while men discuss your bloodline and stock shares?”

Olivia paled, then quickly fixed her face.

“I see you’ve gotten a lot… blunter.”

“That’s from the pain. Keeps me from going insane.”

She turned on her heel and walked away without waiting for an answer. The glass in her hand trembled. Everything inside her was twisting. The cold in her chest flipped to anger, then back to pain, then back to anger again. Old faces. Old words. Old wounds. They never let you go.

The cigarette shook between her fingers as Clarke leaned her back against the cold side wall. The air outside was dense, smelling of autumn, wet asphalt, and someone else’s perfume.

A couple of drags. Everything inside clenched like from a punch under the ribs. Not the screaming, crying kind of panic—this was the thick, tar-like kind, a slow drowning. Her heart stuttered. In her head: the past always catches up. Always.

Imogen appeared behind her, almost silent except for the crunch of gravel under her heels.

“I knew she wouldn’t keep her mouth shut.”

“Who?” Clarke didn’t turn.

“Olivia. Her mouth’s always faster than her brain.”

“Funny how easy it is to talk about someone else’s hell. Like commenting on the weather.”

Imogen stepped closer, touched her elbow. Clarke moved aside—not harshly, just not now.

“Clarke,” softly, “are you okay?”

“What do you think?” Clarke’s smile had no joy. “What am I, Scrooge? Showing up at the Ghosts of Christmas Past’s cocktail hour?”

The voice that cut in beside them was like a drop of poison in a glass of champagne.

“You know, Clarke, Scrooge would suit you. Especially with the new haircut. Very… decadent.”

Clarke lifted her gaze. Arabella stood in the shadow of a column, all in black like she’d been invited to Satan’s dinner party. Smiling—slow, smug.

“And you’re still the same. Untouchable, slippery. Maybe I should’ve come with a chain around my neck so you’d get the hint—” Clarke’s voice sharpened— “fuck. you.”

Imogen stepped forward fast.

“Clarke, not now. Not her. She’s not worth it.”

Arabella didn’t so much as glance at Imogen; she stepped closer.

“Glad to see you can still bark. At least something’s left of Lady Griffin. Well, besides the dignity.”

Imogen planted herself between them.

“Leave, Arabella.”

A short, cold laugh.

“Of course. Have fun, girls. And don’t forget—the journalists are especially hungry tonight.”

She was gone as quickly as she’d appeared. Clarke exhaled, almost a rasp, and ground out her cigarette with a sharp twist, as if she could crush everything—anger, fear, herself—with it.

Imogen was speaking softly, almost nervously, but Clarke didn’t hear. She left her on the dark terrace and melted back into the house.

The music slammed into her chest, drowning out everything else. The lights flashed sharp, faces blurring like dreams after sleepless nights.

Clarke pushed through the crowd toward the bar.

“Something strong,” she told the bartender without looking.

He winked, set down something clear and burning. She downed it in one go without a flinch.

By the second glass she was moving to the beat. By the fourth, she was dancing like it could save her. Like if she sank deep enough into bass and heat and strangers’ bodies, everything would vanish.

Through the rhythm, someone touched her waist—lightly, with interest. Clarke turned. A woman. Taller, with jet-black curls and sharp cheekbones. Her look was bold, certain.

“Well, hello, early-2000s rock star,” she said with a smirk, leaning in.

Clarke raised an eyebrow.

“Is that a nickname or a diagnosis?”

“More like a style. You’ve got that… decadent thing going.”

“There’s a bad kind?”

“Well, the makeup looks like it was done in the dark, and your mood’s somewhere between ‘burn it all’ and ‘come closer, you die.’ Still, you’re fucking magnetic.”

Clarke snorted.

“You talk like that to everyone, or just the ones about to burn the party to the ground?”

“Only the ones I like. You’re like the shattered display window of an expensive boutique—dangerous, but I can’t help wanting a peek inside.”

“And you’re like a perfume ad slapped on a bus stop—cheap, loud, and sticking from the first frame.”

“Mmm, getting spicy…” The woman grinned and slid her hand over Clarke’s bare side. “You’re not just sharp—you’re trembling. That’s hot.”

Clarke didn’t pull away. If anything, she moved closer, almost flush.

“Warning—if you want to play, I might bite.”

“Only if it hurts,” she laughed, running a finger along Clarke’s neck. “You like extremes, don’t you?”

“Tonight—yeah. Tonight I want to push everything to the edge.”

The music shifted. The bass dropped deeper, the vibration thicker, as if the whole dance floor was breathing in sync. The lights slowed, wrapping everything in waves of red and blue—heat and cold.

Clarke moved like half in a dream—sharp, jagged, with the kind of grace that comes from rage soaked in liquor. The woman’s hands rested on her hips like she owned them.

They weren’t just dancing—it was something more. Like a fight at the edge of seduction, a power play where it wasn’t clear who was leading and who was giving in.

Clarke pressed her back to the woman’s chest, arched, eyes closed. The noise in her head hummed. The alcohol had dulled the edges of panic, but under her skin the anger still itched.

Why the fuck does everything I touch turn to salt? Why does even the music sound like the reverb of old mistakes?

The woman’s fingers traced her waist, slid up over her ribs, brushed her neck. Clarke opened her eyes and—just for a second—met her gaze.

Arabella stood at the upstairs railing, champagne in hand. Overdressed. Over-satisfied. Her cold beauty bathed in blue light. She wasn’t smiling, but her eyes said enough.

Look at you. Dancing like the last lost girl in a bar after a divorce. Where’s your crown, Griffin? Where’s the one who broke rules?

She didn’t move closer. She didn’t have to. She drank the sight like wine, savoring it.

She’s waiting for me to hit bottom, Clarke thought. To sign my own confession of defeat. But maybe I’m already there.

The music changed again. The bass pressed harder. The air in the room thickened.

Clarke turned to the woman—faces a breath apart. She could taste the alcohol on her lips, see the glint in her pupils.

“If you’re trying to seduce me,” Clarke murmured, “you should know—I’m not in the mood for tenderness.”

“I’m not tender,” the woman replied, tongue brushing her bottom lip, tracing the outline of want. “I’m exactly like you right now. Frayed. Starving. Tired of being someone.”

Clarke laughed low, joyless, almost feral. And threw herself back into the dance, clutching the stranger’s body like an anchor.

Upstairs, Arabella took a sip and looked away.
Too easy.
Too soon.
Too good.

They kept dancing—closer, rougher, as if trying to erase each other through skin. The woman’s lips brushed Clarke’s cheekbone, her hot breath skimming her ear. Hands down her back, her sides, her stomach.

Clarke didn’t notice when hands stopped being just hands. When her thigh slid between the woman’s legs and she shivered.

And then—under the wail of the beat, under the red light—the woman kissed her.

Right there on the dance floor. Straight on. No hesitation. Hungry, like the world had vanished.

Clarke didn’t answer at once—one second of stillness inside. Then she kissed back—hungry, shameless, as if the only world left was in someone else’s mouth.

Around them, someone smirked. Someone stared. Someone pretended not to notice.

But one gaze was sharper than the rest.

Lexa stood just off the edge of the crowd, half in shadow. She saw everything. Clarke didn’t notice her. But Lexa’s eyes never left her. Her lips twitched—but stayed shut. No words, just that gaze. Piercing. Opaque. And for a second… too alive.

Clarke broke the kiss abruptly, inhaling deep.

“Too many eyes,” she muttered, grabbed the stranger by the wrist, and pulled her through the crowd without asking.

Laughter, music, the smell of alcohol and sweat all blurred together as they slipped into a side corridor. Behind a door—muted light, white tiles, mirrors scratched from years of parties. One of the bathrooms.

She shoved the door closed and waited for the lock to click.

Chapter Text

Imogen closed the glass terrace door behind her, and the noise of the party crashed over her in a dense wave: laughter, music, the clink of glasses, conversations—like a hundred different plays all running at once. The usual background for gatherings like this, but tonight it felt especially fake. She took a couple of steps deeper into the house, holding her breath without realizing it.

Where is she?

Her eyes swept across the spacious living room, all cold modern design—glass, concrete, metal. Sharp corners, muted colors. As if everything around her mirrored her own inner tension.

She could feel it—stretched under her skin like a thin steel wire—ever since Clarke stepped out for a smoke. The way she moved, the way she spoke, her eyes… there’d been something in them trembling, like the air before a storm.

I shouldn’t have left her alone.

Imogen headed toward the bar, waiting in line for a glass of wine. She clung to the hope that she was wrong, that Clarke had just decided to dance, to blow off some steam.

And that’s exactly what she looked like—when Imogen finally saw her.

On the dance floor, in the crush of bass, under the strobe flashes, Clarke moved to the beat like she was in some kind of agony. Her back arched, hair tangled, arms wrapped around a stranger’s waist, the woman pressed up against her far too close. This wasn’t dancing anymore—this was the final stage of coming apart.

Imogen couldn’t look away.

Something snapped.

She’d barely taken a step when she saw her.

Lexa.

Leaning against the wall a little off to the side, half-hidden in shadow, completely still. No mask. No expression. Just a gaze—direct, sharp, unblinking. Tracking Clarke’s every move.

Imogen felt the blood drain from her face. Suddenly, it was too quiet.

And then—the kiss. Right in the middle of the dance floor. Clarke’s hand on the other woman’s neck. Their mouths crushed together in a hungry rush, and of course people were watching. Of course they were whispering. Of course they noticed.

Imogen saw the way Lexa’s body tightened, the way her jaw locked. But she didn’t move an inch.

The next thing happened fast: Clarke took the stranger’s hand and pulled her away, through the crowd, without looking back.

Where to—Imogen could only guess.

That was it.

She didn’t even flinch. Just stood there, glass in hand, knowing:

This was it. The beginning of the end of the world.

Lexa hadn’t planned on coming.

If it hadn’t been for Madeline—her flatmate and, inconveniently, the eternal instigator of every social disaster in her life—Lexa would have stayed home. Shut herself in with a cup of tea and lecture notes, ignored every invitation, let the calls go unanswered.

But Madeline had been standing in the doorway, a glass of prosecco in hand, already dressed to kill in a deep-cut dress and wearing the kind of expression that tolerated no argument.

“You can’t stay locked up forever, Lex. That’s not living. Come on, there’ll be people, music, a bar, a pulse. We’ll just hang out. An hour or two, then home.”

Lexa gave in. Reluctantly, with a sigh, she pulled on a black blazer, tied her hair into a tight ponytail, and promised herself: two drinks, max, and no conversations.

At first, it went according to plan.

The house was crowded, the music far too modern, the guests far too beautiful. She and Madeline had a glass of wine each, exchanged a few lines with the host—some brand ambassador from the world of watches and horses—and melted into the social noise for a few minutes. Lexa had just started counting down the minutes until they could leave when, of course, she ran into Olivia.

Olivia stood there with a trained smile and poison-green stilettos, someone Lexa knew all too well from endless galas and charity dinners.

“Oh, Lexa Ashborn? Didn’t expect to see you here. I actually ran into your friend recently…” She paused—too pointedly. “…well, ex-friend. Griffin.”

Lexa froze.

“We talked for a bit.” Olivia tossed her hair back. “You know, she’s changed. Volatile. Nervy. Like a live wire. Said some strange things. I’d even say… dangerous.”

She smirked, as if savouring the word. As if that had been the setup she’d been waiting to deliver.

“You knew she was here, right?”

No. She hadn’t. But now she did.

Her chest tightened. Lexa muttered something polite, flat, and walked away. The wine tasted sour. The house, the music, the people—suddenly all of it felt sticky, unbearable.

Why did I even come?

Olivia’s words echoed.

A live wire.
Dangerous.

Lexa knew exactly what Clarke was like when her pain had nowhere to go. She’d seen it. Felt it. Feared it.

From that moment, everything inside her went still. Stretched tight, like a spring ready to snap.

She didn’t go looking for her. At least, that’s what she tried to tell herself. But her body already knew where to look.

The glass in her hand had long gone warm. The wine—dry, expensive—tasted lifeless. Guests drifted past: silk, laughter, perfume, murmurs about betting odds, who’d arrived with whom, who was fucking whom. All of it was unbearably loud and utterly meaningless.

She stared through people. Faces flashing past like in a kaleidoscope, all equally empty. None of them—hers.

You don’t care.
It’s none of your business.

She almost believed it. Almost. Until she noticed the shift in the crowd by the dance floor. Movement tightening, merging into one feverish body, like a swarm of bees dancing themselves to death.

And in the middle—Clarke.

At first, Lexa didn’t believe it.

She blinked. Turned her head. No, must’ve been a trick of the light. No… it was her.

The shirt slipping off her shoulder, hair tangled, eyes half-closed. Her mouth slightly open. Moving like someone who’d had their brakes ripped out. Not dancing—surviving. Not smiling—burning.

And next to her—another woman. A brunette in an indecently short, skin-tight dress. Too close. Hands locked together. Bodies…

Lexa couldn’t look away. Something inside her coiled tight under her ribs. Cold. Crushing.

Not your problem.
You’re the one who let her go.

But then Clarke kissed her. Right there, in the middle of the dance floor. Messy, deliberate, the way you don’t kiss when you’re fine.

And Lexa understood. This wasn’t a kiss. This was a scream. A brick through a window. A way to wreck yourself while everyone’s watching.

Then Clarke took the woman’s hand and vanished into the crowd. Gone, without looking around. Gone like she was running from something. Or to something.

Lexa still didn’t move. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her gaze fixed. Even her breathing slowed—like a predator’s before the leap.

There’s going to be an explosion.

And it didn’t matter who ended up at the centre of it.

The door slammed shut behind them. The echo died against the tiles.

Clarke all but threw the woman against the wall, pinning her with her hip, her palm, her body—hard, like you’d slam a brake before a car crash. Only this time, the point was the opposite. She wanted it to hit. To crash into her properly. To feel something.

“Whoa,” the woman exhaled, spine hitting the door with force, but without protest. She only laughed. “What, not even gonna ask my name?”

“Names are for people I plan to remember,” Clarke rasped, crashing into her mouth.

The kiss wasn’t about tenderness. It was about rage. About the torn-up skin inside your mouth. About hunger. The woman moaned, wrapped her arms around Clarke’s neck, tugged her hair, but Clarke didn’t feel the limits anymore. Her mouth was on her neck, teeth sinking into skin, her hand sliding over thighs, yanking up the hem of her dress. Everything was fast, almost blind, like in a fight when you don’t have time to breathe.

And the whole time, in Clarke’s head, there was a low, constant hum:

I don’t care. Let her watch. Let her see. I’m not hers anymore. I can disappear too. I can cut pain like glass. I can fuck like I’m trying to set myself on fire.

It all blurred together—the smell of someone else’s perfume, her own scent that wasn’t really hers anymore, the taste of alcohol still clinging to her tongue, the faint, fading trace of tobacco on her lips.

Fingers pushed the fabric aside, found skin, heat. Wet. So wet. Clarke, feral now, with something close to a growl, drove into her, barely shoving her underwear aside. She could hear the stranger whimpering into her ear, breath hot against it.

She moved sharp, fast, ragged, not letting her breathe. Bit her neck without mercy; the woman clawed down Clarke’s bare shoulders with long nails, leaving welts.

The line had been crossed. The pin pulled—now there was only raw, animal lust and fury. Clarke spun the woman around to face the mirror, bending her over the cold marble sink. She tore at her dress—what little it had been covering. Would she ruin it? Don’t fucking care.

Clarke looked into the mirror—at herself, eyes almost black. At her. Grabbed her by the throat, squeezing lightly, and without breaking eye contact in the reflection, dragged her other hand between her legs, gathering slick heat onto her fingers. The woman’s eyes rolled back with pleasure. Clarke pressed hard against her clit and drove in just as roughly. It was like she was pounding all her rage into the woman beneath her, while the other filled the room with loud, shattering moans.

She didn’t stop when the woman in her hands began to arch, to almost scream with pleasure. Clarke didn’t seem to hear. Or didn’t want to. It all dissolved into the low roar of blood in her temples. She slowed only when the stranger’s body was racked with tremors and she went limp in Clarke’s grip.

No reprieve. Clarke spun her back around, pinned her to the wall, holding her up so she wouldn’t drop. Dragged her tongue along her collarbone, bit down, leaving a mark. Swallowed her mouth in another kiss, shoved her back against the door, dug her nails into her thighs.

The woman tried to kiss her slowly, but Clarke pulled away.

“Don’t do tender,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Just… don’t stop.”

The woman obeyed. Her hands were shaking. And Clarke felt it coming over her—slow, foul, tasting of sour metal in her mouth. The feeling that inside her there wasn’t heat at all, but a void. Vast. Cold. Consuming.

She closed her eyes. Imagined: it wasn’t some stranger, it was her.

Dark hair, a faintly trembling breath, lips that knew the taste of her name. Lexa.

But it wasn’t Lexa.

It would never be Lexa again.

The tears burned from the inside but didn’t make it out.

Clarke kissed her again, muffled, fierce, like she could squeeze meaning out of it. Like she could kiss herself back into existence. Find herself. Save herself.

It didn’t work.

She straightened, slowly stepped back from the wall, feeling her chest rise and fall too heavily. Her heart still hammered, but not from want anymore. From the cold inside.

She walked to the sink, turned on the cold tap, let the water run over her hands. Felt the drops trace down her fingers, slide over her wrists. Splashed her face. Once. Twice. But she didn’t lift her gaze to the mirror—not because her reflection wasn’t there, but because she couldn’t bear to see it.

Not now. If I look—I’ll break.

There was a rustle behind her. The woman was adjusting her dress, pulling hair free from the strap, buckling her heel.

“Wow,” she said with a smirk. “That was… expressive.”

Clarke didn’t answer. Splashed more water onto her face. Wiped it off with a paper towel.

“Not complaining,” the stranger went on, “but honestly? You fuck like you’re trying to kill someone. Or bring them back from the dead.”

Clarke closed her eyes, breathing deeper than she needed to. The room smelled of sweat, soap, wine, lipstick. Everything she shouldn’t smell like.

“You okay, sweetheart?” The voice behind her softened, almost caring. “Or… you want more?”

“No.” 

“Alright. Your call,” the woman shrugged, bending to pick up her clutch from the floor. “Although honestly… you’re still wound way too tight.”

Clarke stared at the floor, waiting for her to leave.

“Want me to help you stop thinking?” the stranger said, already unfastening the tiny black purse.

Inside—a small, clear bag. White powder. A rolled dollar bill. Her gaze went lazy-predatory, like a cat finding someone else’s pain.

“Just take a breath… and it all disappears. Promise.”

The crowd behind her lived its own life—false laughter, the clink of glasses, damp whispers against the walls.
Lexa stood still, as if unsure about taking the first step… but her body pulled itself forward. Toward where Clarke had disappeared.

She wasn’t thinking. She wasn’t building any logical chain. She just walked.

There was instinct in that step—something predatory. A blind need to see, to confirm, to stop, or to finish off. She didn’t know. And she couldn’t stop anymore.

Her fingers curled into a fist, as if something inside her was bracing for a blow that hadn’t yet landed.

“Decided to go finish off whatever’s left?” The voice hit her temple like a gunshot. Familiar. Silken and poisoned.

Arabella.

She appeared in front of her as if she’d known Lexa’s route all along. As always. In a perfectly tailored dress, a glass of prosecco in her fingers, an icy smile. Hair in a tight knot, like a mask. Lexa stopped abruptly.

“Move.”

“Not even a hello? How rude.” She stepped closer, leaning her hip against the edge of a table. “You barely show your face in public. And yet—you’re here. Out of all the parties, you chose this one. I must admit, unexpected.”

Lexa said nothing. Just stood there in silence, holding herself together by a thread.

“Or maybe something… more personal drew you in?”

Arabella followed her gaze to where Lexa had been looking seconds earlier. The corner of her mouth lifted.

“Ah, of course. Her. It took less than five minutes for her to trade the scraps of her pride for the first body she could find. Your ex…” —the blow was cold, precise— “…friend. Always had a flair for drama, didn’t she?”

Lexa’s jaw tightened. She wanted to walk away. To push through her. But she knew—Arabella would only delight in her anger, in her reaction. In anything that smelled of vulnerability.

“You’re losing your touch, Lexa. If you were still yourself—she’d be crawling at your feet by now, not under someone else. Then again, maybe she was… just not under you.”

Lexa’s heart pounded, loud and hard, like an iron horseshoe striking marble.

“Do you honestly still want her back?” Arabella murmured, leaning in slightly.

Lexa took a step to the side, then another, shouldering past her.

“If you want to keep playing clever—go ahead. I’m not going to her.”

“Of course not,” sweetly, just loud enough for others to hear. “You’ve always been so good at running from your own feelings.”

She didn’t turn around. Not a word. Just step after step forward, toward what she didn’t even know she would find.

Imogen stood at the bar, gripping her glass like an anchor. She’d seen it all.

First, how Lexa froze. Then how she started walking forward, as if someone had tugged her by an invisible thread. And everything inside Imogen clenched.

No. Not now. Not like this.

When Arabella stepped into Lexa’s path, Imogen almost exhaled in relief—and then flinched at her own betrayal. But even a moment’s delay could be enough. Or not.

God, don’t let them cross paths. Not here. Not after everything. Not in this state.

Imogen set her glass down. Her lips trembled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Clarke slip through a door at the end of the hallway. And Lexa had seen where she went. And she was still going.

Which meant—she still hadn’t let go.

The bathroom door clicked open, and Clarke stepped out first.

Her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, lips parted and damp. Her hair was tangled at the back, a stray lock stuck to her cheek. That smile— the one that comes after a long silence and an exhale that’s too fast—curved her mouth. Loose, alive, high.

Behind her came the same girl, fastening the strap of her heel as she walked, eyes fixed on Clarke. Laughing, she slung her clutch over her shoulder and caught up, sliding an arm casually around Clarke’s waist.

“You’ve got surprises in you, blondie.”
A kiss—quick, cocky, tasting of lipstick and something sweet, like strawberry gum.

Clarke smirked—then turned her head. And froze.

Two steps away stood Lexa. Still in black. Still ramrod straight. But her face—bloodless, as if it had drained away all at once.

Lexa’s eyes flicked from Clarke’s lips to her gaze. Glassy. Black.
The sting in Clarke’s chest was instant, like a knife to the gut.

Clarke… where the hell are you?

Clarke swayed, like she’d just seen her own shadow for the first time. Something in her heart tightened. She opened her mouth—and no words came out.

Their eyes locked. And in that look lived a thousand broken sentences, unsent letters, nights lived blind.

Someone loud passed between them, and they both flinched.

Then the girl behind Clarke, as if nothing had happened, slipped a hand into Clarke’s pocket.

“If you want a repeat… or to actually find out my name…” Her lips brushed Clarke’s cheek. “…text me.”

And she vanished into the crowd.

Clarke didn’t move.

Neither did Lexa.

The whole world seemed to exhale.

They stood facing each other, two raw knots of pain, in the crash of music, light, and other people’s hands.

Clarke blinked. Once. Twice. Her heart pounded too loud, but outwardly she looked almost indifferent.

She let out a short huff of laughter, stepped closer—close enough to breathe the same air.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Her voice was low, husky, tinged with a laugh. Her eyes swept over Lexa’s face and landed on her mouth.

“Missed me enough to come?”

She said it almost lazily, with a hint of mockery, every word wrapped in cotton and sarcasm.

But in her eyes—darkness. A draft.

Lexa didn’t answer right away. Her jaw twitched, almost imperceptibly, but her expression stayed cold.

Clarke raised her brows.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” She tilted her head. “Or you just don’t know where to start? Sorry, my brain’s not firing on all cylinders right now.” She tapped a finger to her temple, smirking. “You know how it is.”

Finally, Lexa spoke—quietly:

“Clarke… you—”

“What?”

Clarke stepped back sharply, then forward again, like she’d shoved herself away only to snap back.

“I’m what? Loose? Vulgar? Drunk?” Her voice got sharper with each word. “Or maybe just finally happy?”

The word landed like a slap. Bitter. Foolish. Mad.

Lexa lifted her chin slightly.

“This is your idea of ‘happy’?”

Clarke laughed. Low. Dangerous.

“My happiness, Lexa, is the absence of you. Right now. Here. Forever.”

She leaned in closer.

“But you couldn’t resist, could you? You still came. Still watched. Still standing here—burning me with your eyes like you’ve got the right.”

For a second, something real flickered across her face. Pain. But it was gone as quickly as it came, washed away by a poisonous smile.

“You know, I’m actually glad. At least once you’ve seen me as I really am.”

“Clarke!”

Imogen’s voice was sharp, almost desperate. She cut between them, grabbed Clarke’s arm, and yanked her away before she could throw another barb in Lexa’s face.

“We’re leaving. Now.”

Clarke didn’t fight it. Just smirked, glancing back over her shoulder:

“What, afraid I’ll bite her?”

“Taxi’s on its way,” Imogen snapped through her teeth. “Three minutes.”

They pushed through the crowd. Drunken, dancing bodies. Bursts of light. Bass pounding against ribs. Clarke stumbled on a step but didn’t stop. Imogen never let go of her hand.

Outside, the air was cool. Damp night clung to skin. The city breathed in fevered pulses.

Clarke pulled her hand free and fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Lighter between her teeth, fingers shaking. Again and again—the flint wouldn’t catch. Click. Click. Nothing.

Imogen snatched the lighter from her, struck it herself, held the flame to the cigarette—her eyes locked on Clarke’s.

Clarke took a drag and exhaled in relief. Then let out a rough laugh.

“Perfect closing scene, right? Girl on the wreckage.”

Imogen folded her arms. Her voice was hoarse:

“What are you doing to yourself?”

Clarke blew smoke upward.

“Everything I can to stop feeling.”

“You’re high.”

“You’re not the first to notice. Congratulations. Want a medal?”

“Stop it.”

“What?” Clarke squinted at her. “Planned to have a good time—I had it. Forgot myself. Didn’t even get in a fight. Everything went according to plan.”

She gave a crooked, joyless smirk.

“And now, like you said…”

She stepped forward.

“…time to go home.”

The taxi pulled up, headlights cutting through the dark.
Imogen opened the door and guided Clarke inside—like a shadow too tired to keep fighting.

Chapter Text

First came the sound.

Like someone was drilling into her skull from the inside—careful, methodical, with a crunch. Then came the smell—sour, metallic, tinged with bile and cigarette smoke. And only then—the realization that she was going to puke.

Clarke lurched forward and immediately banged her forehead on the rim of a bucket. Someone had thoughtfully put it beside her. Probably Imogen. She didn’t remember. She didn’t remember anything at all.

She vomited for a long time. Tears burned her eyes. Her own breath echoed in her skull. Then a rasp, then—emptiness. She slumped back onto the pillow, which felt damp. The sheet stuck to her back.

Sunlight stabbed through the window.

Sunlight. In Oxford. In autumn. It had to be a sign of the apocalypse.

Her ears rang like she’d been diving too deep and never equalized the pressure. Imogen was saying something. Her voice cut through the haze like it was coming from underwater. At first just meaningless sounds, then scraps of words:

“…Clarke… hear me?.. get up… we need to…”

Clarke squeezed her eyes shut. Her hand fumbled for the edge of the nightstand, but her fingers trembled so badly she almost knocked over a glass. Water—or maybe tea—spilled across the wood and dripped onto the floor.

“Fuck,” she croaked. Her throat burned raw.

Imogen said something else, but her voice seemed to pass right by. Clarke’s head was like a room stuffed with cotton—hollow, muffled, detached. Only her heart pounded, too loud and too fast.

Clarke covered her eyes with her hand. Not from pain. From everything.

From yesterday. From Imogen. From Lexa.

She lay there like she’d been crammed into her own body—tight, uncomfortable, sticky. Her skin ached as if someone had been laying new nerves under it. Her hair clung in damp strands to her temples. The sheet under her back was wet, from sweat or something worse.

The air felt stale, unmoving, and even the open window—she heard the curtain flutter—did nothing. The room smelled of smoke, stale booze, and something sour. The scent of a party.

Clarke tried to take a deeper breath—mistake. Her throat flared, her stomach clenched, and another wave of nausea hit.

She made it to the bucket. Again. This time almost blind.

Her body heaved twice. Her throat seized, leaving the taste of bile on her lips. She coughed, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain. The tears came again, and this time she didn’t even bother to stop them.

Her body had betrayed her. Her mind even more so.

When she finally leaned back, breathing hard, the room still spun. Like a carousel. But not the kind that made you laugh—more the kind someone strapped you into and spun until you slammed face-first into every turn.

Through the grey cotton of her headache, memories began to seep in. Not whole ones. Fragments. Flashes.

…laughter. Not hers. Female…
…a glittering top… someone else’s hands on her waist…
…the taste of vodka, a sweet mix, then bitterness again…
…white powder on the back of a hand…
…a sharp inhale…
…a mirror, strange lips close by, a flash flash flash…

“Missed me, if you came?”

Pain exploded in her temples. Dull, deep, like someone was pounding a rhythm inside her.

Clarke groaned quietly, eyes shut, forehead on her knees. The room swam as if the air had turned viscous. Somewhere a clock ticked. The curtains rustled. Vomit clung to her mouth—bitter, acidic. A metallic tang on her tongue. Maybe blood. Maybe just the remnants of the night.

But there was no regret.

She knew exactly what she’d done. She’d come for this: to forget, to blow up, to melt. Didn’t matter with who, didn’t matter how. To get a break from herself. From her.

And it had worked.

“Oh yeah,” she whispered into her chest. “Hell of a night.”

Now—yeah, hell. Nausea, spinning, fog in her head. But yesterday she’d felt lighter. Lighter than she had in… months?

No one had asked questions. No one had looked at her the way she looked at herself. In that smoky paradise, she wasn’t Clarke Griffin. She was just a body, a voice, a want.

Exactly what she’d wanted.

Her body convulsed again. She bent forward, reaching for the bucket. Empty. Only dry heaves. She sighed and collapsed back, staring at the ceiling.

Let today be hell three times over. She knew—sometimes you had to burn just to forget you’d ever been alive.

The room seemed to breathe. Slow, uneven, like the house itself was waking from its own hangover.

Somewhere the radiator clicked. An old pipe groaned like it cursed under its breath. A blade of sunlight cut through the gloom, thick and almost touchable, slicing the darkness into pieces. Dust motes spun inside it like in a whirlpool. Touch them and they’d shatter with a ringing crack.

Clarke turned away. The light hurt her eyes.

God. Why was the sun so fucking bright? Turn it off.

Through the fog, through the pressure in her skull, she started to pick out sounds. A hum. Not ringing—a low, vibrating hum, like something deep in the walls was running. Or an earthquake that hadn’t reached the surface yet.

Her ears popped. Her eyelids grew heavy.

You wanted to forget, Clarke. So forget. Everything.

She lay curled under the blanket, knees to her chest. On the floor—her jacket. Her boots neatly lined up, toes forward, as if someone else had placed them there. An empty mug with stains on the bottom. Her phone face-down. Silent.

No sound from outside. Only the hum. Only the heaviness in her body. Only the words left over—not spoken, but carved on the inside of her skull:

“Missed me, if you came?”

Clarke closed her eyes, and it felt like she was falling. Into sleep? Into nothing? Or just into herself.

Something creaked in the hall. Light footsteps, careful, as if afraid to break the fragile quiet holding the house together. Then—a pause. The doorknob turned slowly.

“Clarke?..” The voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “You alive?”

Imogen. Her voice cut through the hum like a spotlight. Sharp. Alien. Too real.

Clarke didn’t answer. Just groaned softly and pulled the blanket tighter like armor.

“I brought water,” Imogen added. “And some crackers. They say it helps.”

Clarke lifted her head with effort and squinted. Imogen stood in the doorway in sweatpants and a college T-shirt, hair messy, a mug in her hands. No judgment on her face, no pity. Just caution. And some complex, patient shadow in her eyes—the kind you see in people who’ve sat through other people’s hangovers before.

“If you’re gonna puke—the bucket’s right there.” She nodded. “Though you’ve probably noticed.”

Clarke muttered something—not a word, just noise—and tried to push herself up on her elbows. The pulse in her temples slammed back in reply.

Imogen walked over without comment, set the water on the nightstand, and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Not sure last night went the way you planned,” she said quietly. “But you looked happy. At least on the outside.”

Clarke finally looked at her. One eye barely opened. But in the other—there was a spark. Not of regret. Not of shame.

“I did everything right,” she rasped. “Exactly how I wanted.”

And she turned to the wall.

Imogen didn’t leave. Just sat there. Didn’t speak, but Clarke felt her gaze—not pressing, not pitying. Just… watching. Like a doctor waiting to see if you’d cough or survive.

Clarke shut her eyes.

“I’m flattered you’ve decided to run a clinic in my bedroom,” she muttered with a hoarse laugh. “But I don’t have insurance, so if I die—just cremate me. Scatter me somewhere… anywhere.”

Imogen sighed. Not annoyed—just heavy, like it wasn’t her first sigh of the morning.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Clarke cut her off. And immediately flinched as her stomach rolled. She grabbed the bedframe. Imogen slid the bucket over—just in time. The next minute was nothing but a pathetic, gurgling sound as Clarke hung over the plastic abyss, hating the world, but especially last night’s version of herself.

Though no.

No, she’d do it all again.

Imogen waited patiently, handed her a tissue, didn’t ask, didn’t comment.

Clarke leaned back, covering her face with her hand.

“I’m not looking for salvation,” she mumbled through her fingers. “And I’m sure as hell not asking for an interrogation.”

“This isn’t an interrogation,” Imogen said gently. “It’s just… you’ve been a powder keg for a week. And last night was the fireworks. Loud ones.”

“Well, you know me—I like a dramatic exit.”

“Especially into a women’s bathroom with someone whose name you don’t know?”

Clarke propped herself up and turned her head slowly. Her gaze was cloudy, like water after a dissolving aspirin. And in it—nothing but bare defense.

“Oh, here we go. Imogen playing moral compass. We’ve done this before, remember? Same script: you worry, I do something stupid, you tell me I’m lying to myself, I tell you to fuck off. Maybe we just save time?”

Imogen dropped her gaze for a moment, losing her usual composure. But when she spoke again, it was quieter, more restrained:

“Clarke, I’m not angry. I’m not disappointed. I just… I’m afraid you’re burning yourself out. Fast. For nothing.”

Pause. The room filled with hum again. Only now it wasn’t from her head—it was from inside her.

Clarke gave a bitter, tired smile.

“Don’t worry. I’m just sweeping up the ashes.”

Imogen looked like she wanted to say more, but Clarke had already turned away, shutting herself off under the blanket like armor. No more words. No forward, no back. Just silence, sunlight, and a bucket on the floor.

Imogen stood, took the empty mug from the nightstand, and headed for the door. No hug, no coaxing, no dramatic line to leave a mark. Just the quiet click of the door closing behind her.

Clarke was alone. She listened. Even the hum inside had dulled. Or maybe her brain was just too tired to fight.

She sat up slowly. Her head felt full of sand, her eyes like glass. Her body as if a truck had run her over, then parked on top.

“Great,” she muttered, palms pressed to her face. “Alive. Question is—why.”

Every movement was a slog. Finding a clean T-shirt. Figuring out where her pants were. Catching her foot on a charger cable and nearly dying—that was the pinnacle of her morning triumph.

She crawled to the shower, stripped off last night’s clothes on autopilot, stepped under the spray, and cranked it to ice-cold. The shock punched her in the chest, ran up her neck and skull. Her heart jolted.

“There you go, proof you’re not a corpse yet.”

She stood there ten minutes until her body began to feel vaguely like hers again. Damp towel over her shoulders. Fresh shirt. Soft pants. A functioning unit—with mixed results.

Only when she stepped into the hall did she smell it. From the kitchen: coffee, and something… homey. Broth? Seriously?

She followed the smell. On the stove—a small pot. Beside it—a mug of coffee, steam still curling in the morning light that filtered through old blinds. Imogen had left a note—short, on a ripped piece of notepad paper:

You don’t have to be okay. Just eat. I’ll be back soon.

Clarke snorted. So softly she couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or a groan.

She poured herself coffee, took a sip—bitter, scalding. As it should be. Then sat right on the floor, back to the cupboard, legs stretched out, mug beside her.

Still didn’t want to live.

But with coffee in hand, it felt slightly less impossible.

She sat like that—on the floor, knees hugged, coffee nearly sliding off her thigh. Her head no longer spun, but her ears still rang.

Her hands drifted toward her phone. After last night, the screen had a small crack. Perfect. She must have dropped it somewhere—not that she remembered anything clearly.

“Just to check. Keep my brain busy.”

She opened Instagram. The feed—a mess of faces, horses, tournament posts, vitamin ads for riders. Nothing worth looking at.

Until…

Until it appeared. A photo.

Clarke.
With a glass.
A grin just short of manic.
Lips parted, eyes drunkenly narrowed.
And the next one—worse.

She’s dancing. Pressed against a girl whose hands are on her hips. The girl’s laughing, long dark hair falling forward. Her mouth far too close to Clarke’s neck.

No location tag, but the caption—short, and exactly in his style:

The lost princess is back.
@oliverroy_official

Three thousand likes. So far.
A thousand comments.

“Fuck me,” Clarke rasped, pressing the phone to her forehead.

She scrolled. And there—among them—a familiar name.
Arabella Sinclair. Laughing in the comments:

Sometimes the prettiest corpses crawl out of the swamp.

Clarke didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“That fucking bitch.”

No shame yet—just numbness. Then heat. Like someone had driven a nail into a sunbeam.

Her fingers trembled. The coffee burned her lip. She set the mug down hard; it rattled.

Something inside her stirred. Slow. Filthy. Like swamp water poked with a stick.

And silence no longer felt like salvation.

At first, nothing. Just the cold hollow in her chest. Then a single thought, sharp as a nerve strike:

Her parents won’t like this.

She set the phone aside. Rested her forehead on her knees. Didn’t close her eyes—just stared at a stray thread in the carpet. She already knew how it would go. Step by step.

First, a call or message from her mother. Thin, as always: I saw. Your aunt sent me the link. Tell me you’re alright.
Then her father. Not right away. A few hours later. No reproach—but that frozen weight in his voice.

We hoped you were keeping your promise, Clarke.

She had promised. After Valencia—when some tabloid had posted photos of her leaving a club barefoot, dress torn, elbow bloodied.
“Griffins back in the headlines: fallen rider or fallen daughter?”—her father had nearly smashed his laptop that night.

After that, she’d taken a long time to pull herself together. Again.
Always the same: recovery, apologies, trying to be that perfect, restrained, composed daughter. Always in control. Polite. Worthy.
A true Griffin.

But then… something always happened. Small at first. Then building.
She never knew when she’d snap again. Just… at some point, she’d let go. And that was it.

Did she regret it? Maybe.
Probably the only thing she truly regretted was her parents. How hard they’d worked to cover her tracks, rebuild bridges, talk to the press, smother rumors.

And she—she blew it. Again. And again. Let them down. Not just them, but the version of herself she used to be.
The one who’d been somebody. A winner, a promise, a symbol of resilience and light.

Now—this.

Clarke stood slowly. Weakness still in her limbs. But anger was awake now. Not fire, not storm—just shame wrapped in indifference.
She tossed her phone onto the couch. Fuck it. Let it burn.

No, she wouldn’t be the perfect daughter again. Couldn’t. Or maybe just didn’t want to.

Maybe they’d been hoping for someone who wasn’t there anymore.

She walked into the kitchen. Took the mug. The coffee was cold. She poured it down the sink.

Lexa woke early, but her sleep had been restless, as if the night refused to release its hold on her thoughts.
She rose from the bed and stretched, trying to shake the last threads of unease from her body.

Opening her laptop, Lexa went through the familiar motions of checking her social feeds, expecting another morning of trivial updates and empty posts.
But her eyes caught on something at once — a familiar face. Clarke.
A party photo: that smile, a drink in her hand, dancing far too close to another girl.

Beneath the picture, a sharp, almost playfully cruel caption:
"The lost princess returns after a long silence" — Oliver Roy.

Lexa’s brow furrowed; her chest tightened with the weight of an oncoming storm.
And of course, there it was — a razor-thin, calculated cut from Arabella. Lexa could almost hear her laugh, that mocking lilt that always seemed to echo long after the words.

She knew then: last night wasn’t just a mistake, Clarke.
It was a challenge. A challenge that could shatter them all.

Lexa drew a deep breath, already certain — today would not be an easy day.

Chapter Text

The light in the room was soft and dusty, a typical London Monday: not quite morning, not quite day, just a grey-gold shadow on the walls.

Imogen had long since left for lectures, leaving a simple note on the table:

"Breakfast in the fridge. Coffee in the coffee machine. Don’t reply to stupid comments.
P.S. Yes, you’re still fucking gorgeous."

Heart at the bottom. As always.

Clarke lay on the bed, wrapped in a blanket up to her chin. She felt… not bad. Just nothing. As if someone had turned the volume all the way down.
No ringing in her temples. No trembling in her fingers. Even her thoughts were politely slow.

Her phone lit up with notifications. She didn’t pick it up right away — more out of habit than any real desire.

20 missed calls.
125 messages in her Instagram DMs.
And…
Almost a thousand mentions on Twitter.
New tags: #phoenixgriffin #thefallandrise

She scrolled through her feed without much interest; she’d already seen those photos yesterday.

The first comments — playful.
Then — a wave of nostalgia.
And then it began.

"Bring back the old Griffin."
"She used to look into the camera like she could kill you. Now she looks like she wants to disappear."
"Lost? She’s been erased for a long time."

A repost from @graceeventing finished her off.
It was from the Champagne tournament. One of her last appearances before the fall.
In the photo — she’s in uniform, her face stone, a winner’s ribbon in her hands. In the background, blurred, almost unnoticeable — Lexa. Standing at the rail, back to the camera.

No one else would have recognised her.
But Clarke did. Instantly.

She froze. Her fingers gripped the phone a little tighter.

She didn’t feel anger. There was no offence, either.

Just a strange sensation: as if someone had drawn her again. Claimed her again. Broken her down into pixels, turned her into a symbol.

They say: “return”.
Return where?
She hadn’t been going anywhere for a long time. And she hadn’t called anyone to follow.

The silence thickened a little. Clarke switched off her phone, leaned back on the bed and closed her eyes.

And suddenly, for no reason, almost on command, memory opened.

Clarke remembered that morning. Or rather, she remembered how it smelled: of morning dew, saddle leather, and something fresh — like sunlit wind.

“You must be polite, Clarke,”  her mother said as they turned off the gravel road. “This isn’t just a riding club. The people here are heirs, federation members, and world-class athletes. Behave like a true lady, the way I taught you.”

“And if I fall off the horse?”  Clarke asked, fastening the zipper on her white riding boots.

“Then you’ll get up, fix your hair, and make it look like it was all part of the plan.”

She wore a cream jodhpur suit with gold trim — a gift from her grandmother in Paris. Her helmet was fastened tightly under her chin. Her hair pulled back into a strict bun. But in her eyes — impatience. She had been waiting for this for a long time.

The stables were like something out of a fairy tale. Bright, clean, with nameplates over each stall. Horses that looked as though they’d stepped straight out of an illustrated book. Grace in every movement. Riders in perfectly tailored uniforms, calm and focused. She felt like the heroine of an old film.

The trainer — a tall, silver-haired man named Monsieur Thibault — looked her over.

“Have you ridden before, Miss Griffin?”

“Yes, sir. My nanny used to take me to Hilltop Park every week.”

He nodded, as if approving.

“Then we’ll skip the chit-chat. You’ll ride Jasmine. She’s kind, but demanding. Like any true lady.”

The mare was light bay, with a fluffy forelock and watchful eyes. Clarke mounted as she’d been taught: back straight, heels down, hands poised as if holding a teacup. Thibault nodded; she followed every instruction.

And when she moved at a trot around the ring, wind against her face, her heart pounded as if it had doubled in size. This was… freedom. Pure, uncompromising.

After the lesson she dismounted, walked up to Jasmine, and stroked the mare’s warm neck.

“You’re the best,”  she whispered to the horse. “I love you.”

And in that moment — she rode in.

A girl about her age. Dressed in black, strict and without frills. Dark-haired, with a high forehead and watchful eyes. She didn’t just sit in the saddle confidently — she sat like royalty. Back perfectly straight, movements smooth, precise. She wasn’t pretty  in a girlish way — she was… regal.

Clarke froze, staring.

“Who’s that?”  she asked Thibault, who had walked over to check a girth.

“Miss Alexandra Ashborn. One of the best in her age group. Her family are among Saint Rosalie’s sponsors, and her mother, Lady Genevieve, is an Olympic dressage champion. Lexa has her own schedule; she trains separately.”

Lexa halted her horse by the wall, turned her torso. Their eyes met.
No longer than necessary.
But it was enough.

Clarke took a step closer.

“Hi,”  she said. “I’m Clarke. You ride beautifully.”

Lexa nodded.

“Thank you.”

No smile. No extra words.

Clarke faltered slightly, but didn’t leave.

“Your horse is very graceful. What’s his name?”

“Argent.”

“Like silver?”

“Yes.”

Again — a pause. No warmth, no rudeness. Just a steady, neutral confidence. Clarke felt something stir inside her — a strange blend of admiration, irritation, and curiosity.

She didn’t know what it was. Not then.

But later, as she and her mother drove back, Clarke looked out the window and asked:

“Mum, how do you become… like her?”

“Like Lexa Ashborn?”  Her mother narrowed her eyes slightly. “Girls like that are made. From childhood. Through pain and discipline.”

Clarke was silent for a long time, then whispered under her breath:

“I can do that too.”

The morning was damp, cold, and a little too honest.
Late October in London had a way of slipping under your skin — the wind wormed its way into your sleeves, the rain into your thoughts, and the sky hung low, as if testing your endurance.

Clarke stepped out of the building, tugging at the collar of her coat. Dark grey, stiff wool — perfectly in tune with her mood today. Underneath: a T-shirt from some band she’d picked up in Valencia, a short black skirt, ripped tights, and combat boots. Her hair was a controlled mess, her lips still slightly swollen from yesterday’s stress and this morning’s coffee. Cigarette between her fingers, lighter in her pocket.

She looked like the worst version of Helena Bonham Carter in a student adaptation of Fight Club — but, damn it, there was something whole about it. No illusions. No masks. Even if it was all in smoke.

She spotted Imogen instantly. It was impossible not to.

She was standing by the entrance to the old college courtyard, where gold leaves fell from the trees like a slightly off imitation of a film about Oxford. Bright, as if painted: a terracotta sweater, a red plaid skirt, a mustard-yellow coat. Hair the colour of copper in the sun. She was scrolling through her phone.

Too cosy to be real. Like a mug of cocoa in your hands when you’re soaked to the bone.

Clarke approached, took a drag, exhaled to the side.

“I was a complete asshole yesterday,” she said without looking up.

Imogen glanced up from her phone, one brow raised.

“Oh, is this you apologising?”

Clarke nodded.

“It’s just… I was so hungover that if the Pope himself had come up to bless me, I would’ve told him, ‘fuck off, Holy Father.’”

Imogen smiled, softly, without malice.

“Impressive scale. I think I can handle it. Besides, you didn’t even call me a witch.”

“That’s because you’re too good to be a witch,” Clarke pressed her lips together, flicking ash. “You’re like a… cosy curse. Soft. With cinnamon. And a thermos.”

Imogen gave a small snort, stepped closer, pulled a thermos from her coat pocket, and handed it over.

“Warm up before you freeze to death in your funeral goth get-up.”

Clarke took it, sipped — the tea was sharp, burning, like ginger and cardamom. And somehow — a little like home.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “For not pushing. Not prying.”

Imogen looked at her intently, almost through her.

“Because I know you’ll tell me everything when you’re ready. Or never. And that’s fine too.”

They stood in silence. Leaves rustled under the feet of passersby. Gulls circled above the university.

Clarke stubbed out her cigarette, shoved her hands into her pockets.

“Come on, let’s get to the lecture. Maybe today I won’t get kicked out for sarcasm and existing.”

“I’ll bet you a pound you last at least thirty minutes,” Imogen smirked.

“Generous,” Clarke scoffed. “I’ll bet against myself.”

They walked side by side. Through the campus. Over asphalt littered with autumn.

And for the first time in two days — Clarke didn’t feel like she was drowning.

The lecture hall was almost full when Clarke, a little out of breath, shoved the door open and slipped inside. Row after row — taken. Every head was already turned toward the board, where the professor was explaining something with the kind of enthusiasm better suited for a different morning. She scanned the room quickly and — of course — the only free seat left was next to Lexa.

“What an honour,” Clarke muttered under her breath. “Is the seat next to the queen still open to mere mortals?”

Lexa didn’t even glance up.

“Don’t overestimate yourself. It’s free because no one wants to sit next to you.”

“Charming as ever,” Clarke snorted, pulling out her notebook. “Although… after that photo yesterday, you could’ve been a little kinder. I am your new PR nightmare, after all.”

Lexa froze for a split second, her pen stalling in mid-air.

“I had nothing to do with the post,” she said at last, clipped and restrained. “If you think otherwise — that’s your prerogative.”

“I think you knew exactly how it would play out,” Clarke hissed, leaning in slightly. “And maybe you didn’t hold the camera, but you were in the room, Lexa. You. Were. There.”

Lexa’s eyes flashed — just for a second, almost imperceptible. But Clarke felt it like a jab.

“I didn’t care then, Clarke. I still don’t,” Lexa said evenly, though her voice was pulled taut. “You show up out of nowhere, reeking of alcohol, with a fake smile and the eyes of someone who’s long since lost herself — and you blame others for your own fall?”

“Ah. Now that sounds like you,” Clarke murmured with a crooked smirk. “Lexa Ashborn. The girl who always has the right answer. Always stands there like a statue while everyone else breaks.”

Silence dropped thick between them. Up front, the professor droned on, somewhere laptops rustled, someone sipped coffee.

Lexa slowly turned her head toward her, and in her eyes was something… awkwardly human.

“And you,” she murmured, “seem to have already broken. Without even noticing.”

Clarke froze. Her jaw ached from the tension. Lexa was still looking at her, cutting clean through. Emotions surged, pressing under her ribs. She couldn’t — wouldn’t — let Lexa do this again. Break her. Humiliate her. Leave her exposed.

“Go to hell, Lexa,” she hissed, louder than she should have. “At least I don’t live under a glass dome. You pretend you’re perfect, but you can’t even feel yourself. You’re… you’re dead inside.”

Heads turned. Silence.

The professor looked up from the board.

“Excuse me, Miss Griffin,” his voice was almost weary. “If you’re unable to behave like an adult, please be so kind as to leave the lecture.”

“With pleasure,” Clarke rasped. She got to her feet, grabbed her bag, and walked out without so much as another glance at Lexa.

The door shut behind her with a muffled echo.
Clarke stopped in the corridor, staring at nothing.

Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like they could hear it in the next classroom. Her hands trembled. Anger still pulsed hot in her veins, but beneath it something else was rising. Emptiness. That disgusting, sticky feeling like everything inside had been burned out. She’d lost it again. Right in front of Lexa. Right in front of everyone.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

She ran a hand over her face, lingering over her eyes as if she could wipe the whole scene off them.

Why do I do this? Why is it every time Lexa’s around, I…
She didn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t.

It was too easy to pin it all on Lexa. Too convenient. The truth? She hated how easily Lexa saw her. How she looked under Clarke’s skin and saw everything: the fear, the anger, the pain, the weakness. Especially the weakness.
Clarke clenched her teeth.

I’m not like that. I’m not weak. I’m just… tired.

She dropped her gaze, inhaled slowly.
They’d collided again. Struck each other with words sharp enough to leave a ringing inside.

And still… something had wavered in Lexa’s voice.

So she’s not entirely dead inside, Clarke thought. For at least a second.

Clarke took a step forward. She didn’t know where she was going. She just walked.
Away from the lecture hall. Away from Lexa. Away from the version of herself that always managed to ruin everything.

The corridors felt especially empty. Grey walls, echoing footsteps — everything grated on her nerves. Clarke gripped the strap of her bag as if it might somehow keep her afloat.

Imogen was waiting by the entrance, just as she’d promised. Leaning against the wall, notebook in one hand and a paper cup of coffee in the other, she looked almost surreally calm — as if she belonged to a different world, one Clarke hadn’t lived in for a long time.

“Right on time,” Clarke said, stopping in front of her. Her voice still shook with anger, but now exhaustion was starting to seep through.

Imogen looked at her quietly.

“You’ve got… something on your cheek,” she said, reaching out a finger. “Looks like a pen mark.”

Clarke wiped her face with her wrist.

“Whatever. The important thing is I lost. Bet’s over, congratulations.”

She dug into her pocket and pulled out a coin.

“One pound. For not lasting even a couple of hours before I exploded. Here.”

Imogen took the coin, turned it over between her fingers.

“I’ll think about where to invest,” she said with a small smile. “Though honestly, I was rooting for you.”

Clarke laughed — rough, sharp.

“Well, now you know what it’s like to bet on a horse you know will lose.”

“Depends who’s riding it,” Imogen said, holding her gaze. “And you do know how to stay in the saddle, Clarke.”

After talking to Imogen, Clarke walked aimlessly, turned a corner, passed an old stone wall, and found herself by a small café tucked into a semi-basement. Her thoughts drifted like cigarette smoke — slow, heavy, scattering in all directions.

She lit up, inhaled, clenched her teeth.

And then her gaze snagged. Through the fogged-up window, between reflections and passing shadows, she saw a familiar silhouette.

Oliver Wren.

He was sitting by the window with a cup of coffee and a laptop. Leaning over the keyboard, headphones in, completely absorbed in whatever he was doing.

Clarke dropped her cigarette before it had burned out. Crushed it under her heel.

A moment later, the café door slammed open.

“So, how does it feel?” she said with a vicious little smirk as she strode up to his table. “How does it feel to write your first big headline: ‘Broken Clarke Griffin. The Story of a Fall’?”

Oliver looked up, froze. He didn’t even have time to say a word before Clarke snapped the lid of his laptop shut, nearly catching his fingers.

“Congratulations. You’ve made it. Hundreds of thousands of views, comments, emojis, Twitter threads tearing it apart. You’re the bloody hero of the day!”

“Clarke, I…” he looked genuinely thrown off. “Listen. It’s not… I didn’t think it would blow up like this.”

“Seriously?” She arched an eyebrow. “You took a picture of me in a moment when I wasn’t myself. And you posted it. Without asking. Without… without the slightest bit of respect.”

“You looked…” he faltered. “Beautiful. Simple. Real. I thought it would just be a good photograph. I didn’t know it would become… well. That photo. So many reposts. I didn’t mean…”

He sounded sincere, and Clarke could feel it. The anger started to ebb, leaving behind a cold emptiness. She sank into the chair across from him, staring at the table.

“Forget it,” she said wearily. “You just took a shot. I’m the one who gave them the excuse.”

He was silent. Jaw tight, looking at her as if he wished he could undo it all.

“I can take it down,” he said at last. “Everyone who reposted it—screw them—but on my end, I—”

“Don’t,” she cut him off. Her voice was steady, almost flat. “Leave it. That’s me too. The one they all saw.”

He nodded slowly.
And for the first time since she’d walked in, there was no pity or guilt in his eyes—only respect.

Chapter Text

The early morning smelled of hay, scrubbed wood, and leather. The air in the arena was cool and dry, as if the night was in no hurry to leave. Lexa sat in the saddle, her posture a picture of perfection. August moved beneath her, steady, almost regal. Every step struck like a metronome—measured, restrained, flawless.

“Transition to canter, through the center, then straight into a serpentine,” Erich Ritter’s voice carried clearly, without force.

Lexa didn’t answer. She simply did it. Shifted in the saddle—barely perceptible—and August, as if at the snap of a finger, broke into a soft, flowing canter, knowing exactly what was expected of him. The serpentine—broken, difficult, requiring precision like mathematics. Lexa guided the stallion almost telepathically: every turn, every bend of his body a continuation of her own thought. She was the control center. The heart of the machine.

Erich watched from the ground, gloved hands clasped behind his back.

“Too sharp on the second curve. Soften your right leg. August is compensating, but you’re not made of iron. Give a little more.”

Lexa gave a barely noticeable nod. The next movement was softer. Closer to perfect.

Somewhere up in the gallery, a camera clicked—probably local magazine journalists. Or someone from the federation. Lexa didn’t care. Right now, there was nothing but rhythm. She was in the saddle. Everything else existed outside these walls.

“Repeat the diagonal. Then a volte to the left. Change of lead—immediately after. Precisely.”

Lexa pressed with her thighs, shifted her torso. August responded like a tightened string. Volte. Change. Movements drilled into muscle memory. No need to think—the body knew.

Her breathing was even, through her nose. Thoughts filtered away on their own, like dust in a sunbeam. Today, there was no space for distractions. Only the line, the impulse, and the iron beneath her skin.

And yet, she thought.

About the tournament.

About medals.

About how little room there was for mistakes. How many bets had been placed on her. Parents. Team. Federation. Investors.

“That’s enough,” Erich said when they completed the final circuit. “Walk him out. Give the reins.”

August dropped into a walk, and only then did Lexa allow herself a short breath. Damp strands of hair clung to her temple. She pushed them under her helmet, ran her fingers along the stallion’s neck.

“He’s going well.” Erich came closer, looking first at the horse, then at her. “He trusts you.”

“And I trust him,” Lexa replied evenly.

“Then you need one thing—don’t get in his way. Sometimes you try to control too much. Even what works by itself. Let go.”

Lexa lifted her chin slightly. The corner of her mouth twitched—half a smirk, half irritation.

“Control is safety,” she said.

Erich gave a short laugh.

“Safety is an illusion. Especially a meter and a half off the ground, when the only thing between you and it is a horse’s back.”

Lexa stayed silent. He was right, as always—and still she knew: if you didn’t keep everything under control, it would all fall apart. She’d seen it happen. She wouldn’t let it happen again.

“The tournament’s in two weeks,” he reminded her. “Final refinements, and that’s it. You’re ready. So is he.”

“I know,” Lexa said calmly.

“Ride like that at the tournament, and the judges will be torn between nines and tens.”

“It would do them good to tear,” Lexa replied, dismounting. She ran her hand along August’s neck. “I want to add another element. Take the diagonal with a lead change and a volte, like last week.”

“You sure?”

She only nodded.

He sighed.

“Still trying to prove you’re not just strong. The strongest.”

Lexa looked at him, her gaze sharp, cold, almost detached.

“I’m not trying,” she said evenly. “I already proved it. Now I just have to repeat it.”

Harding shook his head.

“When was the last time you slept properly?”

“I don’t need much sleep.”

“And some people don’t need this much solitude.”

Lexa didn’t answer.

“Walk him out in the paddock, I’ll brief the others.”

He left, and Lexa remained. For a few seconds she just sat there, staring into the bright open space of the arena like an empty screen, and for a moment a face flashed in her mind—ungraspable, unsettling, with a split lip and eyes like deep water. A voice came back to her, breaking on You’re dead inside. And the look. And—

No. She pushed it away.

Lexa straightened, gave a short nudge of the reins, and they moved off at a slow walk.

Training was over.

Feelings—later.

The locker room was empty. Only the sound of water dripping down tiled walls and the crumple of an empty energy bar wrapper in the trash bin hinted someone had been here recently.

Lexa removed her helmet, shook out her hair. The heat and exertion left only a fine sheen of sweat at her temples. She was unfastening her gloves when her phone buzzed, lighting up on the wooden bench.

From: British Equestrian Federation

Subject: Olympic Placement Confirmation

Her fingers froze for a moment. Then—click.

Dear Ms. Ashborn,  

Following the results of the qualifying stage and the decision of the National Olympic Committee, you are officially included in the main roster of the Great Britain equestrian team for the upcoming Olympic Games.  

Additional information on training schedules and PR requirements will be provided within the week.  

Best regards,

British Equestrian Federation

Lexa didn’t smile. Her expression didn’t change. Only a quiet exhale—soundless, as if releasing the last of the tension from her lungs.

Expected. Earned.

She turned off the screen, folded her gloves, changed her boots. Each movement precise, efficient, as always. Control.

On her way out, she cast a brief glance at herself in the mirror by the door. Still the same: focused, hard, impenetrable. Victory was only a stage. There was more to come.

A strip of bright light slid across the floor from the glass doors. She stepped outside.

The yard was empty, except for footsteps and a voice coming from the far side of the lot.

“Miss Ashborn! Just a minute!”

Lexa turned. A man with a camera slung over his shoulder and a press badge around his neck was hurrying toward her.

“David Fleming, Equestrian Today. I know you don’t give interviews without a request, but just one question. How do you comment on your inclusion in the Olympic team?”

Lexa stopped by her car, not opening the door. The sun beat down on the asphalt, glaring off the black windows. She looked at him evenly, calmly.

“I don’t comment on what hasn’t started yet.”

“But you understand this is a historic moment. The youngest rider on the team, your first return since the U.S., the whole country—”

“David,” she interrupted, her voice level, “if you really follow this sport, you know: no medal is won before you’ve stepped into the ring. This is not the moment for grand statements.”

She got into the car and shut the door before he could respond. The engine hummed softly as she shifted into reverse and eased out of the lot.

Her face stayed calm, but her hand on the wheel tightened slightly.

Too much attention. Too many expectations.

Too much noise.

And she wasn’t here for the noise.

She was here to win.

London. Evening.

The Ashborn study was lit softly but severely—light from the desk lamp spilling over the dark, lacquered table. No unnecessary details: books in precise order, folders neatly stacked, a silver frame with a photograph of Lexa in full dress uniform, medal on her chest. Not a single one of her and Clarke.

“Congratulations,” her father said. His voice was dry, almost accountant-like. “Although it was expected.”

Lexa sat upright, still in her training clothes—she hadn’t bothered to change. Her hair was damp from the shower, but her face was composed, without a single crack.

“Thank you,” she replied curtly.

Her mother glanced over her glasses. She was holding a tablet, scrolling with one finger.

“They’ll confirm the broadcast tomorrow. BBC One, morning segment. National interview. Do you agree?”

“Is it mandatory?” Lexa didn’t lift her head, only a faint tension at her shoulders.

“Everything related to your place on the team is part of the overall contract,” her father said evenly. “And you know PR is an inseparable part of the sport. Especially when it comes to investments.”

“Dad, I’m not here for investments.”

“Of course,” he nodded smoothly. “You’re here for the medal. And we’re here to make sure that medal is not just a personal victory, but a profitable opportunity. That’s how it’s always been.”

Her mother set the tablet down.

“You don’t have to be warm. Don’t smile if you don’t want to. But answer clearly. Show discipline. Restraint. Strategy. Your advantage is control.”

“And not a word about Clarke,” her father added, his tone unchanged. “The photos are still floating around in the press. Let them rot. But not from your mouth.”

Lexa was silent for several long seconds. Then she stood.

“Understood.”

“Lexa,” her mother called as she reached the door. “Your father and I have only one demand. Victory is not the goal. Victory is the instrument. Don’t forget that.”

She nodded, without turning back.

She stepped into the corridor. The door shut behind her with a dull thud, as if cutting off the oxygen.

Only then did Lexa allow herself to stop, pressing her forehead against the cold wall. She drew a deep breath.

Victory — an instrument.

Image — a contract.

Emotion — weakness.

And yet, something moved inside her.

Something stubborn, alive.

And it refused to obey.

Morning. BBC One Studio. Live Broadcast.

The studio was cold despite the stage lights. Lexa sat in a perfectly tailored Alexander McQueen blazer, her hair sleekly pulled back, her makeup barely there but flawless. The standard for an “heiress to an empire”: not to entice, but to inspire confidence.

“So, Lexa Ashborn, equestrian star,” the host smiled, glancing at her cue card. “Congratulations on your recent inclusion in the main Olympic team for Great Britain. What does it feel like to know you’ll be representing your country on the international stage?”

“It’s a responsibility,” Lexa said calmly, her voice low and precise. “I’ve been preparing for this most of my life.”

“Since childhood, seriously?”

“Since I was five, to be exact. First competition at seven. First major fracture at nine. And since then—only higher standards.”

The host gave a small laugh, though something guarded flickered across her face.

“You’re known for being incredibly disciplined. Strategic. Your training took place not only in the UK but also in the US?”

“Yes. I trained with national coaches in Colorado. The system’s different there, the approach harsher. It was useful.”

“And why did you return?”

A brief pause. Lexa tilted her head slightly.

“I’ve always represented Great Britain. Even in reserve—I was part of this team. Coming back was only a matter of time. And strategy.”

“You’re often called the ice princess. Is that an image you chose deliberately?”

“I chose results,” Lexa said evenly. “The rest is editorial work.”

Laughter in the studio. The sound engineer cues applause.

“And yet, Lexa, I can’t help but ask. This past year, you’ve been in the spotlight not only as an athlete. The tabloid press has discussed your relationships, controversies, including those involving your former youth team colleague, Clarke Griffin…”

Lexa’s expression shifted—just barely. A fleeting moment, and the mask was back.

“I don’t comment on rumors. Especially the kind built on cropped frames and assumptions.”

“You’re not friends?”

“We’re both athletes. We’ve had competitions in common, a shared history. But sport isn’t a place for drama. It’s a workplace.”

An awkward pause. The host’s smile tightened.

“Well, Lexa, we wish you the best of luck on your road to the Olympics. You are without doubt one of the most promising figures in British sport. We hope this path is smooth.”

“It’s never smooth,” Lexa replied. “But that’s no reason to stop.”

The cameras went dark. Applause. The director gestured to wrap.

Lexa stood. Wordless. And walked toward the studio exit.

Behind her— a trail: the scent of polished leather and bitterness.

USA, Colorado. Two Years Ago

The open arena was steeped in silence. The air was brittle as glass—dry, thin, with the metallic taste of snow already settled on the mountaintops. Colorado didn’t give you a choice—you either hardened, or you broke.

Lexa moved in the saddle as if she were part of August. He went in an extended trot, each stride the result of minute weight shifts, the faint tension of her calves. Beneath her—honed power, trained in precision. No passion, no improvisation. Only control.

Now, as the sun tilted toward the horizon, she was finishing the session. Sand crunched under the hooves. August moved perfectly, like a Swiss mechanism.

At the edge of the arena stood Anya—in a gray parka, narrow-faced, sharp-cheekboned, with eyes like ice.

“You ride like the whole of Europe’s chasing you,” she said in crisp English with a faint Russian accent.

Lexa slowed the gelding and came to a halt.

“My family is behind me.”

Anya smirked. She held a training plan on a tablet and a metal flask of coffee.

“Softer through your core,” Anya’s voice cut from the rail. “Right now you’re not a rider, you’re a skeleton on a stick.”

Lexa bit her tongue. Collected the horse. Shifted into shoulder-in. August responded willingly, almost with relief. And yet—it was still cold mechanics, as always. She worked without feeling.

“Better. But you still ride like they’re judging you, not the pair of you. Your back isn’t a shield. It’s a language.”

“I’ve been judged my whole life,” Lexa shot back, never breaking rhythm.

Anya didn’t reply. She stood, leaning against the metal rail, watching with that habitual detachment. Upright posture, knitted hat, Russian severity. She was one of those who didn’t touch, didn’t pity, didn’t ask outright. And that was exactly why Lexa stayed with her.

Thirty minutes later, after finishing transitions and a series of leg-yields, Lexa dismounted and led August toward the stables without a word. Anya walked beside her, hands in her pockets, her stride precise, almost masculine.

“Good today. Better than Friday. Less control, more feel. But you’re still thinking before you breathe.”

“Habit,” Lexa replied. “It’s safer that way here.”

“Tomorrow’s an early start,” Anya said. “They’ve put you in the first three for the exhibition. Profile test. Not just technique—expression. The horse can do it, but you hold him back.”

“He’s too sensitive.”

“He’s a mirror. You’re frosted glass.”

Lexa stopped sharply.

“Just say you think I’m not emotional enough.”

Anya raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not talking about emotion. I’m talking about truth. You sit in the saddle like it’s armor. It’s meant to hold you, not hide you.”

They reached the exit. The air smelled of manure, cold metal, and the cottony scent from the stalls.

“Did you dream of England?” Anya asked suddenly. “Last night.”

Lexa froze. Glanced at her from the corner of her eye.

“I’ve never told you about Clarke.”

“You haven’t. And you think your control is made of steel. But, Lexa—I’m Russian. We know how to listen to pauses.”

“It doesn’t change anything,” Lexa said quietly.

Silence hung between them like snow in the air. Autumn here smelled of hay and ice.

“She stayed there,” Lexa said at last. “Like everything I can’t afford. I made my choice. The past doesn’t have a visa for the Olympic team.”

“And do you have one?”

Lexa turned away.

“I will.”

Anya nodded.

“Then don’t forget what you’re doing this for. Or who you’re trying to erase.”

She left first, leaving Lexa alone—alone with the horse, the shadow in her chest, and fingers trembling on the reins.

***

The room was dark, except for the cold blue glow of her phone screen.

Lexa lay on her back, one knee bent, the other leg dangling off the edge of the bed. Her hair was a mess, her tank top rumpled under her ribcage. August was asleep in the stables, Anya had gone out for an evening session with another rider. The house was silent. And yet, inside Lexa’s head, there was an unbearable roar.

She scrolled slowly. Her fingertips touched the glass as if it might burn her.

Old photos—blurred silhouettes, fan comments, congratulations.

And—there she was.

“Ashborn takes the cup. The future of British dressage.” The headline cut like a blade.

In the photo—her, radiant, in a lacquered helmet, holding the cup aloft. In front—a swarm of reporters.

In the background—medics, white dust, a bay mare collapsing to her knees.

Valkyrie.

She couldn’t look any longer. She flipped the phone facedown, but it didn’t help—the image had already burned itself under her eyelids.

Lexa ran her palm over her face.

It was hot. And tight. Even with the windows open.

She remembered the sound: the jangle of the bit, the jerk of the reins, a cry—someone calling for medics. Then—silence.

And there had been no applause, not even when she stepped onto the podium.

Her walk toward the trophy—like walking on ice.

As if her legs didn’t belong to her.

Windsor had been a turning point, but not the kind she’d chosen.

Yes, she had won. But she remembered all too well what it had cost.

She knew exactly who she’d left behind.

Clarke.

A name that still clenched something inside her. Even here. Even after two years.

Even after every attempt to throw her out of her memory.

Lexa reached for the phone, turned the screen back on.

Opened the messenger. Found the contact.

1. Griffin

The icon—old, with a blurred background. The last message—two years ago.

Unsents: “I’m sorry.”

Now she started typing a new one.

“How are you?”

Delete.

“I never wanted it to turn out this way.”

Delete.

“I still…”

Freeze.

She stared at the text box for a long time, then simply turned off the screen.

Too late.

Too much between them.

Too dangerous to go back.

“You’re not asleep?” — the voice behind her came sharply, without a knock.

Lexa flinched.

Anya stood in the doorway. Just the same—black leggings, hair slicked back, holding a sports bag as if she’d just come back from a war.

“No,” Lexa replied quietly, sitting up on the bed.

Anya arched a brow and stepped inside.

“Reading the news?”

Lexa nodded silently.

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“Lie,” Anya said, setting her bag down in the corner and coming closer. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“I didn’t break any rules,” Lexa said flatly.

“That doesn’t make it easier, does it?”

Silence.

Anya sat on the edge of the bed. No hugs, no extra words. Just presence—direct, as always.

“You’re not ready to let her go yet,” she said evenly. “But you don’t have to do that now. You just have to keep riding forward.”

“Even if everything behind me is on fire?”

“Especially then.”

Lexa bit her lip, staring at the black phone screen. And she didn’t know where her road was leading now—forward, or back to the exact point where everything had cracked.

Lexa wasn’t asleep.

The clock read 2:46 a.m., but sleep never came. It didn’t even try.

The bed felt too flat. The blanket—too heavy. The air—too still.

Her thoughts burned like heated wire, coiling under her skin, under her ribs, under her heart.

Clarke.

The photo.

Valkyrie.

She lay there staring at the ceiling. In her chest pulsed a dull tension—not pain, but something close. Like holding your breath underwater for too long.

At some point, she just got up.

Barefoot.

Without turning on the light.

Passing through the kitchen, she grabbed a jacket from the hook. In the pocket—a dried carrot, left from her last ride. Her fingers closed around it automatically.

The world outside was dark, fresh, and damp, as if after rain.

The Colorado stars were so bright they looked sharp.

The grass was covered in frost. The air crackled with every step.

The stables stood a hundred meters from the house. Lexa walked the narrow gravel path without hurry.

As if it had already happened before. As if she had done this hundreds of times.

She probably had.

The old wooden building greeted her with warmth: shavings, hay, the breath of horses.

Her heart eased a little at last.

Here, everything made sense.

Here, nothing needed explaining.

Lexa passed the sleepy horses. One flicked its ears, another snorted, but none were startled.

She had always come at night—quiet, familiar.

Only August recognized her instantly.

He rose when she entered. Came to the rail, nudged her palm with his nose.

“Sorry for waking you,” she whispered, stroking his cheek.

August lowered his head, pressed closer.

Lexa stepped into the stall. Sat right down on the straw beside him.

He shifted softly, carefully, as if he sensed—she needed space, but not solitude.

“I did everything right,” she said quietly. “Back then, in Windsor. Everything right.”

She knew it was a lie. August did too.

Lexa leaned back against the wall, tipped her head back.

“It’s just that I…”

The words stuck in her throat.

She couldn’t form them. Couldn’t even think them all the way through.

August rested his muzzle on her shoulder.

Slowly, with weight. As if he were the one holding her head up.

“Why is she still in me?” Lexa breathed. “Why even now?”

There was no answer. Only the sound of a horse’s breath. Only the warmth of a living body beside her.

She sat like that for a long time. How long—she didn’t know.

Maybe an hour. Maybe the whole night.

Outside, dawn began to break. Gray light slipped through the gaps in the boards. A faint chill touched her fingers. Her shoulders ached.

Lexa rose. Shook the straw from her hair, straightened her jacket.

Kissed August on the nose.

“Thank you.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at her. In that way only horses could. As if he knew everything, but would never judge.

She stepped outside into the pale dawn.

Inside, it still hurt.

But it was easier to breathe.

***

The kitchen was still steeped in shadow when Lexa walked in.

The stove was silent, the light above the sink the only source of warmth in the space—soft, yellow, making the air feel thick, almost viscous.

Anya was already there.

She sat at the table in sweatpants, her dark hair gathered carelessly at the back of her head. One hand cradled a mug of tea, the other held a newspaper, though she seemed to be reading it more out of habit than interest.

On the table—oatmeal, black coffee, a bowl of sliced apple.

“Morning,” she said, not lifting her gaze from the page.

“Mm.”

Lexa went to the cupboard, took her favorite mug—a white one with a worn rim. She poured water over instant coffee without waiting for the kettle to boil.

Her movements were mechanical. Careful. Tired.

Anya looked at her over the rim of her glasses. Watched for several long seconds.

Then neatly folded the paper and set it aside.

“You didn’t sleep again,” she said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

Lexa shrugged.

“Just didn’t feel like it.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Don’t start.”

“I wasn’t starting.”

Silence. Only the hum of the refrigerator and the distant wind outside.

Lexa sat on a stool opposite her, elbows braced on the table, staring into her cup as if there might be something in it besides black liquid and her own reflection.

“You were in the stables,” Anya said again.

This time, Lexa didn’t answer.

“You smell like August. And hay.”

Anya’s tone was calm, even gentle. Not reproach—just fact.

“He’s better than most,” Lexa said at last, quietly.

“I know.”

Anya took a sip of tea, her eyes never leaving her.

“Want to talk?”

Lexa looked at her. Her gaze was sharp, a little irritated, but tired.

“And if I say no?”

Anya nodded.

“Then I’ll drop it. But I’ll still sit here and eat with you in silence. Like an old Russian grandmother. Just without the pies.”

Lexa gave a short huff of amusement. For a second.

“I just need time. I’m fine.”

“Are you trying to convince yourself, or me?”

Lexa exhaled. Deeply. Laced her fingers behind her head and looked out the window.

“I saw an article yesterday. With a photo. From the Windsor competition.”

Silence.

“Clarke… she—” Lexa stopped. The words lodged in her throat.

Anya waited. Not a sound. Only breathing.

That was how she always listened—no advice, no interruptions, just presence. Sometimes, that was enough.

“She fell,” Lexa finally said. “And I… won. Everyone was shouting, congratulating me, I was holding the cup—but all I could do was watch them carry her off the arena.”

“And?”

“I didn’t feel joy. Only… emptiness.”

“Because you didn’t win where you wanted to?”

“Because she wasn’t the one I wanted to beat. Not like that.”

Anya gave a small nod.

“That’s what growing up is, girl. Realizing the world isn’t just gold, medals, and the right answers.”

She paused, then added:

“Do you miss her?”

Lexa didn’t answer right away. She stared at her cup for a long time. Then—out the window.

Finally, she exhaled:

“I don’t know. Her? Or myself, when I was with her.”

Silence.

Anya pushed her empty bowl aside, stood, and set a light hand on Lexa’s shoulder.

“Tomorrow we work on the new pirouette sequences. Noon. Get some sleep tonight, at least.”

“All right.”

“I’m serious, Lexa. If you go to the stables at three in the morning again—I’ll throw you out.”

“Out of the house?”

“No, out of August’s stall. He needs his rest too.”

Lexa smiled—for the first time that morning.

“Fine. You win.”

Anya left, leaving behind the scent of green tea and the steady weight of her presence.

Lexa stayed behind.

But it didn’t feel quite as dark inside her as it had a couple of hours ago.

Chapter Text

Tournament Complex, Colorado.

The floodlights were already on along the stands, casting long shadows over the freshly groomed arena sand. The air smelled of horse sweat, pine sap, and something sweet drifting from the food court—roasted almonds, maybe.
Lexa pulled off her gloves, shoved them into her pocket, and nodded at the last journalist, offering her most perfunctory half-smile.

“Yes, August felt confident,” she told the microphone. “No, the victory didn’t come as a surprise.”

A couple of flashes. A couple of thank you for your comments.
That was it—she was done. She wanted coffee and silence. Or a glass of red. Or just Anya—and to disappear.

She had already turned to leave when someone stepped into her path, as if on purpose.

“You’re impressive.”

The voice was female, slightly husky, without the feigned awe—more laced with irony.
Lexa looked up.
Standing before her was a tall, brown-eyed woman with a mane of rich chestnut hair neatly pulled into a ponytail. Dark coat, no accreditation badge—which meant she wasn’t staff or press. A stranger.

“You’ve mistaken me for someone else,” Lexa said coldly, stepping to the side.

But the woman didn’t move. She smiled. Confidently, a little boldly.

“No, I know exactly who you are. Lexa Ashborn. Tournament winner, the official pride of the British Federation. Though, oddly enough, you live in Colorado.”

Lexa arched a brow.

“You follow equestrian sports news? How charming. I hope you’re not one of those fans who ask for an autograph on a helmet.”

“Fans?” the woman laughed. “Not exactly. I’m a little too old for that.”

“Obviously.”

“Evangelina,” she said, offering her hand. “Armitage. I’m not competing here—just supporting a friend from our team. We do show jumping.”

Lexa ignored the hand.

“My condolences.”

Evangelina didn’t withdraw it right away; then, with a faint smirk, let it drop into the air.

“Oh, so dressage looks down on show jumping? Or is it just you—on everyone?”

“I just prefer dinner with my coach to pushy attempts at conversation.”

“Then I won’t keep you. I only wanted to say—you really were good today. The way you sat in the saddle… convincing.”

Sarcasm was her native tongue, and Lexa was almost surprised at how deftly she caught it. She hadn’t crossed the line, hadn’t fawned. But she also hadn’t walked away when ignored.

“Thank you for the expert opinion,” Lexa replied, her voice laced with venom.

“My pleasure, Lexa Ashborn. I hope we meet again.”

And with that, Evangelina turned and walked off—into the deepening sunset, as if she hadn’t expected to be remembered at all.

Lexa watched her go longer than she should have.

Colorado Springs. Two days after the tournament. US Equestrian Team Training Center.

The crunch of snow under her boots was thin and dry, as if the air and the earth had made a silent pact not to disturb the stillness of these mountains. Warmth was already seeping through the frosty air, but ice still lingered in the shade. Lexa walked along the path from the indoor arena to the main building, where the offices, locker rooms, café, and the inflated press-conference hall were located.

Training had ended an hour ago. August stood in his stall under a blanket, well-fed and tired. Anya had stayed behind—talking to the vet about some new feed. Lexa only wanted coffee. That was all.

She stepped inside and immediately felt a strange tension—as if the air here was slightly denser than outside. There were few people: the receptionist at the desk, an elderly trainer flipping through a tablet, and—

“Well, finally.”

A voice with a faint New York accent—familiar and unwelcome.

Lexa’s face didn’t change, though something tightened inside her.

“Persistent.”

“That wasn’t even difficult,” Evangeline said, leaning her elbow against the windowsill and lazily twirling car keys. “It’s surprising how few people here have proper posture.”

“That’s how you pick me out of a crowd? By posture?”

“By posture, by your face, by the way you look at the world like it owes you something.”

Lexa walked past her without slowing.

“I’m sure you’ll write a great poem about it.”

“I’m betting more on a slow-burn ice novel.” Evangeline turned and followed, casually, as if it were her usual role to escort haughty British women down the halls of someone else’s training facility. “Didn’t know you came here in the mornings.”

“Didn’t know?” Lexa stopped briefly, turning to her. “So you really were looking for me. Charming. Is stalking a new sport?”

“Better than dressage. At least you have to move forward.”

Lexa narrowed her eyes, but her lips twitched almost imperceptibly. Not a smile—more like its ghost.

“And you, I see, found something to do, since you’re not in the jumping ring.”

“My friend left. I stayed a few more days—my trainer arranged for me to use the local facilities.”

“What friend?” Lexa asked without thinking.

“Oh, so you are curious. Nice.”

“More like I don’t like it when people lie.”

“I’m not lying. I just don’t think I have to say everything right away.”

They reached the glass doors of the café. Lexa was about to turn away, but Evangeline beat her to it, pulling the door open and almost theatrically inviting her inside.

“Let me buy you a coffee. As thanks for putting up with me for a whole five minutes.”

“I prefer to pay for myself. It prevents… expectations.”

“Not even something as simple as ‘thank you’?”

“Especially that.”

They stepped inside. The air smelled of cinnamon and roasted coffee beans. Lexa ordered a black coffee, no sugar. Evangeline—vanilla latte. The contrast between them was almost comical.

They sat by the window. Outside, a gelding in a rug was being hand-walked—one of the show jumpers working on in-hand dressage.

“You know,” Evangeline said, looking out the window, “you’re always trying to be cold. Detached. But you try so hard, it’s almost touching.”

Lexa took a sip, set her cup down.

“And you’re always trying to figure me out. And you don’t realize you can’t.”

“Don’t rush to conclusions. I’m just curious. We’re both riders, both from… not simple families, both here for a reason. Isn’t that enough?”

“Enough for what?”

“Well, for example…” Evangeline leaned slightly over the table. “Not to part like two strangers in an airport.”

Lexa said nothing. Just looked at her. Long. Carefully. As if weighing how far she’d allow this woman to go. And whether it was worth it at all.

No answer came.

Evangeline didn’t look away. She seemed to leave the silences deliberately—silences that made others uncomfortable. Just not her. Not Lexa.

Lexa answered slowly, leaning back in her chair:

“I’m not a passerby.”

“No?” A flicker of genuine curiosity crossed Evangeline’s voice. “Then what are you?”

“I’m the person you’d better not try to catch in an airport. Especially if you don’t know how to let go.”

Evangeline smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. It was theatrical, a little too rehearsed—but beautiful. She was beautiful: precise, assured, in every movement.

“God, you always talk like your words should immediately become a LinkedIn quote.”

Lexa let out a short laugh. She caught herself and immediately pulled back—almost ashamed.

She was infuriating. Infuriating beyond measure. And yet Lexa kept listening. Kept watching. Kept waiting. Why? Not for compliments. Certainly not for vanilla lattes.

“I just prefer clarity,” Lexa said.

“Oh, you are a master at that,” Evangeline leaned on the table, her voice carrying a note almost like… care? “Except clarity doesn’t always mean honesty. Sometimes it’s just a way to keep your distance.”

Lexa lifted her gaze to her. Brown eyes—warm, amused, with that particular glint women have when they’re used to getting attention. She knew exactly how to have these conversations.

Lexa didn’t. Not after everything. Not after Clarke.

“You don’t know me,” she said quietly, almost tiredly. “Don’t pretend you do.”

Evangeline tilted her head.

“But I know how to listen.”

“You know how to push. Not the same thing.”

“And you know how to run.”

Lexa silently picked up her cup, drained the last of her coffee. Bitter, slightly cooled—she could feel the taste settling on her palate, grounding her.

“If you think this is getting closer,” she said at last, “you probably confuse stubbornness with attachment.”

“And you probably confuse being closed-off with being strong.”

Their eyes met then—not with challenge or skepticism, but in some fleeting space between exhaustion and… acknowledgment. The smallest trace. Almost invisible.

Lexa felt that familiar weight in her chest, the one she usually shed in the saddle. August understood silence. This woman did not. And yet she stayed. And that was even more irritating.

“You know what’s strange?” Evangeline asked, sitting back again and sounding light, as if nothing had happened. “You’re not just closed-off. It’s like you’ve barricaded yourself inside a castle. And now I suddenly want to see what’s behind the walls. Curiosity. Purely sport.”

Lexa arched a brow.

“You’re naive.”

“More like ambitious.”

“Good. Excellent quality. Especially for someone who’s going to be disappointed.”

“You’ve already decided that for me?”

“I’m just saving you time.”

“Or your own?”

The silence between them wasn’t tense—no. It was saturated. Thick, like the air before a storm, when nothing has started yet, but the lightning is inevitable.

Lexa leaned back, turning her head toward the window. August was still down there, alone. She thought she’d rather be with him right now, cleaning tack, smelling leather and soap, hearing the creak of straps. Simple things. Real things.

Here… here everything was too close. Too layered. Too much like what she’d tried to forget.

Clarke would’ve said something cutting. Funny. Sharp. And then she would’ve smiled. And I still wouldn’t have known what to do with it.

Lexa abruptly turned away from the window. From herself.

“You doing all this for the game?” she asked. “Or do you really have no other entertainment?”

“I do. But you’re more interesting.”

The answer came without a trace of irony. Completely open. Not even flirtation—something more predatory. Focused interest. Real. Tangible.

Lexa felt her pulse behind her ears. She hated that feeling. Hated that someone could be so sure of themselves. So close.

She wanted to get up. Leave. And yet she stayed.

Lexa looked at Evangeline again, longer now, more closely. She didn’t answer right away—choosing how to react. Each word, each tone was a choice between attack and retreat.

“You must love sparring,” she said finally. “Only such matches usually happen between equals.”

“You think I’m not your equal?”

“I think you’re used to winning not in argument, but in eye contact.”

Evangeline tilted her head slightly. The corner of her mouth lifted.

“Maybe. But only if the other side actually looks back.”

“I’m looking,” Lexa shot back.

“Exactly. And you’re not looking away.”

“You expected me to?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t have approached again.”

Lexa narrowed her eyes, leaning back in her chair. She crossed her arms—closed, but controlled, deliberate. The way she sat, the way she held her spine—it was also a form of power.

You’re not in the arena. This isn’t a tournament. There’s nothing to win here. But it feels like a round. And she’s not backing down.

“All right,” Lexa said, slower now. “Let’s say you really decided… to look behind the walls. What are you looking for?”

“You.”

“Not funny.”

“I’m not joking. Though I could.”

Pause. The sound of the coffee machine in the corner, the faint clink of glass, and outside—the steady breath of wind in the pines. Lexa suddenly became sharply aware: here, thousands of miles from home, in a foreign city, in a foreign language—someone was looking at her as if they knew who she was. Or wanted to.

That was scarier than anything she’d faced on course or in the arena.

Clarke never asked. Clarke just looked. And I let her. And then it all burned.

“You’ll lose interest,” she said evenly. “Quickly. When you realize that behind these ‘walls’ there’s no ancient castle, just an empty barracks.”

“Empty? Doubt it.” Evangeline leaned forward. “More like a fortress after a siege. With one survivor inside.”

Lexa’s heart skipped a beat. So simple. So exact.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know what people look like when they keep everything inside. I’ve been one. I’ve seen them. We can pretend, but there are always cracks. And you split along the seam long before you want to admit it.”

Lexa stood abruptly.

Evangeline stood as well—not in challenge, not in threat, simply because she had no intention of ceding height.

“Careful,” she murmured. “That’s almost honesty.”

Lexa stepped back. She didn’t like it when people physically encroached—especially like this, without asking, without respect for her distance. But she hated even more the fact that she didn’t step forward.

“You have no right to talk like you know me.”

“Maybe. But you’re still listening.”

“Not for long.”

“I’m in no hurry.”

“You really don’t understand when someone tells you ‘no’?”

“When it’s said with that fire in their eyes—no.”

She acted like someone used to never being ignored. Never feared. Always wanted. And that made her dangerous. Not because she could hurt her. But because Lexa might want to trust again. And that was a thousand times worse.

She turned as if to leave—but didn’t take a step. Back straight, shoulders slightly tense, like before a start. A horse before a jump. A rider before a fall.

“If you’re here for an experiment—don’t waste my time.”

“And if I’m here for you?”

“Then that’s even dumber.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not for ‘for.’”

“Then what are you for, Lexa Ashborn?”

The question came almost in a whisper. Not a challenge. Not flirtation. Almost… respectful. Or maybe intuitive. This woman didn’t need to know everything to feel the truth.

Lexa opened her mouth to answer—and at that moment a voice came from behind:

“Lex?”

She turned. Anya stood in the doorway, slightly frowning. Hair pulled back, sports jacket, a tense gaze. She looked from Lexa to Evangeline, then back to Lexa.

“Everything okay?”

Lexa nodded slowly, her voice still stuck.

Evangeline, without turning, said lightly:

“Looks like our round is over for today.”

“That wasn’t a round,” Lexa said.

“Then I’ll wait for the first.”

She stepped back, smiling at Anya with polite, almost social indifference, and disappeared through the doorway. The gravel path crunched again outside.

Lexa stood still. Anya came closer, leaning slightly toward her.

“Who is she?”

Pause. Lexa kept looking at the door, as if expecting it to open again.

“A problem,” she said quietly. “Or a headache. Haven’t decided yet.”

Anya raised a brow.

“With that tone, I think you already have.”

Lexa didn’t answer. She sat back down. Reached for her cup, but her hands trembled.

And again the thought: You come in too easily, and I’m always too late to lock the door.

Anya sat across from her in silence. Placed her hands on the table—open, without pressure. She knew Lexa well enough not to ask direct questions. But deeply enough not to back off when she shut down.

Lexa reached for the cup again, though the coffee was cold. She brought it to her lips, took a sip—and set it down again, as if the taste had suddenly turned unpleasant.

“Want to talk?” Anya asked quietly.

“Not really.”

“Want me to leave?”

Pause. Lexa’s fingers tightened.

“No.”

“All right. I’ll just sit here. Be quiet, if you want.”

She leaned back, settling in like someone ready to wait forever.

Lexa exhaled softly through her nose, as if admitting to herself: she really would wait. Which meant she’d either have to speak or run.

“I don’t understand,” she said finally. “What does she want?”

Anya didn’t pretend not to know who she meant.

“Maybe that’s it.”

“What?”

“Your reaction. People are drawn to those who don’t throw themselves at them. You didn’t smile. Didn’t start the conversation. Didn’t make a single friendly move. So she came back.”

“Like a dog?”

“Like a hunter.”

“Great. So I’m prey?”

“You’re a trophy.”

Lexa narrowed her eyes.

“Charming.”

Anya smirked slightly.

“You’re beautiful, famous, mysterious. Live alone, hardly ever show up to group training. Everyone thinks you’re special. Not even because you’re the best—just because you’re different. Some think you look down on them.”

“I do.”

Anya snorted.

“There you go. Now imagine: a woman approaches you who’s also not the last in her field. Confident. Not about to stand in your shadow. Of course she’s interested. Of course you annoy her—and that’s exactly why you draw her in.”

Lexa leaned back. Outside, evening was beginning: the sky blushing above the pines, thin and calm, like the surface of water after a storm.

“I don’t need another person who wants something from me,” she said flatly.

“And if she doesn’t? If she’s just curious?”

“Curiosity is still a form of wanting.”

“Sometimes. And sometimes it’s a form of recognition.”

Lexa said nothing. That familiar heaviness was rising inside—the one that came every time someone got too close. And along with it, a treacherous absence of any urge to run. Something about Evangeline was strange, dangerous, yet not repelling. Too alive. Too certain. And that sparked anger—at her, and at herself.

“You know me,” she said quietly. “I don’t… I don’t want all of this again.”

Anya tilted her head slightly. Her voice was even softer.

“This isn’t Clarke, Lex. And it’s not that story. And you’re not there.”

Lexa’s fingers slowly curled into a fist.

“I know. But it feels the same. Like walking on ice and hearing it crack under you, and still you can’t stop. Just… watching the first fracture appear. Then the second.”

“Only now you know how to swim.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’m here.”

They fell silent. A few seconds—just breathing. Then Lexa shook her head.

“It doesn’t matter. She’ll be gone in a couple of days. People like her don’t stick around.”

“And if she does?”

Lexa slowly lifted her eyes. They were cold, but under that ice something faint still burned.

“Then I’ll have to find a way to survive. Or drive her out.”

“Or not fight it.”

“I don’t know how.”

Anya looked at her for a long moment, almost sadly.

“Then it’s time to learn.”

The night was windless. Not the kind that embraces gently—rather dry and direct, like an exhale, like a gaze you can’t look away from.

Lexa walked along the fence at the far edge of the training grounds, where beyond the trees lay only vague outlines of the arena and faint glints from the lamps above the rows of stalls. Her phone was back in the house. She hadn’t planned on leaving—at some point she’d simply stood up, thrown on a jacket, and stepped outside.

Anya had spoken, as always, calmly, without pressure. But the words—they had stayed, clinging to her skin, her thoughts, her neck, where the sensation of someone’s gaze still lingered.

You’re not closed off. You’re braced. Not the same thing.

Lexa snorted, kicking a stone with the toe of her boot. It struck a metal post with a dull clink and rolled off into the grass. And what did she know? Other than the fact that in two years she’d become closer to her than anyone Lexa had ever let near. But even Anya didn’t know about Clarke. About how…

Stop.

She forced herself to exhale. Slowly. Controlled. She’d been taught control. Since childhood.

The path sloped down toward the old pasture. In the dark it looked almost spectral—only a thin ribbon of light from the security floodlight cut through the shadow like a compass arrow.

Lexa slowed when she heard a rustle.

Not loud, but too distinct. Someone was here. Or standing close by. Or walking toward her.

“Didn’t think I’d catch you alone,” came a voice from the darkness.

Clear. Unhurried. And already familiar.

Lexa stopped. Her fingers clenched involuntarily in the pocket of her jacket.

Evangeline stepped out from the corner under the awning of the old shed. Her hair was pulled back, her face lit only partially, but even so, there was a careless confidence in her posture, as if she were the one controlling the evening.

“Or do you also count the lamps at night?” she added, coming closer. Her voice wasn’t mocking. It was… even. Almost warm.

Lexa narrowed her eyes.

“Only when I’m bored.”

“I hope I can fix that.”

She stopped one step away. No closer, no farther. And didn’t look away. Lexa sighed—quietly, but in a way that could be mistaken for a smirk.

“You wander pastures at night often? Or can’t sleep either?”

“Night’s the best time to figure out who’s in front of you,” Evangeline replied, as if offhand. “In the daytime everyone’s armored. Especially you.”

Lexa’s jaw twitched.

“So you want to ‘figure me out’?”

Evangeline tilted her head slightly. Her hair caught a glint from the floodlight.

“I rarely want,” she said. “But when I do—I don’t back down.”

Lexa looked at her with something between amusement and defense. Maybe both.

Silence settled between them—dense, but not hostile. Rather like the taut pause in dressage, when you’re waiting for the next cue and still have the chance to change the movement’s outcome.

“I thought you preferred girls who jump fences,” Lexa said, turning slightly toward the pasture. The irony was there, but not real malice.

“That’s true,” Evangeline agreed easily. “But sometimes the ones who build them inside themselves are far more interesting.”

Lexa couldn’t hold back a bitter smile.

“You read too much cheap poetry.”

“And you’re afraid someone will read you.”

A faint crunch of grass under boots—Evangeline shifted slightly, and now they stood almost side by side. More light, more directness.

“If you came here for some soul-baring,” Lexa said dryly, “you’ve got the wrong address. And the wrong time of night.”

“What if I just wanted to see you without an audience, and without that shield on your face?”

Lexa dropped her gaze to the ground. Under her toe was a sharp stone. One solid nudge—and it would fly off into the darkness. Like everything else. Everything she’d left at home. Everything she’d tried to forget.

“Why do you even push into my space?” she exhaled. “Be honest. Are you bored? Or do you just collect the complicated ones?”

Evangeline looked at her without blinking.

“I want to understand what makes someone like you be here. In another country. Far from everything. To win like it’s vengeance, not sport. To stay silent like words are dangerous.”

She didn’t speak with challenge. Only with that unshakable certainty for which she was liked—and feared—even by rivals at international competitions.

Lexa stayed silent. Her fingers clenched tighter in her pockets.

“I thought,” she said at last, “Americans at least pretend to respect other people’s boundaries.”

“I’m from New York,” Evangeline reminded her calmly. “There, boundaries are just an excuse to move closer.”

She stepped another half-step forward.

And now there was literally a breath between them.

Lexa raised her gaze—slowly, directly, with challenge.

“And if I kissed you right now, would you back off?”

Evangeline’s brows lifted slightly. But she didn’t flinch.

“Would you want to?”

Lexa didn’t answer.

And the silence that followed wasn’t just mute—it vibrated.

“You’re complicated, Lexa,” Evangeline said softly. “But you know, I like that.”

Her voice was quiet, almost intimate. She stood too close. Not touching, but as if teasing the possibility. Her chestnut hair glinted under the lamplight spilling from the façade of the sports complex. Her eyes—warm, focused, stubbornly holding onto Lexa, as if they knew there was something real behind that armor.

Lexa exhaled slowly.

“You don’t know anything about me,” she said. Her voice sounded almost calm, but inside something was already scraping—sharp, restless.

“True,” Evangeline nodded. “But I could. If you’d let me.”

It was a quick flash, a split second. One look—and Lexa understood that if she didn’t step back now, everything would change. She wasn’t ready for that. Not for Evangeline, not for herself, not for the sensations creeping along her spine like current under her skin.

She dropped her gaze, then stepped back.

“I’m not one of those who ‘let,’” she said. “Good night, Armitage.”

“Lexa…”

“Not tonight.”

She turned and walked away. Not hastily—no, with the same honed grace she had in the saddle, as if every emotion inside had been tamed and locked away. Only her shoulders were a little tenser than usual. And her step a little quicker than she wanted.

Behind her, Evangeline didn’t move. Only watched her go.

And in that silence, under the Colorado stars, something hung between them for the first time—something far more dangerous than any kiss.

Expectation.

Chapter Text

The arena still held the hush of dawn when Lexa tightened the girth, deftly drew the strap through the buckle, and stepped back to assess August. He flicked an ear, waiting patiently while she checked the fastening, gathered the reins, and swung the bridle off her shoulder.

She always arrived first. But today—earlier than usual.
Today she needed to drown something out.

Sleep hadn’t come. After she’d left the grounds, with Evangeline still standing in the dark, the air had carried her perfume for hours—subtle, slightly dusty, with notes of jasmine. Lexa had returned to the house closer to morning, careful not to wake Anya, and slept barely a couple of hours. Irritation throbbed in her head—at herself, at that girl, at the way her numbed lips still held the memory of almost-touch.

In the saddle, Lexa felt a little better. Almost safe.

She led August onto the work circle and began the warm-up: walk, change of direction, bend through the spine. Soon she moved him into trot—precise, balanced, fully in control. Her muscles ached with tension, but it was the familiar, comprehensible kind.

“He was about to lean on your shoulder in that turn,” came Anya’s voice from the rail.

Lexa gave the slightest nod, keeping the pace.

“I saw it.”

“And you decided to push through.”

“I decided he could handle it.”

Anya, unlike Lexa, never intervened without cause. Still, there was a shade of concern in her tone. Not professional—personal.

The next pass was in collection. August tossed his head, sensing his rider’s inner agitation, but obeyed. Smooth half-pass, shoulder-in, then a short burst forward—almost with a jerk.

“Stop.”

Lexa halted him.

“What was that?” Anya asked evenly.

“I checked his reaction.”

“You were checking control.”

Silence.

“Lexa,” quietly but firmly, “you’re riding like someone’s about to snatch the reins from your hands. No one’s going to.”

Lexa exhaled, nodded, and walked August forward. But inside, something still trembled. Slipping from her grasp.

When training was over, she dismounted with a sharp breath. Her fingers shook as she removed the saddle. August shook his head and snorted—as if he knew something in his rider was off, but couldn’t understand how to help.

Anya came around to the other side, silently caught the pad before it slid to the ground, and set it on the rail.

“He didn’t understand what you wanted on that last diagonal,” she said casually, as if in passing.

Without looking up, Lexa replied, “I wanted him forward, keeping the impulsion.”

“He was going. You were holding him back.”

“I was controlling.”

Anya let out a breath. Not sharp, not scolding—the exhale of someone who’d known Lexa since she was fourteen, who’d seen this armor many times. But today, there was something unfamiliar in it. Something edged.

“Control and holding back aren’t the same thing,” she said at last.

Lexa wiped the bit, almost with a kind of aggression.

“Do you want to talk?” Anya’s voice was level, but real concern lay beneath. “Or are you going to pretend you just didn’t sleep?”

Lexa froze, reins in hand. A retort rose instantly—sharp, cutting, defensive. But she didn’t speak it. She just set the saddle on the stand and looked at August, who was rubbing his muzzle against his crest, tired but obedient.

“Everything’s under control,” she said finally, flatly.

Anya didn’t buy it. But she didn’t push. She stepped back to the wall, leaned her shoulder against the wood, and simply stood, watching.

“I can see how you’re holding your back. Too stiff. Whatever’s inside is eating at you. And you’re not giving yourself a pause. No air.”

Silence.

Lexa stepped up to August, ran her hand along his neck.

“I don’t need air. I need to stay in form.”

“You afraid that if you stop—everything falls apart?”

Lexa’s gaze snapped up. There was challenge in it. But under the challenge—fatigue.

Anya took a step closer, still calm.

“Listen. I’m not asking you to tell me everything. But, Lexa… when you start riding on pure instinct, it means you’re not in the moment. And when you’re not in the moment, you lose yourself.”

Lexa’s eyes flickered. Her cheek twitched, as if she’d meant to smirk but couldn’t.

“I’m not losing myself, Anya. I’m shedding the unnecessary.”

“Oh?” Anya tilted her head. “And who’s unnecessary today?”

Lexa didn’t answer.

A young rider from the U.S. team walked past just then, throwing her a respectful, almost admiring look. She acknowledged it with the barest nod, automatic. Then her gaze returned to Anya, darker now.

“Whatever you have to say—say it. Just don’t try to analyze me. I’m not your case study.”

“No. But you’re my person,” Anya said just as calmly. “And I can see you’re fighting. I just don’t know—with whom.”

Lexa wiped her palm on her breeches, stepped away from the rail, and moved toward the exit.

“If you figure it out—tell me first.”

And left without looking back.

The dusty path along the arena ran past the training fields toward the riders’ lodging. Lexa walked fast, as if fleeing not from Anya, but from her words. From their truth.

Her body had recovered from the ride, but inside—there was still that same tightness, like she’d swallowed too much air. Sharp. Achingly familiar.

She turned right, deeper into the complex where she rarely went without reason—and stopped short when she saw her.

On the far jumping field, in a light seat on a bay gelding, stood Evangeline. Red team jacket, hair in a high ponytail. She cleared a series of fences with the kind of polished grace that looked as if she belonged to the air.

Lexa almost turned around.

But it was too late.

Evangeline saw her. Almost immediately—as if she’d felt her eyes. And from the very first second—nothing softened. Not in her gaze, not in the line of her mouth. Cold precision, in which Lexa recognized herself.

A few minutes later, when the round was over, Evangeline dismounted smoothly and handed the reins to an assistant. Then she came straight toward Lexa.

Lexa stayed where she was. Running would be weakness.

“Do you always do that—stir up a storm and then walk off like nothing happened?” Evangeline asked without greeting.

Lexa narrowed her eyes.

“You’re mistaking a storm for weather. I’m just… wind.”

“Wind doesn’t kiss.”

“And doesn’t need to apologize for gusts.”

They stood two meters apart, but the distance felt sharper and heavier than it had the night before. Evangeline folded her arms, studying Lexa with something almost like scientific interest.

“You’re still running. Even now. From what this time? Me? Or yourself?”

“You’re overestimating the importance of two minutes.”

“You’re underestimating it.”

Lexa’s jaw tightened.

“There was nothing between us.”

“Uh-huh,” Evangeline nodded. “That’s why you’re here, in this part of the grounds where you never show up. That’s why you’re looking like you’d wipe me off the face of the earth—if you could look away.”

Lexa wanted to say something. Something venomous. Cutting. Destructive.

Instead she just exhaled and lowered her gaze.

“I’m not here for this.”

“Then what are you here for?”

Lexa lifted her eyes. Heavy, taut, like a rope about to snap.

“For sport. For form. For the goal.”

“And the goal is always a medal? Or sometimes—not falling?”

“For me it’s the same thing,” Lexa said flatly.

Evangeline stepped closer.

“And I’m—falling?”

“You’re—distraction.”

“Not the worst one, admit it.”

And again—silence. Dull, metallic, uneven.

Lexa didn’t retreat, but didn’t advance either. Her breathing was steady, only her fingers twitched again. Not from cold.

“I don’t know why you keep pushing where you’re not wanted,” she said at last.

Evangeline tilted her head.

“Because I can read eyes, not words. And in yours there’s so much noise it makes me want to stay. Even just for a while.”

Lexa wanted to answer with sarcasm. Something sharp, honed, weaponized. She knew how to craft phrase-shields, how to be unreachable. That was her life.

But now the words weren’t coming. They stuck in her throat—the same way the air had stuck between them last night.

“You don’t know what’s in my eyes,” Lexa said more quietly. “And don’t pretend you do.”

Evangeline gave a faint smile.

“You’d be surprised how much you can see when you truly want to.”

“And you?” Lexa stepped closer, level with her. “Who exactly are you trying to see, Evangeline? Me—or the version you’ve made up?”

This time Evangeline shifted back. Slightly, but Lexa caught it. And for a moment—it gave her the illusion of control.

But Evangeline recovered quickly, as always.

“You interest me. All your versions. Even if they fight each other.”

Lexa exhaled sharply through her nose, turning away.

“I don’t have time for psychology games. I’m not some humanities undergrad, and you’re not my life coach.”

“Really? Then what am I?”

“A random girl from another discipline who’s mistaking victory for attachment.”

Pause. Whiplash. Almost cruel.

But Evangeline smiled—not offended, but with that subtle, almost provocative satisfaction that always gave away the hunter in her.

“If I’m random, why are you still here?”

Lexa didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She looked aside, toward the smooth expanse of the field where her gelding had been galloping minutes ago. Where everything was clear, precise, under control.

“Tell me,” Evangeline’s voice dropped, “do you really want me to leave?”

Lexa went still. Not a muscle moved. Only her lips pressed slightly tighter.

“I want…” she said slowly, “…for you to stop trying to wake what I’ve spent years keeping locked away.”

“That’s not an answer, Lexa.”

“It’s all you’ll get.”

And before Evangeline could say anything else, Lexa was walking again—fast, decisive, almost military.

She didn’t look back.

But her heart was pounding in her throat.

Lexa passed the stables, then out beyond the training sector—further from her gaze, from herself, from her.

With each crunch of gravel under her boots, the whole conversation seemed to replay. Evangeline’s eyes, calm, unyielding. The words—almost gentle, but burning on her skin like ice water.

She stopped at the fence, leaned against it, staring at the horizon. A little farther on, the plateau began, covered in low, sun-bleached grass. The stables behind her were already far away. Only empty air and the sound of her own breath remained.

Damn.

Lexa rubbed her face, angry.
At Evangeline—for not backing off.
At herself—for… not being indifferent.

For letting herself be pulled back toward where everything was too close. Too bright. Too dangerous.

She’d always been cautious. Controlling. Composed.
But right now—standing on the edge, sky above her, Evangeline at her back—she felt like someone else.

As if someone uninvited was probing her weak points.
The places once open to only one.

And still, even here, at a safe distance, Lexa could feel that storm—only gaining strength.

She returned to the house as the sun dipped behind the peaks. Anya met her in the hall—sports tank, towel over her shoulder, water bottle in hand.

“Where’d you disappear to?” Her voice was mostly calm, but attentive.

“Walk,” Lexa said, moving past her a shade too quickly.

“Walk,” Anya repeated, turning after her. “Lexa, you’re either going to run from everything right now, or you’re finally going to say what’s triggering you.”

Lexa stopped in the doorway. Her shoulders were tense. When she spoke, her voice was even. Almost detached.

“You remember that feeling when someone hauls you out of the water… and you’ve already forgotten how to breathe?”

Anya didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her—for a long time.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Only then I decided—either swim, or drag under the one who thought they’d play hero.”

“I’m not a hero.”

“I know. But maybe someone else isn’t a victim.”

Lexa looked at her. Too closely. And too tiredly.

“I’m not saying she’s a victim.”

“No, you’re saying she’s random. While pacing circles like you’re magnetized to her.”

She didn’t respond.

But later that night, her phone lit with an unread message.

Evangeline Armitage:
I’m not asking you to let me in.
Just… don’t slam the door so loud.

The sun had barely risen above the spruce tops, casting long bands of light across the smooth surface of the arena. A light frost still clung to the wooden rails, and inside there was a cool, damp stillness, broken only by the rhythmic beat of hooves and the whisper of shavings beneath August’s feet.

Lexa moved through the arena like notes on a score. Anya watched silently from the wall. Today’s training was going better than yesterday—Lexa’s muscles were in tone, and her mind seemed almost calm.
Almost.

Almost—until she changed direction, lifted her gaze, and caught a fleeting glimpse of a familiar figure in the shadows of the stands.

Evangeline stood at a distance, in a dark navy coat thrown over a tracksuit, coffee in hand, arms crossed over her chest. She looked deliberately at ease—no hint of insistence, no trace of drama. But Lexa could feel that presence on her skin. It pulled at her, as if hooked into something inside she was careful not to name.

Lexa looked away. Her fingers tightened on the reins.

Anya’s eyes flicked briefly toward the stands, then back to Lexa. She didn’t ask anything. She only folded her arm a little tighter, pressing the strap coiled with the whip against her chest.

“Once more on the diagonal,” she said evenly. “Easy—don’t rush him. He can feel the tension in your legs.”

By the time they finished, the sun had climbed higher, melting the last patches of frost by the arena entrance. Lexa led August to the side, letting him stretch and catch his breath. She dismounted, removed her helmet, and ran a hand over her damp temples. Anya headed toward the tack room, leaving her alone for a few minutes.

“Still impressive,” came a voice from behind her.

Soft, almost lazy, but with that unmistakable note of confidence.

Lexa turned. Evangeline stood only a few meters away, holding the same coffee cup, but now with her hair loose, sunlight catching in it. Her brown eyes were attentive, but without yesterday’s sharpness. She looked as though she’d simply been passing by. Only Lexa didn’t believe in coincidences.

“What is this—open day at the stables?” she asked dryly, but not at full bite.

Evangeline didn’t take the bait.

“I got permission to come in. I asked. Didn’t want to interfere.”

She paused before adding:

“I wanted to watch.”

Lexa wiped August’s neck with a soft cloth, not looking at her. Inside, something felt as if it were slowly melting—not from the words, but from the way they were said. Without pressure. Without the game.

“Curiosity satisfied?” she asked at last, voice low, finally meeting her eyes.

Evangeline’s mouth curved slightly, but there was something quiet, elusive in her gaze.

“Not quite.”

A brief silence.

“I acted like an idiot yesterday. Didn’t mean to set you up. And certainly not to provoke you.”

She took a sip of coffee.

“I just… wanted to understand how you live. Now.”

Lexa tilted her head slightly.

“On a horse in the morning. Ice mask in the evening. Coffee, books, and a neurotic trainer in between. Seems clear enough.”

Evangeline laughed. Genuinely.

“Still know how to cut.”

Then, more softly:

“But it seems you don’t kill anymore.”

Lexa said nothing. She glanced toward Anya, who was just appearing from around the corner. But noticing them, Anya slowed her step, as if to give them space.

“You look at me like you’re waiting for a blow,” Evangeline’s voice softened. “But I’m not your enemy. I never was.”

“We weren’t friends,” Lexa replied evenly.

“We were barely anything at all,” Evangeline said with a faint smile. “But that doesn’t mean nothing was felt.”

She stood slightly apart, as if deliberately keeping her distance, but her voice carried the same certainty with which she once entered a course.

Lexa didn’t answer. The silence between them wasn’t heavy—more like clear, ringing air after a storm. Words would sound unconvincing. And what could she say? That it was all for nothing? That it had passed her by? Or, on the contrary, that she cared? Lexa didn’t know how to do halves. So she stayed quiet.

“I’m… not here to push,” Evangeline spoke again, quieter now. “Just thought it would be honest to come over. Not pretend I don’t see you. That I don’t want to.”

Lexa looked at her again—a short, sharp, almost startled glance.

“Do you have a round today?” she asked, as if it mattered.

“No. Just watching the girls today. Support, you know.”

Evangeline smiled for a moment. Not with a smirk, not flirtatiously—humanly.

“Though maybe I came for you too. A little.”

Lexa lowered her gaze to the ground, a tiny smirk flickering across her lips—more a nervous tic than real amusement.

“You don’t know how to give up, do you?”

“And you don’t know how not to hide?”

Silence settled again. The scent of early morning, fresh shavings, and saddle leather mixed in the air. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed loudly—one of the younger riders returning from a course. Anya glanced at them briefly from the far end of the arena, but didn’t intervene.

“Sometimes I don’t know what you want from me,” Lexa said honestly. “And sometimes it feels like I know too well.”

Evangeline’s fingers tightened on her backpack strap, then she gave a small nod, accepting even that.

“I want you to stop pretending you don’t have a heart. Because that’s not true.”
A pause.

“And to stop thinking I can’t see how it hurts.”

Lexa flinched—barely. Inside, everything seemed to lock up for a moment, like a fist clenching tight.

But she didn’t answer.

Evangeline didn’t wait.

“It’s all right,” she said quietly. “I’m not rushing you.”

She turned and walked away—calm, assured, without looking back. And somehow that stung Lexa more than if she’d stayed and kept pressing.

Lexa stood still for a few seconds, reins clenched as if they might offer an answer. Then she strode toward the exit abruptly, as if the arena had suddenly grown too small.

Dusk settled gently over the grounds, covering the buildings and paths in a warm, almost dusty light. Lexa walked along the familiar fence, brushing her fingers against the wooden rails now and then. She came here every evening—as if it was in these shadows that breathing came easier. It was simpler to be alone, without Anya’s questions, without her own thoughts. With nothing but the earth under her feet and the scent of sun-warmed dust.

Footsteps sounded behind her. Barely audible, but too distinct.

Lexa stopped and turned—and of course, saw her.

Evangeline stood a little off to the side, in the shadows, her hands in her jacket pockets and a backpack slung over one shoulder. Her hair was loose, a hint of a smile on her lips, but her eyes were tense.

“I was looking for you,” she said. “Thought you might be here.”

“Why?”

“Because I would’ve chosen this place myself,” Evangeline shrugged. “It’s… quieter.”

Lexa didn’t answer. She simply remained by the fence.

“Actually, I wanted to talk.”

Evangeline stepped closer, but didn’t cross the invisible line.

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” she said at last. “For New York.”

“You…” Lexa frowned at her. “You only came for the tournament?”

“Yes. The tournament ended, I stayed a few more days. Thought I’d… catch my breath.”

She looked away, then found her gaze again.

“But that wasn’t the only reason.”

The pause felt too long.

“Then what was all this for?” Lexa asked quietly, but sharply. “You knew you’d leave anyway.”

Evangeline lowered her eyes slightly.

“I got an offer. To stay. To train here in Colorado, as part of the local team. On the day of the final, actually.”

She fell silent for a second, waiting for a reaction, but Lexa didn’t move.

“At first I wasn’t sure,” Evangeline went on. “I don’t like changes, even the ones that seem right. But…”

She exhaled.

“Now I’m sure. If there’s anywhere I can stay… it’s here.”

“Because of me?” Lexa asked hoarsely.

“In part.”

Silence again. It thickened between them like fog. Lexa gripped the wooden rail, trying to wall herself off with at least this—its familiar, rough texture under her palms. But even that didn’t shield her from the tension crawling beneath her skin.

“I don’t…” Lexa began, then stopped. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how it’s supposed to be.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

Evangeline stepped closer, so now barely half a meter separated them.

“I just wanted to be honest. Before I leave.”

“And when will you come back?”

“I don’t know. Six months. Maybe a couple of months. It’s not entirely up to me. But I’ve agreed.”

She looked straight into Lexa’s face.

“I have a reason to come back.”

And again the silence. It stretched long, but neither tried to break it. The wind stirred their hair, brushing it against their faces like accidental gestures—and Lexa, without thinking, caught a strand of Evangeline’s that had fallen on her shoulder. She let it go just as wordlessly.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” Lexa whispered. “With you.”

Evangeline didn’t move an inch.

“When I was younger,” Evangeline said suddenly, “I wasn’t afraid of flights, or heights, or the judges. I was afraid of losing to someone who saw me for real.”

She glanced away.

“Because then you don’t just lose the course—you lose yourself.”

“Have you lost to me?” Lexa asked calmly.

“No. But I’ve shown myself. And that’s far scarier.”

She took another step. Her shoulder was now almost touching Lexa’s.

“I don’t need you to feel anything right now. Or to promise. Or to decide.” Her voice was low, but taut. “I just want you not to pretend nothing happened. Not during, not after.”

Lexa didn’t answer. She kept her gaze somewhere off to the side—on the darkening horizon, the sky above the arena, the empty air. But her breathing had changed. It was uneven.

“All I want,” Evangeline said more quietly, “is for you… to be real. Just for a minute.”

And for that minute—they stood, unmoving.

Branches rustled behind them; somewhere, a horse snorted. The lamplight brushed their faces softly, barely picking out their features. Evangeline stood close, but didn’t touch her. Only her fingers, hanging at her side, shifted forward almost imperceptibly, as if unconsciously seeking a point of contact.

“I’m still leaving in the morning,” she said finally. “And you don’t have to say anything. But if… if you do feel something—don’t keep it in for too long.”
She breathed out.

“Or you’ll miss your moment.”

Lexa pressed her lips together. Then, slowly, she lifted her eyes.

“It’s already missed.”

“No,” Evangeline shook her head. “Just delayed.”

They stood under the stars, surrounded by the scents of earth and hay, almost shoulder to shoulder. And neither stepped back.

Chapter Text

Three months later.

Snow was settling over the world in a thin, almost weightless blanket—not a storm, not a blizzard, but softly, as if someone invisible were tiptoeing across the meadows, arenas, and stable roofs. The scent of pine and mulled wine had woven itself into the air back at the start of December, but now, a week before Christmas, even the walls of the barracks seemed to breathe a festive kind of weariness.

Lexa stood on a stool in the corner of the living room, pulling a garland onto a hook under the ceiling, and for the third time in ten minutes scratched herself on the wire. She bit her lip to keep from swearing.

“Careful,” came Anya’s lazy voice from behind her. “Those garlands nearly killed me last year. They’re alive. Possessed by the spirit of a clumsy electrician.”

Lexa glanced down at her.

“Maybe you were just holding them the wrong way?”

“Mhm. I’m holding everything the wrong way lately. Like the steering wheel, for example.”

She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by boxes of ornaments and tinsel, with a Christmas wreath on her head. She seemed to be seriously considering it as a hat alternative.

“Take that off, you look like a Christmas tree in depression,” Lexa snorted, deftly tossing the garland onto the next hook.

“As you wish, Snow Queen. Though I can’t help but notice—you seem suspiciously… tolerant of decorations this year.”

Lexa stepped down from the stool and wiped her hands on her dark trousers.

“I just don’t want you to blow up the house with a short circuit. That’s all.”

“Sure you don’t,” Anya squinted. “You even hung stockings over the fireplace. Admit it—you believe in Santa.”

“No,” Lexa replied curtly, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “You just look like the kind of person who’d be shocked if there wasn’t a gift under the pillow on New Year’s.”

“That’s because, unlike all of you here, I grew up in a country where people celebrate Proper Holidays.” Anya threw a glittery snowflake at her. “New Year isn’t just salads and a tree—it’s… that feeling that you survived. That you can start over.”

Lexa caught the snowflake in midair and slowly lowered it into her palm. She looked at it longer than necessary.

“Do you still have that habit—making a wish when the clock strikes midnight?”

“I do. Even if I have to put on a YouTube video of the chimes.” Anya stood, walked over to the box, and pulled out a glass ornament—old, with worn silver. “Want to hang this one?”

Lexa took it carefully, as though it might shatter at the lightest touch.

“It’s my grandmother’s favourite ornament. We used to hang it on the tree every year. When we emigrated, I brought it with me,” Anya explained, her voice a little softer.

“Then you hang it,” Lexa handed it back. “You know best where it belongs.”

They hung it on the central branch. Stood there in silence for a minute. The kitchen smelled of vanilla and cloves. Somewhere in the background, a jazz cover of Let It Snow was playing, and even Lexa—who couldn’t stand Christmas clichés—felt a small wave of calm and didn’t want to turn the music off.

“You have changed a bit,” Anya suddenly said, as if in passing. “Like you’ve stopped keeping your shield up 24/7. Maybe it’s time to get a cat?”

“I don’t live alone,” Lexa shot her a look. “You’d overfeed it and get it hooked on true crime shows.”

“And you’d train it with discipline and diet food. Perfect balance,” Anya smirked. “But seriously… I like seeing you like this. A little less iron. Just don’t get too normal—it’ll get boring.”

“Don’t worry,” she said quietly, looking at the tree. “It definitely won’t be boring.”

They finished decorating the house closer to nine. The rooms filled with the diffused light of garlands and something almost childlike—as if time itself had slowed for a moment. Lexa stood by the window, watching the lights flicker on the spruce in the yard. Anya had gone to call her parents—in Russian, with that soft accent, with an intonation Lexa could always recognise from afar: there was something special in it, indivisible, hers.

The house went quiet. Almost too quiet.

Lexa didn’t like silence—or rather, she didn’t like what came with it. Thoughts. Feelings. The spaces in between.

She stepped out onto the terrace, taking with her a wool scarf and a cup of something hot and tart—tea, or maybe cider, she didn’t remember exactly what she’d poured, she’d just wanted warmth. The air stung her face—not with frost, but like the touch of snow to skin: quiet, damp, weightless. The night stretched over the club grounds, dense and soundless, broken only by the faint crackle of garlands and the occasional snort of horses in the distance.

Snow was falling in large, lazy flakes that didn’t drop so much as drifted in their own rhythm. It settled on the steps, the railings, Lexa’s shoulders, melted into her hair. She leaned against a wooden column, wrapped the scarf higher, and dialled a number.

The line rang only briefly.

“Hi,” Evangeline’s voice was warm, as if freshly breathed into the receiver, “I was just looking through old photos from the tournament and suddenly thought of you.”

Lexa smirked but didn’t say it out loud.

“Intuition?”

“Or a mild addiction. Your pick.”

“We just finished decorating the tree. Anya staged a small revolution about how ‘a proper New Year should smell like tangerines and look like a Soviet cartoon.’ I held my ground, but the number of garlands doubled.”

“So you’ve got a near Catholic–Orthodox symbiosis going on,” Evangeline laughed softly. “I’m in my parents’ living room too. My father’s weaving wreaths out of fir branches, my mother’s trying to teach everyone to drink mulled wine from crystal glasses. Don’t ask. The atmosphere is ‘Versailles preparing for the apocalypse.’”

Lexa narrowed her eyes, looking in through the window from outside: the room glowed with soft warm light, garlands reflected in the glass, snowflakes clung to the sill, and inside—decorated, cosy, warm—it was as if it existed in another dimension where everything was calm, safe, and simple.

“Our house looks like a photo from a Christmas Pinterest board,” she said aloud, almost without thinking.

There was a pause on the other end. Then:

“What a shame you’re living that romantic moment alone.”

Lexa tightened her grip on the cup, glancing toward the fences drowned in white.

“Not sure I’m built for romantic moments,” she said dryly, but for the first time in a long while her voice carried not just detachment, but a faint warm sadness.

“Maybe not. But they seem to find you anyway.” Evangeline’s voice was soft, almost weightless, like the snow itself. “I hope when I come back, we get to live through one of them together. Or at least try.”

Lexa bit the inside of her cheek. She didn’t know how to answer things like that. Not because she didn’t want to—just… she’d lived too long in the habit of sharpness, invulnerability, sarcasm. But with Evangeline, it was getting harder.

“Do you have snow in New York too?” she asked, shifting the topic without breaking the warmth.

“It started this afternoon. I walked in the park until my fingers went numb. I thought about how you’d comment on my illogical autumn heeled boots.”

“I’d probably just silently hand you thermal insoles.”

“How caring.” Evangeline chuckled, and Lexa heard her take a sip of something—most likely red wine. “I miss your silent reactions. They’re always more accurate than words.”

For a moment, the line fell quiet. Comfortable. Unstrained.

“When are you coming back to Colorado?” Lexa asked quietly.

“Probably at the end of January.”

“Will you be training for the tournament?”

“And not only that.” A pause. “I don’t want to lose this… between us. Even if you’re not ready for more yet.”

She didn’t answer right away, but she didn’t hang up either.

Lexa looked into the darkness. Snow settled on her shoulders, leaving cold, almost living points—like marks. She felt the cup’s warmth ebbing away, her fingers starting to go numb, but for some reason she didn’t move.

Evangeline’s words—“I hope when I come back, we get to live through one of them together”—had struck too precisely. There was no pressure in them, and that was exactly what threw her. No one else got this close.

What if she really did come back? What if these weren’t just words?

But saying anything would mean admitting she was waiting. And she wasn’t waiting. She had no right to wait.

“Lexa?..” Evangeline’s voice suddenly sounded almost unsure. As if she herself regretted saying too much.

“I’m here,” Lexa replied. Calm. Even.

But inside, somewhere deep, her heart was beating louder than it should have been, and the echoes of a hope she’d been driving away for so long were quietly starting to spread through her.
The snow kept falling.
And inside—despite all her resistance—something shifted.

“You’re going, Lex. And don’t argue,” Anya didn’t put a period in her sentence with words but with a look. The kind of look Lexa could resist only out of principle. And principles were on holiday today. “You have the day off, go take a walk, see something other than stables and fields.”

“That’s not like you,” Lexa smirked, pulling off her gloves. “You usually push for three training sessions a day and say that ‘routine matters more than emotions.’”

“You’ve been on a routine since May. And emotions…” Anya pressed her lips together and tilted her head. “You’re pretty weak on those, to be honest.”

Lexa rolled her eyes but reluctantly nodded. And so it happened — an hour later she was stepping out of the car in the city center, pushing her hood back and breathing in the cold air, scented with cotton candy, pine, and frost.

December wrapped the streets of Colorado like an illustration from a winter fairytale. Bright shop windows, garlands, music, the smell of gingerbread. Everything felt a little staged, as if the city itself was playing a role in some movie. But, to Lexa’s surprise, she… liked it. A little.

She walked the streets, bought a couple of books at a bookstore — one of them she had already read, but the cover was different, and that was enough. Then she wandered into a shop with Christmas cards and picked a few without any clear recipient. Just… because.

By lunchtime she was cold — her knees ached from it, her fingers were numb. Lexa turned a corner and walked into a small café at random, its warm light spilling onto the street, a display filled with miniature pies.

The place was almost empty. Ordering bergamot tea and almond cookies, she settled by the window and opened her book. Inside, everything slowed. The hum of the street stayed outside. Time stopped running again — right until a shadow entered her line of sight.

“Excuse me…” said someone with a slightly mocking, soft voice. “Would you have a minute for a quick interview?”

Lexa didn’t react right away — too absorbed in the page. When she did look up, she exhaled automatically, ready to refuse. Her brows knit — and froze.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” slipped out before she could stop herself.

Evangelina stood opposite, leaning on the back of the chair next to her. Her hair was tousled slightly by the wind, her cheeks pink from the frost. Her smile — impossibly wide.

“Surpriiise,” she drew the word out, as if she’d rehearsed the moment.

Lexa stared at her, narrowing her eyes. Part of her wanted to bury herself back in the book and pretend this visit didn’t exist. The other part could already hear her own heartbeat, a touch too fast.

“I wanted to do this differently, but then I saw you in the café window.”

“By accident?”

“Almost,” Evangelina said without blinking. “Almost on purpose.”

Lexa shook her head, leaned back in her chair, and slowly took a sip of tea.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you look like a typical Brit: book and tea…” Evangelina leaned forward, peering at the cup in her hands, “with a taste of… primness?”

Lexa rolled her eyes but allowed herself the faintest smile.

“Bergamot.”

Lexa looked out the window. Snow was drifting gently down to the street, covering the sidewalks with a thin layer of white. People with shopping bags, children with candy canes, dogs in ridiculous sweaters — it all seemed to belong to another world. Warmer, simpler, without constant battle.

“Don’t you get tired of following me around?” she tossed, without turning back.

Evangelina laughed — quietly, as if she knew how absurd that sounded.

“Following you? Isn’t that a bit dramatic? Maybe I just like ‘accidentally’ finding you in unexpected places.”

“Remarkable skill. Considering I’ve been here less than an hour.”

“Maybe I’m psychic. Or I just missed you.”

Lexa finally turned. There was no anger in her eyes — only a touch of doubt, as if she was still checking whether this wasn’t a dream.

“You’re always too theatrical.”

“And you’re always too serious. Someone has to balance that.”

Evangelina sat down beside her, nodding at the cup of tea.

“I was sure that after two months of solitude you’d be drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows.”

“It’s not solitude,” Lexa cut in — not too sharply.

“No?” Evangelina raised a brow. “And who do you share all these… atmospheric moments with? A Christmas tree? A horse?”

A pause. This time — warm. Lexa gave the faintest shrug.

“With silence. It just… lets me breathe.”

“And am I interrupting?” Evangelina asked more quietly now, without her usual smile.

Lexa thought for a second before answering.

“No. Not right now.”

The pause hung between them. Evangelina watched her closely but didn’t push. This time — she truly didn’t.

“Maybe this time will be different,” she said so calmly it was almost inaudible.

Lexa looked at her — long, searching. As if trying to figure out how far she could let someone who had already been too close.

Evangelina leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, rolling her eyes deliberately, theatrically, like someone being accused of laughing too loudly in a library.

“You act like I’m some sort of cyclone. Destroyed your life, then came back to see if anything grew from the ruins.”

Lexa raised a brow.

“Didn’t destroy it. But you definitely know how to make an entrance. And disappear — too.”

“Hm. Probably because you never asked me to stay.”

Lexa lowered her eyes. For a second, maybe two — no more. But Evangelina noticed. Of course she noticed.

“Why did you come now?” Lexa asked. Not sharply, but directly. Like a shot — precise, measured.

Evangelina tilted her head. Her lips slid into a lazy, almost defiant smile.

“And you really have no idea? I thought you were smarter than that.”

“I am. I just don’t like guessing. Especially when it’s about people I can’t read,” Lexa leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

“God, you’re boring.” Evangelina shook her head slightly and raised a finger. “Wait, don’t get offended. It’s a compliment. The boring ones are the ones holding a volcano inside. Me… I’ve always been hopeless at restraint.”

“Which certainly explains your sudden arrival.”

“I just realized I didn’t want to spend Christmas in New York, listening to my mother complain about her dog’s choreographer. Or my father discussing how much it costs to buy a governor.” She rolled her eyes. “I wanted… something else.”

“Hot chocolate with marshmallows?” Lexa asked dryly.

“Maybe.” Evangelina lowered her voice. “Or silence. Or… someone you don’t have to prove anything to.”

Lexa leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed — not like a hunter, but like someone who had been holding on for too long and now wasn’t sure if they should lower their shield.

“You did say you’d be back in January.”

“I did. And, for the record, I’m a woman of my word. I just… decided to start January early.” Evangelina smirked. “I wanted to show up at your arena, dramatically, with coffee, maybe a bow. But… I saw you in this café by chance. You were too charming — moody look, book, tea. So focused. I couldn’t resist.”

“I noticed. You literally approached like a hunter to prey.”

“And you didn’t even fight back.” Evangelina narrowed her eyes. “So you were expecting me?”

Lexa shook her head, but her lips twitched in the hint of a smile.

“Maybe I was just ready for surprises.”

“Perfect. Because I’m staying. Until the holidays are over. And yes,” Evangelina leaned closer, “I do want to spend Christmas… not alone. With the people I want to be with.”

For a moment, Lexa’s eyes clouded. She looked out the window again. Snow fell softly and endlessly, the streets shimmering with Christmas lights, and the moment suddenly felt strangely fragile.

“How many times have you done everything your own way?” she asked quietly.

“Always. But, Lexa…” Evangelina reached across the table and lightly touched her hand — not pushy, almost unnoticeable. “Sometimes I do it because I don’t know how else.”

Lexa didn’t pull away. She just looked at their almost-touching fingers, then into her eyes.

“Sounds like the beginning of a bad Christmas romcom.”

“Or a good one. Depends on how it ends.”

They fell silent.

And in that silence, in a café filled with the scent of pastries, the clink of dishes, and the muffled voices of other people, something between them shifted. Subtly, but undeniably.

Something really was beginning.

They drove toward the equestrian training center, a place both of them knew down to the smallest detail, but now—it seemed—cast in a new light. Outside the window, Christmas garlands and the occasional parked car passed by, while the cabin was filled with the warmth of the heater and Lexa’s steady, contained breathing. There was no music playing—Lexa almost never turned on the radio, especially on nights like this.

She drove with ease, confidently, as though it wasn’t just a skill but part of her language. Evangeline sat beside her in silence. Ever since they’d left the café, that rare, elusive kind of silence had settled between them—not tense, not awkward, but somehow dense and warm. They both fit inside it.

“Curious,” Evangeline was the first to break it. “How long can you stay quiet before you burst?”

Lexa didn’t turn her head, but a shadow of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“Until someone else speaks first.”

“Like who?”

“August. Or time.”

“Deep,” Evangeline drawled. “Too poetic for a girl who won’t even play music in the car.”

“I don’t want anyone dictating what I should be thinking about.”

“And here I thought you just didn’t like Christmas.”

“That’s not quite it,” Lexa replied after a pause. “I don’t like…the artificiality around it.”

“But you took me to a Christmas market.”

“I took myself for a walk. You just happened to be there.”

Evangeline laughed—short, low, almost with surprise. Then she looked at Lexa, her profile lit by streetlamps, and didn’t look away.

“You could at least pretend sometimes that you need someone.”

“I don’t need performances,” Lexa said evenly. “And as for who—that’s not really my question to answer.”

She turned onto the gravel road leading to the training center. The windows of the administrative building were still lit, but the surroundings were already quiet: the day was over, the evening had dropped its curtains.

When they pulled up to the hotel where Evangeline was staying, Lexa switched off the engine but left the headlights on. Evangeline began unbuckling her seatbelt, ready to get out. The door was already ajar, letting a ribbon of cold air slide inside.

“Wait,” Lexa said.

Evangeline stopped, looking at her questioningly. Lexa was staring ahead at the building, then slowly turned toward her.

“Don’t go yet. Come with me.”

“Where?”

“The stables.”

Evangeline narrowed her eyes, studying Lexa’s face as if searching for a catch.

“You’re serious?”

“I told you. Come on.”

“But you can’t stand it when people just…wander around in there.”

“I know,” Lexa said with a brief nod. “But right now—it’s not ‘people.’”

For a moment, Evangeline was silent. Then she quietly shut the door, slid the seatbelt back on, and settled in again as though she’d never been leaving.

“I knew Christmas with you would be special.”

“You haven’t seen August in night mode yet,” Lexa said with restrained calm, though her voice carried a flicker of irony now. She shifted into reverse and turned the car toward the side road behind the training buildings.

With every passing second, the tension between them was changing. It no longer resonated with sharp edges—on the contrary, it felt like a pull that neither was in a hurry to name. Just a pulse close by, warm and careful.

“Have you always known when someone is…not just anyone?” Evangeline asked suddenly.

Lexa gave a slight nod without looking.

“And have you always known how to make yourself into someone?”

“For you?” Evangeline clarified.

“For anyone.”

“Just not for you,” she murmured, but Lexa was already pulling into a parking spot by the side entrance. A faint light spilled from an upper window of the administrative building. Farther ahead, in the dimness, the outline of the stable complex was visible—bright windows, a lone streetlamp, snow crunching under the tires.

They got out almost at the same time. One door thudded shut, then the other. The air was frosty and fresh, scented with wood and straw. Lexa stepped forward first without looking back, but Evangeline followed without hesitation.

When they entered the building, warmth embraced them—not just physical warmth. The horses were sleeping or dozing in their stalls; somewhere there was the sound of hay being chewed, the soft huff of nostrils. The light was dim, diffused, like in a theater before the curtain rises.

Lexa walked slowly down the aisle, almost meditatively. She didn’t say anything—just let her fingers trail along the wooden partitions as if touching something familiar and beloved. At one point she stopped and motioned for Evangeline to come closer.

“He doesn’t bite,” she said.

“Are you sure?” Evangeline stepped closer, and from the stall emerged the familiar head of a black stallion. He didn’t snort. He just looked, calmly, almost studying her.

“This is August. He doesn’t accept everyone. But you—apparently, yes.”

“Jealous of him,” Evangeline murmured softly.

Lexa raised her brows slightly.

“He lives more simply than you think.”

“Maybe you should start, too.” She stepped nearer, reached out, and carefully touched August’s velvet nose. He stilled, then snorted—as if in agreement.

“You’ve never let me in here before,” she said quietly. “Not as some casual guest. Almost like…”

Lexa looked at her, her gaze a fraction lower than usual—not tense, but still cautious.

“Almost like I’m not afraid anymore,” she whispered.

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled of toasted bread and something spicy—cinnamon, maybe, or cloves; Lexa couldn’t tell. She stood by the stove, barefoot, wearing a warm sweater, her hair pulled back. With the spatula, she carefully flipped an omelet, as if the precision of that movement determined the outcome of something much greater.

Light fell through the large window in gray stripes across the floor. It was early—so early that even the silence in the house felt unnatural.

Lexa was humming something quietly under her breath. Almost inaudibly. Not even singing—just letting a line of a song rustle in the background, one she probably wasn’t even consciously aware of.

The front door slammed.

“…You’re scaring me,” Anya said, appearing in the doorway, a bag in one hand and a scarf in the other. She froze. “Give me back my real Lexa.”

Lexa flinched. Her back tensed. For a second she froze, caught as if red-handed, then abruptly turned off the stove.

“What?” she asked, not entirely sure she’d heard right.

Anya narrowed her eyes, then laughed.

“No, seriously. Who are you and what have you done with Lexa Ashborn? Smiling. Humming. An omelet?”

“I wasn’t humming,” Lexa muttered, a little more sharply than she’d intended. “Just… talking to myself.”

“Uh-huh. With a melody, yeah?”

Lexa switched the stove off with irritation.

“Want breakfast?”

Anya just snorted as she took off her shoes. A few moments later, she was already sitting at the table, watching Lexa with the look you’d give a cat that suddenly started bringing you slippers.

“What?” Lexa sat down opposite, avoiding her gaze.

“Just trying to figure out who you are. Because either you’re high, or something happened that’s so important you can’t even hide it.”

Anya took a bite of bread, then cautiously:

“Is this… in some way connected to that girl? The one I saw in the café after the tournament?”

Lexa looked up.

“You remember her?”

“I’m not blind. Tall, ponytail, black coat. Looked at you like she knew something I didn’t.”

Lexa lowered her eyes into her mug.

“That’s Evangeline. She was at the tournament too, does show jumping. She’s from New York; after the tournament, she was offered a chance to train here, at our center. She stayed for a couple of days—you probably saw her again after one of my training sessions.”

She hesitated a little before continuing:

“We talked a bit after that.”

Anya nodded.

“I haven’t seen her in a while—did she go back?”

“Yes. Left for almost three months. She was supposed to return at the end of January, before the start of training for the tournament. I… wasn’t expecting her. But yesterday, when I went into the city, I ran into her. She… came up to me in the café. As if she’d been looking for me on purpose. Said she’d just gotten in and wanted to surprise me.”

“For you?”

Lexa shrugged, the tense kind of shrug that concealed uncertainty—a rare emotion for her.

“Yes. For me.”

Anya said nothing. Then:

“So? Did you spend the evening together?”

Lexa nodded. Offering nothing more.

“And?”

“And that’s it. We came back. I showed her the stables and introduced her to August.”

“You did what?” Anya nearly choked on her tea. “I don’t know what surprises me more—you making breakfast while ‘talking to yourself’ or you letting someone into the stables.”

“I didn’t let her in. I… invited her.”

The words hung in the air.

Anya took another bite of bread. For a while they were both silent—the only sound in the kitchen was the faint ticking of the wall clock.

Lexa sat motionless, her hands wrapped around the mug as if the warmth of the ceramic could protect her from something much colder.

“Will she be staying here for the holidays?” Anya asked casually, as if in passing.

Lexa flinched slightly.

“Yes. She said she doesn’t want to spend Christmas in New York. Too loud and too… showy there.”

“And here isn’t?” Anya snorted. “If you ask me, Colorado this time of year is the perfect place to run away from anything.”

There was no answer.

“You’re thinking about her,” Anya said calmly. Without reproach. Without teasing. Just stating a fact.

Lexa lowered her gaze.

“I am.”

“Then invite her.”

Lexa raised her head.

“Where?”

“For Christmas. Here. With us.”

Silence.

Anya added, a little quieter, with her usual bluntness:

“You’re not going to your parents anyway. Neither am I. You really want to spend the evening in silence again, staring at the wall?”

Lexa’s fingers tightened slightly around the mug. It was clear she hadn’t expected that—not Anya figuring it out, but how easily and calmly she’d said it.

“You don’t know her.”

“But I know you. And sometimes that’s even more dangerous.”

A shadow of a smile flickered over Lexa’s lips, barely there. Almost as gray as the morning outside the window.

“I’m not sure she’ll agree.”

“And are you sure you want her to say no?”

No answer.

“Lex, you can pretend it’s just a coincidence. That she just arrived early. Just found you in the café.”

Anya stood, went over to the coffee machine, and poured herself another cup.

“But if you didn’t believe that yourself—you wouldn’t be standing in the kitchen this morning barefoot, in a sweater, humming under your breath.”

Lexa didn’t answer. She just looked out the window—up into the gray sky above the pines.

“I’ll think about it,” she said at last.

Anya glanced at her over her shoulder:

“Just don’t think too long. We don’t even have decent candles. If it’s going to be dinner, it’s going to be dinner.”

“And candles.”

“And candles.”

The snow fell thick and slow, as if someone up above was patiently arranging the details of a set. Lexa pulled on her coat and went down the porch steps — Evangeline was already waiting by the fence, leaning against a post with the lazy grace of a predator who knows her own worth.

“Hello,” she tossed out, not moving. Only lifted an eyebrow, her mouth curving faintly. “I figured you’d change your mind. Or sneak out the back door, like yesterday.”

“Not everyone can make a dramatic entrance at just the right moment,” Lexa replied, stopping beside her.

“Really? You look like someone who’s been practicing that for years.”

They walked along the path leading toward the western paddock. Snow crunched underfoot. A light wind swept over her neck, but Lexa seemed oblivious to the cold. Evangeline kept close, her shoulder nearly brushing hers, as if intentionally closing the distance.

“It’s beautiful here,” Evangeline said after a pause. “Almost too much. Makes you want to take a bottle of wine, a blanket, and freeze to death against this picturesque backdrop.”

“Dramatic. You’re sure you didn’t study in London?”

“Almost. I was raised by an elderly governess with attachment issues. Does that count?”

Lexa gave a short huff. The corners of her lips twitched — and Evangeline noticed, of course she did.

“Yesterday you were… different,” Evangeline went on, her voice softer now. “Quiet. Cautious. Now — you’re back to being Lexa Ashborn: granite, ice, irony. So, are we reverting to our usual roleplay?”

“Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“It makes me… curious. But you don’t have to play if you don’t want to.”

Lexa didn’t answer. She kept walking, looking straight ahead. Shapes of the stables and the glow of lamps at the far edge of the training arena slipped past in the distance. Snow squeaked under their soles. And then, suddenly, she stopped.

“Ani and I are making a holiday dinner tomorrow. I thought… maybe you’d join us?”

Evangeline blinked, as if she hadn’t quite processed the words. Then she smirked.

“Are you serious?”

“Of course. Unless you have other plans.”

“I honestly thought you’d never invite me,” she said, turning to face Lexa. “But… wait. This is practically meeting the parents. In that case, I’m not coming. I ran away from New York specifically to avoid Christmas with parents.”

Lexa looked straight at her — no usual defensive smirk.

“Ani’s not parents. Though I suppose she’ll start the interrogation.”

“Perfect,” Evangeline chuckled. “I’ll wear my best pearls and bring wine. What do you usually serve at dinner with moral authorities?”

“Ireland, preferably in its entirety.”

“I’ll remember that,” Evangeline drawled, eyes narrowing slightly. “So you prefer radical measures. I’m starting to think you’re far less restrained than you pretend.”

“You’re wrong,” Lexa replied. “I just know how to wait.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a compliment.”

They passed a snow-covered fence that led to the old barn, now used for storing equipment. Evangeline brushed her shoulder against Lexa’s — seemingly by accident, but there was far too much intention in it to believe that.

“Well,” she said, leaning a bit closer, “I think I have frostbite on my left shoulder now. Next time I’ll wear a fur cape and look like the evil stepmother in a Christmas fairy tale.”

“It would suit you,” Lexa tossed back without looking.

“Your problem is you don’t know how to joke when you like someone.”

Lexa finally looked at her — squinting as if against the light, though more likely at the remark. She didn’t deny it. She didn’t confirm it. She just kept walking.

They rounded the barn, and just as Evangeline stepped forward, her foot slid on a thin patch of ice hidden under snow.

“Shit!”

A sudden movement, an uncertain flail of her hand — and Lexa caught her by the waist before she could fall. They froze: Evangeline almost hanging off her, fingers digging into Lexa’s shoulder. Their faces were inches apart. Evangeline’s breath touched Lexa’s skin. The scent of her perfume — faint, a little dusty, with a trace of jasmine — burned.

There was the tiniest, almost sly smile on Evangeline’s lips. But she didn’t pull away.

“Well then,” she whispered. “Now you really do have to invite me. For moral compensation.”

Lexa said nothing. And she looked at her lips for far too long. At the way they twitched in a smirk. Parted slightly — from the cold, or in anticipation of something. She felt something tighten low in her stomach: not fear, not embarrassment — something else entirely.

“I’ll think about it,” she said at last. Quietly. Almost a whisper.

“Well,” Evangeline breathed, not stepping back, “I hope not for long. I might not be able to resist. And accidentally fall again.”

“In that case, I’m afraid I’ll have to carry you. In a horse harness.”

“Dinner first, then your fetishes. One thing at a time.”

Lexa gave a huff, but it was closer to a laugh than her usual irony. And when Evangeline finally straightened, Lexa didn’t immediately release her waist.

Snow began falling again — in thin needles. Somewhere in the distance a rider passed, the horse snorting into the dusk, but here, between them, the air seemed to still: taut, trembling, fragile.

Evangeline ran her fingers along the collar of Lexa’s coat, as if idly, but her gaze still clung to her. No longer a challenge. Just… waiting.

“Do you want me to come to dinner, or do you just not want to be there alone?” she asked now, more quietly. Almost seriously.

Lexa didn’t answer right away.

“Are those different things?”

“Sometimes — no.”

And again, silence. The crunch of snow underfoot. And air that felt far too warm between two people who should have done something long ago — but for different reasons, both still stand still.

“Seriously, Lex. You’re going to greet your guest in that?” Ani, standing by the fireplace, gave Lexa a head-to-toe look, one brow arched.

“It’s Christmas, not a funeral,” Lexa replied dryly, catching her reflection in the window glass: thin straps, a backless cut almost to the shoulder blades, a smooth emerald-colored silhouette, silk draping over her body with unsettling frankness. “And for the record, I’m not fifteen.”

“Yeah? Then why are you acting like you’re fifteen and it’s your first ball?”

Lexa rolled her eyes and crossed to the table, fussing with something—mostly to keep her hands busy.

“I just don’t want her to think I was waiting for this visit,” she muttered, mostly to herself.

Ani smirked. Lightly, with a trace of tenderness—a tone Lexa almost never heard from her.

“You’re working so hard to fake indifference it’s basically starting to look like panic.”

“You know me too well,” Lexa said flatly.

“Exactly why you keep me in this house.”

“I keep you here because you can cook something other than oatmeal,” Lexa shot back. “And because you don’t ask too many questions.”

Ani set a bottle of wine on the table and took out three glasses.

“Tonight’s the exception. Sorry. Christmas. I’m in a… sentimental mood.”

The doorbell rang.

Both froze. Lexa straightened slowly, as if someone had dropped a five-kilo weight on her shoulders.

Ani glanced toward the door and gave a low chuckle.

“Well, go on then. Show me your best ‘just-happen-to-look-like-a-Vogue-cover’ walk.”

Lexa shot her a look but said nothing. She inhaled, exhaled—and went to the door.

Evangelina stood on the porch.

Tall. Devastatingly put-together. She wore a short champagne-colored dress with a faint shimmer, catching the light along her collarbones and the length of her legs. Over it—a pale coat, open at the chest. Waves of thick chestnut hair fell over her shoulders, catching the glow from outside. In her hands—gift bags neatly tied with ribbon.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, her voice a touch lower than usual, her smile slow, almost lazy.

For a moment, Lexa just looked at her. It felt like the air had been pulled from the room. Everything else blurred—garlands, candles, the faint scent of pine. Only Evangelina remained.

And she definitely felt it.

Her gaze slid down slowly—from Lexa’s face to her dress, then back again. The corner of her mouth twitched. Almost a smirk.

“Hope I’m not breaking the dress code,” she added.

“It’s fine,” Lexa managed, her voice lower than she meant. “Ani and I aren’t exactly… formal.”

Ani stepped closer, taking in Evangelina with a look that held both respect and a quiet hint of surprise. She nodded.

“Good evening. I’m Ani. Lexa’s coach. Amateur chef. Without me, she’d survive on oatmeal and pride.”

“Evangelina. East Coast. Runaway from family dinners.” She offered her hand. “Pleasure.”

“Come in,” Lexa said at last, stepping aside. “You’re right on time.”

Evangelina crossed the threshold, slipping off her coat and turning sideways to Lexa in the process—revealing the line of her back, the curve of her waist, the faint tremor of her shoulders in the light of the garlands.
Lexa didn’t stop herself: her gaze lingered longer than it should have.

As Ani passed by with a tray, she murmured under her breath:

“Try not to drop your glass… or your jaw when she smiles at you over dinner.”

The living room smelled faintly of citrus and dry wine.

Candles on the table crackled softly, throwing shifting shadows over crystal and glass. In the background, a muted instrumental version of Joni Mitchell’s River played—something light, melting, almost melancholy, like the echo of winters long gone. The tablecloth was cream, the china edged in gold. It all looked like it had been set not for guests, but for the sake of silence itself.

Lexa sat opposite Evangelina, her chair angled slightly so she wouldn’t be looking directly at her. And yet she looked. Across the table, through the thin shadows and the gleam of glassware—covertly, but intently.

Ani sliced cheese with confident, precise movements, as if it were some sort of training drill.

“So, tell me, Evangelina,” she said, her Russian accent brushing softly against the vowels, “what did you do in New York, aside from avoiding your parents?”

“Counted the days until I could come back to Colorado,” Evangelina replied with a crooked smile. “And argued with my aunt about whether oysters can be served at Christmas when no one in the family eats them.”
She adjusted the edge of the napkin on her lap without looking at anyone.

“And you?” she asked suddenly, lifting her gaze to Lexa. “Still starting your mornings in the arena, like a monk?”

“Six a.m. Wind in the face. Suffering. The meaning of life.” Lexa’s voice was dry, ironic. She sipped her wine. “Just how you like it.”

Evangelina tilted her head slightly, her lips slowly curving into a smile, as if she’d been waiting for that.

“I thought you didn’t think about me at all,” she said softly.

Lexa didn’t answer immediately. She just met her gaze. There was no challenge in it. Only warmth—dangerous, fragile.

“I can do more than one thing at a time,” she said quietly. “Consider it a talent.”

A pause followed, too long to be neutral.

Ani smirked to herself but stayed silent. Her movements had grown almost deliberately gentle, as if she didn’t want to break either the words or the looks being exchanged.

“Mmm. Dinner seems to have worked out,” she said after a moment. “Not in vain I spent three hours cooking and threatened to move out if Lexa ordered take-out again.”

“That was a one-time thing,” Lexa muttered.

“That was eight one-time things.”

Ani poured the wine, ruby liquid swirling into each glass. “Well then. A toast.”

She raised her glass.

“To… quiet winter evenings you never planned for. And to the people who know how to make them into something more.”

They clinked glasses.
The sound was soft, almost careful.

Evangelina drank slowly, never letting go of Lexa with her eyes. When she set her glass down, she said:

“Then mine. A toast.”

She leaned forward a little, elbows on the table’s edge, shoulders tipping ahead so that, in the candlelight, her dress shimmered like pale champagne.

“To spontaneous invitations. And to the times when waiting is worth it.”

Lexa barely breathed while she spoke. Then—without another word, without breaking eye contact—she lifted her glass in return and took a sip.

“I feel like I should leave right now,” Ani cut in, distracted by something on her phone, her expression that of someone far too seasoned to bother faking innocence. “I’ve been summoned by the other coaches. They’re meeting without me—like they can discuss their delightful, stubborn, silent protégés without professional supervision.”

Lexa shot her a look.

“What? Now?”

“Very urgent.” Ani was already pulling on her coat, grabbing her keys. “Almost like a fire.”

“Ani…”

“Lexa.” She reached the door, and without looking back, added, “Don’t forget to put the wine in the fridge. Or don’t. Let’s see which of you lasts longer.”
And she left, taking with her the faint scent of perfume, the soft click of the door, and an almost tangible silence.

Lexa remained standing, glass in hand, spine straight, shoulders just tense enough.

“That was… subtle,” Evangelina said at last, head tilting to the side.

“I’m firing her.”

Lexa turned, meeting her gaze.

“Don’t be surprised. She has a pretty quick sense for situations.”

“And you?” Evangelina stood. Slowly, without looking away. “How quick is your sense for situations, Lexa?”

Lexa stayed silent for a few beats, set her glass down, and stepped closer—but not too close.

“Depends on the situation.”

“And if the situation is… this?”
Evangelina stood opposite her, partly in shadow, but her eyes glowed—whether from candlelight or something else entirely.
Her shoulder almost touched Lexa’s, but didn’t.

“What would you do then?”

Lexa looked at her. At her mouth, then back to her eyes—confident, a little mocking, and yet vulnerable in the smallest, hardest-to-see ways.
The pause stretched. The air grew thicker, quieter, warmer.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Maybe this time… I won’t run.”

Evangelina stepped forward, and Lexa retreated half a step—reflex, inertia. Her back hit the sideboard.

Evangelina didn’t move right away. She simply stood there, calm, silent, studying her like she was cataloguing every millimeter of reaction—from the crown of her head to her fingers curled around the empty glass.

“You’re still the same,” she said at last, quiet, almost thoughtful. “All steel on the outside, and chaos underneath.”

Lexa said nothing. Her jaw tightened, like she was about to speak—then changed her mind. Her shoulders stayed square, but her breathing was off, her chest rising a little faster than she’d like. And Evangelina saw it.

She took another step, closing the gap until she was almost against her.

A space that smelled of wine, candles, and the sharp edge of perfume. A space where every movement felt almost intimate.

“Remember,” she said, “how you once told me, ‘I don’t play games, I win them’?”

Lexa blinked. Sharply. Her gaze hardened, but her lips stayed pressed tight. Still silent.

“You lied.” Evangelina smiled. “You like being played with. Especially when you can’t stop it.”

Before Lexa could respond, slender fingers brushed her hand—light at first, almost accidental—then slid slowly along the inside of her forearm, tracing an invisible line to her wrist.

Lexa twitched. Slightly, but enough to betray herself.
She lifted her eyes—and met a gaze full of daring and wicked amusement.

“You’re trembling,” Evangelina noted softly. “Did you want this?”

“No.”

The word came low, sharp, almost hoarse.

“You’re pushing it.”

“Of course.”

Now her voice was right at Lexa’s ear.

“And you’ll let me. Because what you miss isn’t order. It’s you—the version of you who could lose control.”

Her fingers touched the edge of Lexa’s neckline. Slid higher—over the collarbones, toward her neck. She moved slowly, each motion deliberate. Pure provocation.

Lexa stood, pressed to the sideboard. She didn’t resist. But she didn’t move either. Her breathing was audible now—uneven, jagged.

“I’m not your…” she forced out, “…toy.” Her voice betrayed a tremor.

“Of course not.” Evangelina’s smile was almost gentle.

She withdrew her hand, as if granting Lexa a reprieve. For a second. For a breath.

“You’re no one’s. Which is exactly why you’re so tempting to claim.”

Then—a pause.
Then—her fingers touched Lexa’s cheek. Warm, sure, infuriatingly confident.
She held her gaze. No challenge. But a promise.

“You can stop me right now.”

The words hung between them like smoke from the ceiling.

“One step—and I’ll go.”

Lexa didn’t move. She didn’t even blink.
All her will was in the muscles of her jaw, in her tense fingers, in the back of her head pressed to the wood.
But she didn’t take that step.

Evangelina gave a small nod.
And then, slowly, like moving through water, leaned in.

Her lips touched just below Lexa’s ear. Feather-light. Almost air. Then—lower. Jawline. Cheekbone. The outline of her mouth.

“Still haven’t stopped me,” she murmured.

And in the next moment, she kissed her.

Not softly. Not gently.
In that kiss, Evangelina poured everything—everything she’d held back. All the months. All the hints. All her contempt for Lexa’s coldness and every memory of what it was like—when she melted.

The kiss was warm, commanding, almost angry. And Lexa kissed back. Not right away. But she did.

Her fingers gripped Evangelina’s waist. Her lips trembled but didn’t pull away. For a moment, she surrendered completely—no plan, no defenses, no mask.

Then—she broke it off sharply.

Her breathing was ragged, her gaze blurred. She looked at Evangelina like it was for the first time.

“That was a mistake,” she said. But her voice gave her away.

“And you said you wouldn’t run this time,” Evangelina smirked.

Lexa didn’t answer. She stood there, breathing hard, hair mussed as if she’d just been dragged from underwater. Her lips were flushed, her eyes darker than usual—clouded, predatory. And still she stayed silent.

But Evangelina knew how to read her. She saw it in the smallest flashes of emotion across her face, felt it in the way Lexa’s fingers tightened on her waist. In the way she didn’t step back. And in the way she looked at her.

Undefended. For the first time.

“Lexa,” she whispered. Not as a summons. As a trigger.

And she kissed her again.

This time—no pauses, no questions, no challenge. Just action. Direct, insistent, demanding. She pressed her body fully against hers, as if to erase the boundary Lexa had kept between herself and the rest of the world for years.

And Lexa responded instantly.

Unthinking. Instinctive.

Her fingers tangled in Evangelina’s hair, tugging. The kiss turned deep, messy, sharp as a blade against the inside of a wrist. Lexa kissed with fury, with desperation. As if something inside her had cracked. As if someone had sprung a lock she’d sealed with a triple click.

The dress snagged on the sideboard. Fingers skimmed over bare skin. Fabric shifted, tore under grasping hands, the scent of wine and perfume mingling with the heat of flushed skin.

They moved through the living room, bumping chairs, spilling into shadow. Somewhere, a vase fell from the table, but neither noticed.

Lexa was no longer holding back.

No composure, no regal posture, not a shred of her usual control. Just breathing—harsh, loud, ragged. Just hands—grabbing, pressing, scratching. Just kisses—hungry, tearing, like she’d been starving for a lifetime.

Evangelina backed toward the couch, and Lexa pushed her down first. Already on top, already leading, already pinning her as if she wanted to dissolve into her, as if she was searching for salvation not on the training field, but beneath someone else’s skin.

“There you are,” Evangelina breathed between kisses, one hand tracing the line of her spine, the other gripping her thigh. “The real one.”

Lexa didn’t answer. She only lowered her mouth to her neck, her collarbone, lower. Tongue, teeth, breath. It all blurred together.

Candlelight wavered on the walls. The room filled with the sounds of breathing, rustling fabric, quiet gasps.

This wasn’t just sex. It was release. Lexa moved like she was taking revenge on someone for her own vulnerability. Like she was breaking out of armor. Like she wanted to lose herself. And at last, she let herself be alive.

She was wild. So much so that Evangelina let out a laugh mid-breath.

“You’re biting like you want to eat me alive.”

“Maybe I do,” Lexa rasped. “Shut up.”

They lay side by side, candlelight dancing on the walls, reflecting in their still-bright eyes. Their breathing slowly leveled, but inside, the quiet storm of want, doubt, and hope still swirled.

Lexa didn’t move, just stared at the ceiling, as if trying to figure out what had just happened and what it meant. Evangelina’s hand was warm on her shoulder—a simple touch that felt like the surest anchor.

“You know,” Lexa whispered, “I think I’ve been waiting for this for a long time. Just too afraid to admit it.”

Finally, Evangelina turned toward her. Their eyes met, and the world narrowed to just that—deep, bright, and a little sad.

She couldn’t resist—she leaned in, and their lips met again—soft at first, like a confession, then hotter, deeper, slow and hungry. The kiss stretched, as if time no longer existed, and between them there was only this—complete merging, absolute trust, and raw desire.

Evangelina’s fingers traced along Lexa’s jawline, brushing her cheeks and lips, teasing, drawing a faint shiver.

Lexa looped her arms around her neck, her lips and tongue answering every touch, every breath.

There was barely a pause—just the warm, searing exchange, where every part of their bodies spoke for itself.

“You’re shameless,” Lexa murmured when their lips broke for a second.

“You know,” Evangelina whispered, “this is only the beginning?”

Lexa smiled—quiet, faintly mocking.

“Yes. And I’m ready.”

The candlelight around them blurred, dissolving into their fierce touches and hot breaths.

In that moment, everything from before—doubts, fears, the cold—fell away, giving way to freedom and the live spark between them.

Chapter Text

Oxford. Present day.

Sometimes morning isn’t about light.

Sometimes it’s about the taste of someone else’s mouth you don’t want to remember. About the weight of a body you wish weren’t there. About a bed that smells of cheap cigarettes and spilled wine. About tacky skin, about a sharp silence where the heart keeps beating not because it’s alive, but because it hasn’t given up yet.

Clark lay on her back, staring at the white ceiling. A ray of sun crept through the halfdrawn curtain—a thin, almost humiliating line. Like a scar. Like a reminder of something once real.

She didn’t remember the girl’s name. Didn’t remember how they made it to the flat. All she had were scraps: smeared laughter, the street’s icy air, club music that seemed to keep playing in her head even now, in the quiet.

Her head hurt; her mouth was dry. An empty glass on the nightstand. Why does it always end like this?

She slipped out of bed quietly, trying not to wake the sleeper beside her. The girl breathed out something in her sleep—nonsense, almost childlike—and Clark, without looking back, went to the bathroom.

Cold water on her face. A mirror she didn’t want to meet.

She looked like she hadn’t slept in three years. Skin pale, lips chapped, a smudge of lipstick at the corner of her mouth. Not hers.

Clark stood for a long time with her arms wrapped around herself, as if she could hold something in place. But there was nothing left. No anger, no guilt. Only emptiness dusted with glitter.

She washed off the makeup. Pulled on a sweater and jeans. And she was back outside—like being tossed out again, an empty bottle.

The city was loud, alien, too bright. She walked without choosing streets until she found herself by the university library. Not because she wanted to study. Because you could still hide there.

“Clark?”

She turned. Imogen. White scarf, a book in her hands.

And in her voice there was that rare, unguarded softness that felt impossible this morning.

“Are you… okay?”

Clark smiled—slowly, crookedly.

“Of course. Brilliant. New day, new mistakes.”

Imogen narrowed her eyes.

“Was that sarcasm or… the truth?”

“Is there a difference?”

Wind battered the library windows, snuck under Clark’s jacket, dragged at her loose hair. She leaned on a column, hands shoved into her coat pockets, cigarette bitter at the corners of her mouth, indifference carefully staged.

“I was looking for you,” Imogen said softly, like she might scare her off. “You said you’d come to the seminar.”

Clark lifted her gaze lazily, eyes still on her phone screen.

“Sorry I didn’t clear my schedule with you, Mum,” she drawled. “Forgot to send you a copy of my planner.”

Imogen stopped a step away. Folder of notes in one hand, a steaming travel mug in the other.

“I was worried, Clark.”

“Aren’t you tired of that?” Clark flicked the lighter, but the flame died in the wind. “All of it: trailing me around campus, pitying me, watching me like I’m about to pop—like some soap bubble?”

Imogen sighed and silently held out the mug. Clark took it without looking and drank.

“Do you want me to say I’m fine?” Clark went on, a different register now—mocking, dulled. “That I’m doing great. That I don’t drink alone at three a.m. to Joy Division. That I don’t fuck people whose names I don’t bother to ask. That I don’t care about Team GB or who made it in. Should I say that?”

Imogen looked at her as if the person in front of her wasn’t Clark at all, but her charred shadow.

“I don’t need your confessions,” she said quietly. “I can see it all.”

Clark flicked the lighter again. This time it caught. The cigarette tip flared; she drew in, turning away.

“Then what do you want, Imogen? You want me to sob on your shoulder? Admit I’m dying without her? Send her a letter via the bloody BBC?”

“I want you to stop acting like you don’t care,” steel edged into Imogen’s voice. “You do care. You always have.”

“Me?” Clark laughed—hard, joyless. “Imogen, I’ve notcared for a long time. You know what changed after her interview?”

“Everything,” Imogen said, unblinking. “You changed. In your eyes, your gait, the way you hold a cigarette, how you talk, how you walk, how you go silent.”

Clark pushed off the column sharply.

“Enough. Stop dissecting me. I’m not your term paper.”

“And you’re not a ruined castle we can just ignore,” a spark of anger flickered in Imogen’s tone. “Clark, you’re not a party. Not a cigarette. Not someone’s ex. You’re a person, you’re my friend, and I can’t stand here and watch you wreck yourself because—”

“Not because of her!” Clark almost shouted. A few students turned their heads. She bit her lip. “Not because of her,” she repeated, quieter, barely audible. “This is me. It’s only me.”

Imogen shut her eyes a moment, inhaling through her teeth. Then she stepped closer. Very close.

“Then tell me the truth. Once. Just once. Look at me and say that when you saw that interview it didn’t feel like someone carved you out from the inside.”

Silence. Only the wind. Only a string pulled tight in her chest till it hurt.

Clark didn’t answer. She stared past her. Inward.

“She didn’t even say your name,” Imogen whispered. “But you heard it in every bloody pause between her words.”

Clark laughed softly. Sad. Almost childlike.

“God, Imogen. Sometimes you talk like someone wrote you into a tragedy.”

“And you—like you already died in it.”

Clark closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, there it was again—what scared Imogen most: not pain, but the emptiness where pain had long since thinned out and vanished.

“I have to go,” she said quietly. “I… have a meeting.”

“Another her?”

Clark didn’t answer. She stubbed the cigarette out on the heel of her boot.

“Does she even know who she’s sharing your body with?”

“And do you know who you’re trying to save?”

Before Imogen could reply, Clark turned and walked away—into the shadow of the trees, into the hum of empty paths, into the eye of the storm she’d built for herself.

Imogen stood alone, fingers locked tight around her folder. The wind tore at the pages. Somewhere behind the library glass, music played.

And nothing but her own heartbeat kept the silence from breaking apart completely.

Clark walked fast, almost blind. The pavement crumbled under her shoes as if the surface had gone unsteady. City noise fractured on the edges—cars, footsteps, other people’s conversations. Everything was too loud, too real.

When her phone buzzed, she knew who it was.

“Yeah,” she snapped without checking the screen.

“Clark.”

“Mum.”

A pause. The kind that twanged like a wire, as always.

“Did you get my message?”

“If this is another family protocol for reputation rehab—yes.”

“Don’t be snide. This matters. A week from now there’s a reception—fund reps, journalists, your sponsors.”

“My sponsors,” Clark twisted her mouth, “unfollowed my Stories ages ago.”

Abigail exhaled into the line. Not irritated—trained restraint, maternal cool.

“This isn’t a discussion, Clark. You will attend. Well dressed, sober, and coherent. We need your name back in public view. You still have a chance.”

“A chance?” Clark stopped dead. “Mum, I’m twentyone. I’m not a tumor you have to rush to cut out.”

“No. But you’re a Griffin. And that carries obligations.”

“God, do you hear yourself?”

“I do. And you? Look at what you’re doing to yourself. Look at you.”

For a heartbeat there was only quiet. People passed; no one looked at her. No one knew she was slowly splitting open from the inside.

“I’m not coming,” she said hoarsely. “I won’t play your vanity fair. I won’t stand there in some bloody dress with a flute of champagne pretending I’m not coming apart.”

“I’m giving you three days to think. Then you’ll tell your father and me what you’ve decided.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then you can say it to the paparazzi at the gallery door. Looking as you do now.”

Click. Tone.

Clark exhaled hard and smashed the phone against the nearest wall. The pieces flew, shards of anger. Passersby startled; someone turned, someone sped up. She didn’t look at anyone. Only at her breathing. At how it tore out of her throat, heavy, hot, ragged.

She wiped a hand over her face, then her hair, and just kept walking—as if the phone had never existed.

Two hours later, in the warm, anonymous brightness of an electronics store, she stood at the counter with a new smartphone. Her fingers trembled as she typed her Apple ID. Backup. Restore.

She opened contacts, messages repopulated, and she found her.

No name. Just a number. Last draft—nearly six weeks old. Never sent.

She stared at the screen for a long time, then finally typed:

[K.Griffin] Where are you?

The reply came five minutes later.

[.?.] So you do  want to learn my name?

Clark wet her dry lips with her tongue. Inside was cold and empty.

[K.Griffin] No. I just want everything to disappear.

A short pause.

[.?.] Sounds familiar.
[.?.] The bar on Fifth?

[K.Griffin] You read my mind, angel.
[K.Griffin] In an hour.

[.?.] On my way.

Clark killed the screen and, for a moment, stood looking at her reflection in the shopfront—dull eyes, bruised halfmoons, jacket hanging open. She didn’t recognize herself, and still—didn’t want to be anyone else.

And she walked again. Into the dark.

The bar was halfempty. The kind that sells alcohol without questions, where the DJ spins only vinyl, and the light is like the afterimage of someone else’s dreams—smeared, yellow, like film on old photographs. Flaking plaster walls, a ceiling that looked ready to drop—exactly why it throbbed at night. But now—only the first tide of people, those who came because they couldn’t not. Like Clark.

She stepped in without taking off her coat, slipped past the counter, and spotted her almost immediately. Inkblack hair. Bladesharp cheekbones. Half a head taller than Clark, maybe more, even without heels. Black blazer over a sheer blouse, a short skirt, and a face that expressed nothing. Only the mouth—tilted at the corners. Like someone who always knows something.

“Rockstar,” she drawled when Clark approached. “Back for an encore?”

“You still call me that?”

“And you still look like you just bailed on tour and forgot your address.”

Clark’s smile went crooked; her eyes dropped to the neckline.

“Sheer blouse. Unexpectedly modest.”

“I’m growing up. You aren’t.”

They looked at each other in silence. No romance in it—just tension, electric, humming like wires in the rain. Clark tipped her head slightly.

“You’re prettier than I remember.”

“Sobriety is a vicious liar.”

“Or the lighting. It flatters everyone here.”

They laughed. Easy, tipsy—even if they weren’t drunk. Not yet.

“Drink?” the stranger asked, already turning to the bar.

“Only if you pour.”

“I always pour.”

A couple minutes later they each had a glass. Bourbon for Clark. Something clear with lime for her. They clinked without looking away. The first swallows burned—throat, gut, memory.

“Where were you all this time?” Clark asked.

“Far away. Where no one tries to screw me in a toilet.”

“Tragic life.”

“Mindnumbingly dull.”

Clark drank again. Lips burning. Cheeks too. The music swelled, but they stayed by the wall as if inside their own cocoon.

“Come on.” The stranger took her wrist. “Dance floor’s waiting.”

Clark didn’t argue. She didn’t want to. Her body reached for another body as naturally as night reaches for morning. The floor grew crowded. Hot. Dense. The stranger moved like she had nothing to apologize for—slow, precise hips, each touch calculated.

Clark laughed when hands slid along her waist. Tipped her head back, pressed her spine into her, let fingers slip under her Tshirt. It was all a game. A bluff. A shield. A way to hurt herself on purpose.

“People are watching,” she whispered, without protest.

“They’re jealous.”

“Or want in.”

“I don’t share.”

Clark turned, pressed chesttochest, fingers clamping the stranger’s sharp shoulders. The music crashed. The world shook.

“You’re going to fall in love with me.”

“Promise?”

They laughed again. And then—vanished down the corridor to the toilets.

It smelled of mold, antiseptic, and other people’s stories. A cracked mirror, peeling walls, a dim bulb buzzing in time with the drone in her head. Clark shoved her inside and elbowed the door shut. It happened too fast—and had been building too long.

“Seriously,” Clark breathed as hands pushed at her jeans, “are you always this…”

“Fast?” she murmured against Clark’s mouth.

“Hungry.”

“With you—yes.”

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a demand. Control. Punishment. Clark pinned both wrists to the wall and kissed like she meant to erase months of loneliness, hangovers, indifference. A kiss turned bite; a bite turned into a sound torn from the throat. The stranger arched against the cold tile, legs opening like a ritual that needed no language.

Clark’s hand slid under the skirt—rough, unasking. The rest blurred into a hard, breathless tangle: she forced her back to the wall, gripped her throat with one hand and took what she wanted with the other—movements sharp, careless, closer to a fight than anything tender. Nails carved Clark’s shoulder blades—not as a caress but a mark: I’m here, I’m real, we’re both going under.

The stranger came quick, loud, head thrown back, hair sticking to her neck with sweat.

Clark didn’t stop.

“Too fast,” she grated. “What, you missed me?”

“No. I just know what I want.”

Clark breathed her in—alcohol, powder, sweat, tobacco—and crushed her mouth again. Dirtier now. Wet. Mindless. She ground against her, dragged a hand down her stomach and lower, driving harder, at a different angle—relentless, unsparing. The stranger shook, arched, moaned into Clark’s mouth, not hiding a thing.

“Go on,” she rasped. “Break me.”

“Count it done,” Clark shoved her, catching the edge of the sink to keep her balance.

When it was over, they could barely stand. Knees loose, breath ragged. Clark looked in the mirror: hair wrecked, lips swollen, shadows under her eyes black as soot. Beside her—the Stranger, a small smile, a scratch at her collarbone, a strange calm in her gaze.

Then she pulled a zip bag with white powder from her pocket, like this had been inevitable.

“You want everything to vanish so badly,” she said, offering oblivion again. “I’m just helping you forget.”

The smell was familiar—not the powder itself, but what came after. Silence. Numbness. The deadening.

Clark didn’t take it immediately—she hung there for a heartbeat in the flicker of the bad light over the door. The tiles were slick underfoot; her fingers still trembled from the climax, but it wasn’t pleasure—it was something more predatory. As if there lived inside her another version of herself—the one that didn’t fear, didn’t feel, didn’t remember. The one that came out only to bass lines and the scrape of someone else’s nails down her thighs.

“You know it works,” the Stranger smirked, rolling the baggie like a magician flips a card. “One breath. And it’s gone. Promise.”

Clark exhaled. And took the packet.

“Just to shut the voice in my head,” she muttered, almost apologizing—not to the Stranger, to someone else.

“Shut them all up. Not just yourself,” the Stranger whispered, trailing a finger along Clark’s cheek, a staticbright line.

Everything smeared. Edges, breath, thoughts. As if someone had poured bleach into her skull and it burned away everything: names, faces, cause and effect.

Clark stood with her forehead against the cool tile, breathing. Not because she wanted to—because the body still did it on its own. In. Out. Whatever.

She didn’t think of Lexa. Didn’t think of the team, of her mother, of the lectures she hadn’t been to in two weeks. Didn’t even think of her own body, which she’d just used like it wasn’t hers—like a weapon, like a way to make the noise inside finally shut up.

Just… off.

She didn’t know the girl’s name. Didn’t remember what she’d said before ripping her clothes. Everything blended into a wet, trembling lump pulsing between her legs and in her temples.

But it was meaning. Or its parody at least. A moment that didn’t need thinking. No need to explain why the word “congratulations” in a BBC interview made her chest ache. Why it made her want to howl and smash glass with her fists.

Just breathe and it all disappears. Promise, she repeated in the Stranger’s voice. A voice she’d heard before—in another toilet, to another song, with the same shine in someone’s eyes.

It burned her nose. Worse than the burn was this: it worked.

Everything vanished. Pain. Guilt. Even Lexa’s face—drained of color, alien, stolen from a dream. Only Clark remained, turned inside out, eyelids sticking, ears ringing, sliding down under the tile, under the concrete, under the earth.

Forget.

That’s all. That’s it. Oblivion in exchange for control. For strength. For memory.

Clark laughed, a dry rasp, no longer sure whose laughter it was.

Probably not hers.

They were back on the dance floor—as if no time had passed between Clark pressing her brow to the tile and the spotlights cutting her pupils open. As if the world had simply hit rewind like old tape—crackle, a jumpy hum in the speakers.

Now it was loud. Too loud. Each movement cut at her body—but it was better than feeling from the inside. Better than hearing what hammered at her ribs.

Clark danced like she was trying to tear out what thoughts were left.
Head thrown back, fingers digging into her thighs, the music pushing through her skin. The Stranger was close—behind, beside, in front. Sliding like a snake. Anticipating, shoving, pinning, a hand at Clark’s throat.

Everything blurred. Light. Glasses underfoot.
Hands—someone’s—skimming her waist; she wasn’t sure if they were hers.

She laughed. Hoarse. Mean. On inertia.

At some point—ten minutes, an hour—the Stranger kissed her again. Didn’t ask. Not gentle. Teeth clacked.

“Let’s go,” she breathed. And Clark went.

The cab smelled of air freshener and somebody’s broken life plans. They sat in the back and said nothing. Clark—swollen mouth, wedged into the corner, fingers trembling. The Stranger—eyes halfclosed, a hand heavy on Clark’s thigh.
The car rocked them like a womb. Everything swam.

The flat was tight but expensive.
Exposed brick, glass and steel. Halflight; a single kitchen lamp glowed dull in the corner. Clark didn’t take off her shoes. She crossed the parquet straight to the bedroom. The girl followed.

This time—no foreplay.
No jokes. No lines except one:

“Undress,” the Stranger said.

And Clark obeyed. Not because she wanted to—because she didn’t want to think.
Because something inside was howling: more, harder, empty me out, wipe me clean.

The Stranger pinned Clark’s hands over her head. One palm, both wrists. With her other hand she yanked Clark’s jeans down—careless, forceful, buttons popping.

Clark arched like a drawn bow. From the cold. From anger. From need.

“You like it when it hurts?” the girl whispered, moving lower.

“I like it when it’s real,” Clark ground out.

What followed was rough and deliberate: no easing in, no mercy. Clark didn’t scream. She clenched her teeth and drove her heels into the sheet. The sheet was black. Dense. Like a body bag.

Teeth at her chest. Then at her collarbone. A bite—drawing blood. Clark jerked, but didn’t push her off. She drank the pain like venom. Like oxygen. Like an excuse.
Then a kiss to her stomach—like a spit. A dare. A brand.

Clark tore free, sat up, stripped off what clothing remained.
Fisted a hand in the girl’s hair and hauled her up to meet her eyes.

“Hurt me. Or leave.”

The Stranger smirked.

“You’re stunning when you come apart.”

She reached out and squeezed Clark’s throat again. Harder this time.
Clark choked—and moaned. Not from fear. From freedom.

Fingers, mouth, nails, hips—it all blurred. Positions flipped by the minute.
Clark on top. Then underneath. Then slamming into the headboard.
Then the Stranger’s mouth on her thigh, leaving wet and teeth behind.

They fucked like strangers who would never meet again.
Like people intent on beating the last warmth out of the other and pitching it out the window.

“Louder,” the girl whispered. “You want to be heard.”

“I want to be gone,” Clark rasped.

Grapple. Sweat. Tears. A bite. Scratches along her thighs. Blood on the sheets.

And then—the drop. Not an orgasm. A collapse.
Like someone shut the lights on the whole world.

Clark lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her chest heaved.
Beside her—a body. Strong. Hot. Indifferent.

“So, rockstar,” the girl breathed, “want a third act?”

Clark didn’t answer. She only closed her eyes.
She wasn’t here anymore. Not in this room. Not in this body.

The morning smelled of coffee and sweat.
And something sweet-bitter. Oblivion, maybe.

Clarke woke to the feel of another body—warm, naked, sliding confidently under the sheet and pressing against her back.
The Stranger’s lips touched her shoulder. One kiss. Another. Then—lower.
Rough. Without tenderness. But not without want.

Clarke didn’t pull away. She only exhaled softly and rolled over.
Sticky with sweat, hair a tangled mess, red marks still on her thighs.
In this light, she looked almost innocent. Almost—if not for the swollen lips and the lingering ache between her legs.

“Good morning, rock star,” the woman smirked, dragging a finger down Clarke’s chest to her stomach.

“What makes you think it’s good?” Clarke muttered, but didn’t move away.

“Because you’re still here.”

Clarke snorted. She reached out, set her hand on the woman’s thigh, squeezed lightly.
Dirty, lazy lust slid between them again, like a second sheet.

“Were you expecting me to disappear?” Clarke asked, biting her lip.

“Mmh. Usually, girls like you run off without even putting their panties on.”

“And I’m not like that?”

The woman smirked. Leaned in, caught Clarke’s bottom lip between her teeth, kissed her hard.
The kiss was long, wet, tasting of the night and something sharp, almost cruel. Hands moved down again—familiar, as if not even an hour had passed.
Fingers gripped her thighs.
Clarke’s breasts flared with a dull ache—from yesterday’s bites. She moaned into the kiss. She felt good. As good as it can be in Hell, when everything else is worse.

“Want coffee?” the woman murmured, standing up, still naked.

“Only if it comes with a side dish,” Clarke smirked, propping herself on her elbows.

Minutes later they were back in bed—mugs steaming, a rolled hundred-dollar bill and a neat line of white powder laid out on the plate beside them.

“Breakfast of champions,” the Stranger chuckled, sliding the mirror closer.

Clarke inhaled without flinching.
Her head tipped back. Inside—an icy flash, followed by warmth curling over her nerves. The world tilted slightly. In the good direction.

“Well?” she asked, licking her lip. “Still think I’m going to disappear?”

The woman smirked, leaned forward and straddled her, mug in one hand.
Kissed her—slow, with mounting pressure, tongue deep.
Fingers trailed down her stomach, between her legs again, asking for no permission.
Their knees brushed the coffee cup; it wobbled, but didn’t spill.

“I still think you want to disappear,” she whispered against Clarke’s ear. “I’m just helping you do it.”

Clarke laughed. Dry. Low.
Held her breath. Pressed closer.

“What’s your name?” she exhaled. Not asking. Not pleading. A challenge.

“That’s not something we need right now.” The Stranger smirked, looking her in the eye with defiance, her hand stroking the inside of Clarke’s thigh.

The Stranger kissed her again. Rough, yanking her hair, pulling her in.
And this wasn’t romance.
It was a form of survival.

Chapter Text

Imogen hadn’t slept.

Well—she had slept, in snatches, with bursts of a racing heartbeat tearing her out of dreams and waves of cold spilling through her ribs. The dreams were short, anxious, inappropriately vivid: Clarke in someone else’s jacket disappearing behind the glass doors of a station, Clarke smoking without turning around, Clarke standing barefoot on a ledge with a burned-out stare. Her face was always slightly wrong: the corner of her mouth different, eyes wider, hair shorter or darker. And still, it was her.

The apartment breathed emptiness.

Imogen was standing again at Clarke’s door. Her palm on the handle, but she didn’t open it. She just stood. Listened.

Silence.

The kind of silence that seeps between the walls, soaking up objects, smells, the unsaid. By the third day it no longer fooled her—no footsteps, no light, no faint squeak of the mattress, no barely audible click of a lighter. Clarke hadn’t been sleeping there. Clarke hadn’t been coming back.

Imogen pulled her hand away and leaned her forehead against the doorframe. Stayed like that, eyes closed.

“Where are you,” she whispered.

The question wasn’t for Clarke. It was for the emptiness. For the walls. For God, if he was listening.

At first—yes, she’d been angry. At the whole “Stop picking me apart. I’m not your thesis,” nonsense, at those clipped glances by the library, at the way Clarke wriggled out and vanished. Imogen had tried to see it rationally three times over—people need distance, space, silence. This isn’t about you. It’s not personal.

But on the second evening, when she walked into Clarke’s room, turned on the light and saw everything untouched, just as she’d left it—the charger still in the outlet, the jacket over the back of the chair, the notebook with a folded page corner—she understood. This wasn’t pulling away. It was leaving. A flight.

And on the third, she started to be afraid.

She texted her. First politely: you okay?, then insistently, then just: answer.
No reaction. Just the blue tick, sometimes not even that.
She called. Once the first day. Three times the second. On the third day—every hour. No answer. Then—phone off. Or she was hanging up. Or she just didn’t want to.

And now the fourth evening.

Imogen sat in the kitchen. The tea in her mug had long gone cold. The bulb in the ceiling hummed. The stove was off, but it still radiated heat. She couldn’t eat. Couldn’t read. Couldn’t think.

Just live inside this unknowing.

Every creak in the hallway made her start. Every step—freeze. Maybe it was her. Maybe she’d come back. Maybe just…

But she didn’t.

Nobody comes back on the fourth night without warning, unless—

“Stop it,” she said aloud to herself. Her voice sounded alien.
She pushed herself up from the table, walked down the hallway, and found herself again at Clarke’s door.

The handle was cold. Unlocked. They never locked it.

Imogen opened it slowly.

The room looked the same as in the morning, as yesterday, as on the third day.
The smell of tobacco in the air. The window slightly open. On the sill—her old lighter.

And yet—nothing alive.
No trace of breath.
Only emptiness, neatly left behind by someone who had no intention of coming back.

Imogen sat on the edge of the bed. Someone else’s bed. Leaned back against the wall and hugged her own shoulders.
She didn’t cry. Her tears had run out long ago. Only a mute panic remained—creeping out of her chest, sticky and vicious, choking her throat.

What if—

The doorbell.

Sharp, loud. In that silence—it was like a gunshot.

Imogen froze.

One—two—three. A second ring.

She stood up. Walked slowly to the hallway. Peered through the peephole.

A man. Tall. Black coat. Scarf. Light-blond, close-cropped hair. Standing straight, as if at a parliamentary hearing, not someone’s front door.

Imogen opened it.

He didn’t smile.

“I’m looking for Clarke.”

A pause. His gaze held.

Imogen went rigid. It was him.
Clarke’s father.

They stood in silence.

She held the door open as if still deciding whether to let him in. But she knew she had no choice.
He stepped inside. Didn’t even glance around. Just walked deeper in, like into an empty church that hadn’t changed in ten years.
Then—he turned. Looked at her.

“You knew,” he said quietly.
No punctuation in his voice. Just a statement.

Imogen shook her head. Too sharply.

“I… no. I mean—I don’t know where she is. She…” her voice broke. “She’s gone.”

He said nothing.

Imogen clenched her fists.

“Four days, Mr. Griffin. Four days. No calls, no texts. Phone off. Nothing in her room. Not one change of shirt, even her passport’s gone. I… I really don’t know. I’d tell you, I swear, if I did.”

He paced the kitchen. Stopped at the window. Didn’t pull the curtain—just stared at the glass, as if he could find the answer in the reflection.

“You know,” he began, quietly, with a pause, “when she was little, she couldn’t fall asleep unless someone sat beside her. Even if I came home late at night—she’d hear the door, get up, and tiptoe through the whole house. Just to lie down next to me, without a word. I thought—she’d grow out of it.”
He looked at Imogen.

“She didn’t.”

Imogen looked away. Her throat tightened.

“She… she changed. After everything. After the tournament. After Valencia.”

“After herself,” he cut in. “Not outside circumstances. Not ‘Valencia.’ Not ‘everything.’ Her.”
He stepped closer again.

“And you, Imogen. Where have you been all this time?”

“I’m here. I’ve always been here. Only she…”

Imogen stopped.
Because the truth felt like betrayal. Because she’d kept quiet too long, kept her eyes shut too tightly.
Because sometimes even love is cowardice.

Mr. Griffin exhaled and sat at the table. Pulled a tablet from his coat.

“This is a list of names. Addresses. People she’s been seen with the past three weeks. Clubs. Parties. One’s the owner of an apartment on Sloane Street. Another—a student expelled from economics for drug possession. A third—a photographer. Modeling business, murk, filth.”

He handed her the tablet.

“She hasn’t just left, Imogen. She’s running head-first into the pit.”

Imogen took the device. Her hands shook.

“Why did you come to me?” she asked.

He lifted his eyes.

“Because if there’s even one person in this fucking world she still trusts, even one besides herself—it’s you.”

Imogen couldn’t speak, just stared at Clarke’s father.

“Or you betrayed her the same way we did.”

The words hung in the air. Soft. Almost weary. But they landed like a slap.
Imogen slowly set the tablet on the table—as if afraid she might shatter along with the screen—and spoke.

“No. I didn’t betray her. I couldn’t.”

Her voice shook. She straightened, as if to walk a tightrope he’d just thrown at her feet.

“I didn’t know what to do. It all got… too much. She came back—and from day one it was like she was in another world. She shut herself off.”

Imogen took a breath.

“I tried, I swear. I sat with her at night when her hands were shaking. I covered for her with professors when she skipped classes. I…”
Her voice cracked.

“I loved her. I love her. Not like you, not like—” she stopped, unable to go on, “—not like all those obsessed with surnames and medals. I just…”

Her shoulders trembled.

“She’s my friend.”

Mr. Griffin said nothing. Looked at her with an unreadable expression—like he was reading an X-ray, not a living person.

“And you too,” she threw at him, “you talk like none of this is your fault. Like you didn’t know how much she was hurting. How she burned under your gaze at those fucking dinners.”

Imogen stepped closer.

“Where were you when she needed not a strategy, but just someone to listen? Not control, not reputation—someone to hug her and say, ‘You don’t have to be perfect to be loved.’”

He looked at her.
For a long time.
Then spoke—level, slow, with surgical precision:

“You know what I dislike most about people like you, Imogen?”

He stood.

“You think kindness is all it takes. That hugs cure trauma. That ‘I’m here’ is enough to hold someone who’s drowning.”

The pause went on too long.

“But if someone’s drowning—and you can’t swim—you drown with them. Or you run to get an adult.”

He picked his coat up from the chair.

“And you stood on the shore. And cried.”

Imogen recoiled as if he’d hit her.

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s the truth.”

He headed for the door.

“Wait,” her voice wavered again. “You want me to help. Then give me a chance. Tell me where to look. Who to talk to. You’ve been following her, you have addresses. I’ll go, I’ll find her. I’ll do anything.”

“Why?” He turned.

“Because I can’t live knowing she might be dead—and I didn’t even go after her.”

A long, punishing silence.
Then he came over, pulled a thin paper envelope from his pocket.

“Here’s one of the addresses.”

He set it on the dresser.

“But don’t you dare go alone. If she’s with the people I think—these aren’t the kind who open the door smiling.”

Imogen nodded. Wordless. Her face had gone pale.
He was already opening the door when he stopped.

“I don’t know what she’s turning into,” he said quietly, almost to himself, and shut the door behind him.

The door closed with that final-sounding note—like in operas, when the hero leaves the stage for good.
Imogen stood in the hallway. Motionless. Breathless.

Then she slowly turned her head, staring at the envelope. It lay on the dark wood like a brand, the kind burned into skin.
Too light, too innocent. Like a suicide note, like a sentence.

Imogen came over, took it between her fingers as if it might burn her. Opened it.
Inside—a sheet with several addresses. Handwritten. Sharp, cold, deliberate script. Even here, Mr. Griffin hadn’t let himself be human.

She read the addresses over and over. Trying to tease out anything familiar. A district. A place. A street. Everything felt torn away from her world—library, campus, park benches where Clarke liked to eat pastries from the student café. From everything that was “them.”

The world suddenly shrank. Like lungs underwater.

Imogen sat down on the edge of the couch. Fingers clenched the paper like the last anchor.
For the first time in all these days, she let herself cry. Not with tears—no. It was something else. Deeper. As if all the words she hadn’t managed to say suddenly burst out—and turned out empty, helpless, dead.

“Where are you…” she whispered into the room. “Where are you, Clarke?”

Silence. Only the tick-tock of an old clock that should’ve stopped long ago.

Her eyes burned. Something urgent, relentless throbbed under her ribs.
She grabbed her phone—not remembering which attempt this was.
Messages. Missed calls. All one-way. All into the void.

I’m not mad. Please, just tell me where you are.
Are you okay?
Just let me know you’re alive. That’s enough.

Imogen clapped a hand over her mouth. Gave a muffled sob. Thought: if she were dead—would you feel it?
As if there was still a thread between them. And if that thread ever snapped—she’d know.

But the thread held. For now.

She wiped her face on her sleeve. Stood. Began pacing the room—back and forth, like in a cage. Thoughts battered the inside of her skull. She had to do something. Go somewhere. Call someone. Not just sit here like… like…

Like the guilty one.

On the wall hung their photo together. Clarke—squinting, as if the sun was in her eyes. Imogen—beside her, still cheerful, still believing closeness was forever.
She turned away.

“All right,” she told herself. “All right.”

She turned on her phone. Opened the city map.
Started adding the addresses to routes. One by one.

Tomorrow she had classes. An essay on Virginia Woolf. A colloquium. Drama club rehearsal.
She’d skip it all.

Because if she missed something now—there might not be a second chance.

Imogen sat on the floor by the bed, knees pulled to her chest, back to the wall. The apartment was unnaturally quiet—even the heating seemed soundless. Outside, a weak, pointless snow was falling. Damp greyness smeared the glass, and she no longer remembered which evening without Clarke this was.

You always prided yourself on feeling people. On picking up moods. On being there—really there. And what?

Her eyes burned, but she didn’t let herself cry again. Not now.
She had a plan. Fragile. Naïve. But a plan.

She’s my best friend. She’s my Clarke. I know her. I have to know. She can’t just disappear. She wouldn’t…

Imogen hugged herself tighter, palms gripping her elbows.
…she wouldn’t not come back if she could come back. Which means—she can’t.

That was the scariest part. Not whims, not a silent treatment. Not drama. But real, almost tangible danger. Dark, adult, sticky. The kind that makes the hair stand on the back of your neck. The kind they don’t teach you to recognize in “modern poetry as an act of experience” seminars.

“God,” she breathed, lips trembling.

On the floor beside her lay her switched-off phone. Imogen picked it up again, eyes fixed on the marks on the map.
The first address—a club in Soho. Second—a bar by the old market.
Third… she didn’t even recognize the name. But it smelled like trouble.

She got up.

Pulled on her coat. Not because she was ready—but because otherwise she’d just stay here until morning, and then another day. And another.

On the nightstand was a note Clarke had written a few weeks ago:
You buy weird milk. It tastes like soap.

Imogen took it, shoved it into her pocket.
Just in case.

She pulled up her hood, hid her face. Outside was the same: no people, no sounds. Snow-dust flew into her face, clung to her lashes.

Fine. If you’ve decided to play detective, Imogen Rowe—play big.

She took out her headphones, put on Clarke’s old playlist.
Loud, dirty, pulsing.
A funny choice.
But if there’s anywhere to look—it’s in her world.

Clubs. Alleyways. The smell of smoke. She remembered how Clarke sometimes came into the apartment at three in the morning—with eyes like she was hanging on the last thread of the whole rope she’d ever had in her hands. Like home wasn’t home.

Imogen got into her car, started the engine, and eased out of the parking spot, gripping the wheel so hard her knuckles went white.

Please be there.
Or at least… some kind of trail.

Imogen didn’t find it right away. Fifth Street was harsh, uneven — the asphalt here felt worn down like shoes long past their prime, and the signs sold dirty light, as if hiding the truth behind glass. The bar had no name — just faded letters telling you you were almost there, if you hadn’t changed your mind.

She went in.

Inside, it smelled of damp dust and spilled whiskey, though at first glance — everything seemed tolerable. Nothing jumped out. Everything seemed to live its own sluggish, amnesiac life, where every face was forgotten, every gesture second-hand.

The light was yellow, almost warm. Almost. It wrapped around you like you’d been here before. Even if you hadn’t.

Imogen froze in the doorway. Then — walked to the bar.

“Gonna order something, princess?” The bartender’s voice was tired, but not unfriendly. He didn’t even look at her.

“I’m looking for a friend,” she began, choosing her tone as if her right to exist here depended on it. “She was here two days ago. Blonde. About my height. With…” She swallowed. “With a girl. Probably making a scene.”

The bartender smirked without lifting his eyes from the glasses.

“Oh, the one who almost put on a porn show right on the dance floor? Yeah, that happened. With a brunette, I think.”

Imogen tensed.

“A brunette? You know her?”

“What, you think I check IDs?” He snorted. “But no. She’s not local. The other one, yeah… she’s been here a couple of times. Always at different hours. Alone. Or not alone. But the last time…”

He shot her a sideways glance.

“The last time, she looked like she wanted to disappear. You know what I mean?”

Imogen didn’t answer right away. Just nodded.

“And then?”

“And then?” The bartender shrugged. “They left together. Probably that way.” He jerked his chin toward the emergency exit. “Doubt it was in a cab.”

Something inside Imogen tightened. She couldn’t — wouldn’t — picture what kind of “together” that was. Or where she was now. Or with whom. But she clung to the street. To the direction. To the chance.

“You don’t have cameras?”

“Cameras?” The bartender laughed. “Girl, if there were cameras here, half my regulars would be in jail by now. Do I look stupid to you?”

Imogen nodded. No longer listening. Past the walls where plaster peeled like old skin. Past the dance floor that seemed to breathe — sluggish, tired, but still alive with something that had once been called freedom.

She had been here. She had left herself here. A trace, a scent, a phantom.

Imogen went out through that same back door. Into an alley that smelled of rot and tobacco. A bottle lay on the asphalt, shards of light and a couple of stains she didn’t want to look at.

She glanced around.

Stopped.

Looked at the walls as if they could tell her something.

And walked on. Down the alley.
After a ghost with no name.
Only a familiar laugh still ringing in her ears, like from another life.

Imogen gripped the wheel with both hands—too tightly for it to be safe. Her knuckles had gone pale, though the car—a neat, new BMW her father had gifted her when she got into university—was gliding smoothly down the road. The scenery outside shifted: from faded villages to the outskirts of London, where the buildings rose as if straining for power, unwilling to remain mere background.

The navigator showed three pins.

The first— a club in Soho. Five different names, twelve calls, a couple of on-site interrogations. Almost nothing. Clarke had been there. With someone else. A brunette. Unfamiliar. Too neat. Too evasive.

Imogen gave a skeptical snort, weaving her way through the stream of cars. A club was a tourist meat grinder—any blonde could disappear among ten more just like her.

And yet… if it had been the last address—if there’d been no other choice—

But there was a choice. And the third address—apartments on Sloane Street—sounded… too good. Too implausible.

She turned. Then turned again. And twenty minutes later she was rolling slowly through Kensington, studying the facades as though she were searching not for windows, but for meaning.

Sloane Street looked like even time passed here only with permission.
Huge windows framed with carved moldings, designer shopfronts where everything gleamed but nothing shouted. Streets so clean they seemed fictional. A butlered kind of luxury that didn’t need advertising—only wills and billion-pound agreements.
Old money lived here, the kind that never showed itself on Instagram—only in legal documents and trust fund clauses.

Imogen parked in front of a white building with classical columns and its number carved in stone. She didn’t even need to check the map—this place announced itself. Not as an address, but as a statement.

Here?
Clarke had been… here?

Imogen nearly laughed. Desperately. Bitterly. She knew what Clarke was capable of—but here? With her lifestyle, her collapses, her sleepless nights and senseless arrogance—Clarke in this world would look like a drunken Medea in the temple of financial gods.

But her phone stayed silent. Only that blue pin on the map glowed insistently. She stepped out of the car.

The front entrance—wrought-iron gates, an oak door, and a camera tucked under the eave. Everything was strict, silent, precise. A corner of another London—the one where everyone knows each other. Or pretends to.

“What are you doing here?” came a voice from behind.

Imogen turned.
An elderly woman—elegant, in a grey cashmere coat and carrying a lacquered handbag that probably cost as much as Imogen’s whole car. She wasn’t hostile, but she looked at Imogen the way one looks at an uninvited guest.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, what are you doing here?” the woman repeated. “You’ve been loitering for half an hour as if you’re casing the place. If you don’t explain yourself, I’ll call the police.”

Imogen steadied herself. Her voice—polite, even. But firm.

“I’m looking for a friend,” she said. “Young woman. Blonde. She was here. Possibly with another woman. Brunette. Very… noticeable.”

The woman narrowed her eyes, then gave a disapproving shake of her head.

“Ah. Them. Yes, they’ve been here. Three or four times. Noisy. Drunk. One of them nearly toppled out of the doorway, clutching the railing. I called security.”

“When was that?” Imogen stepped closer.

“Last time… three days ago. Or four. I don’t sleep well. I hear everything. That blonde laughed as though she wasn’t afraid of anything. And that’s suspicious, you know. Here, everyone’s a little afraid. At the very least, they know where they are.”

Imogen thanked her and turned back toward the building.

She stood there.
In front of the house.
In front of the place where Clarke had been—and left. Possibly with that same brunette. Possibly in the wrong direction. Possibly deeper still.

The woman had already taken a step away when she suddenly turned back, peering over her glasses:

“If you are her friend…” She hesitated, as if deciding something. “Tell her not to bring those… loud types here again. This isn’t the place for them.”

Imogen bit back her reaction. The words stuck somewhere between her ribcage and throat.

“Those types?”

“The kind who drink on the hoods of strangers’ cars and scream like it’s a football match at three in the morning.” The woman’s voice turned irritated. “Let them go back to their clubs and street dens. Or at least not rent a flat in a building with decent people.”

She went on—something about society, youth, the decay of morals—but Imogen was no longer listening. All her attention was fixed on a third-floor window. The curtains there weren’t drawn. A faint neon glow from the sign at the corner reflected in the glass, framing in the darkness a shadow—a human figure, as if crouched by the windowsill. Or maybe it was just her imagination.

She didn’t notice the dark side passage right away—a separate, service entry leading to the back of the building. The place where rubbish went out early in the morning and grocery couriers vanished on cue. Where, rumor had it, staff and drivers once lived. Now—an odd, dense silence.

Imogen stepped closer, phone tight in her hand. The place seemed to resist being tangible—like a dream with an error in it.

Her heart thudded too loudly—hollow, like footsteps in an empty corridor.

“I mean it, girl!” the old woman called from a distance. “Get out before I call the police!”

Her fingers trembled as she pulled out her phone to check the address again—just in case she’d made a mistake. But no. This was it. Exactly it.

If they’re still here, they’re hiding. Or… they don’t want to be found.

Maybe it was pointless. Maybe Clarke had already left. Or—worse—she was inside, and simply didn’t care.

Imogen stepped back slowly, never taking her eyes off the windows. A thin hope—fragile, almost childish—still whispered: Come out. Just come out to me. Please.

But the window above stayed empty.

She turned. Walked to the car. The door slammed heavier than she meant it to.
For a moment—just one—she wanted to slam her fist into the wheel. Or the glass. Or at least herself.

Instead, she just turned on the headlights. Silently. And sat there. The beams sliced the darkness, lighting up the empty street, the expensive facades, and that house—too beautiful, too indifferent.

Sloane Street was silent.
And in that silence, there was more fear than in any filthy club or sleepless alley.

If she had been here…
Then someone had paid.
And this was no longer just a binge. This was someone’s project.

And again—not a name.
Not a face.
Only a shadow.
And the growing certainty that Clarke hadn’t gotten lost.
She’d been led.

Chapter Text

London. Sloane Street. Morning.

The room is drowning in amber twilight — the lamp on the table by the wall gives off a trembling light, pulsing like a heart on the verge of breaking.

The floor — cold, polished by time parquet. The air — heavy, sweet, like the breath of an overheated body.

On the floor, barefoot, in just a T-shirt, a phone frozen in her fingers — Clarke.

Her back is resting against the legs of the Stranger, sitting in an armchair. The Stranger smokes lazily, chin propped on a bony hand, muttering something — her voice is soft, the kind that sounds like smoke in your head. Low and insinuating.

An empty whiskey bottle lies on Clarke’s chest — no longer counting, not the first, maybe not even today’s.

Music drapes itself quietly over the room, an electronic rhythm muffled as if under a pillow, lulling, making time viscous. The lyrics are impossible to make out, and there’s no need — they mean nothing anyway. Just like everything right now.

The phone screen dies in her hand: 23 missed calls from Imogen, 14 from her mother, a few from her father.

She hadn’t opened a single one. Hadn’t read. Didn’t plan to.

“If they’re so worried, they can find me by satellite,” Clarke exhales, and the Stranger laughs. Her laugh is like a scratch on vinyl: sharp, yet somehow magnetic.

“You sure they’re not already watching?”

“Well, then they might as well enjoy a good show.”

Clarke’s lips are cracked from dryness, her tongue feels heavy. Somewhere at the back of her mind seeps a thought: water. She can’t even remember the last time she drank something that wasn’t stronger than her will to live.

“The old lady at the entrance is definitely watching us. Like a retired spy,” the Stranger goes on.

“Yeah. Next you’ll say she works for my mother.”

“Who knows? Everyone in this neighborhood’s hiding something.”

“Yeah. Especially me.”

It’s unclear if she’s joking. Most likely not.
She laughs. Again and again. And can’t stop. Is it hysteria? Or liberation?

The Stranger’s fingers tangle in Clarke’s hair — mechanically, like flipping through the pages of an old book.

“You know they won’t understand. Not a single one of them.”

“Good.”

“You could’ve been… someone else.”

“I already am ‘someone else.’ Look.”

She lifts her head, turns — her lips are split, shadows bruise the skin under her eyes.
The smile stays anyway. Indecent. Drunk. Frighteningly alive.

The Stranger leans in, kisses her forehead. Like a mother — only it’s a lie.

On the floor lie a pair of jeans, someone’s high-heeled shoes, a black lace bra.
By the wall — a mirror, tilted at an angle, reflecting everything upside down: Clarke, the Stranger, this light, this mess. As if it’s all happening somewhere underwater.

“You don’t actually want them to find you, do you?” the Stranger suddenly asks. Her voice is quiet, like a draft.

Clarke blinks slowly, as if the fleeting movement takes great effort.

“I think… I want them to try.”

“You’re cruel.”

“I’m just tired of being convenient.”

The Stranger smiles — again, that marble-cut grin, holding no warmth, no care. But Clarke doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t want to. Or can’t. She leans her head back onto her lap.

The music reaches its final chord. The silence in the room turns too dense. From the street comes the sound of passing cars. Voices. Footsteps?

Clarke squeezes her eyes shut.

“You know… Sometimes I feel like someone’s watching us. The same man. Tall, grey coat. Always just at the edge of my vision.”

“Well, that’s fun. We could invite him over.”

“Very funny.”

“You sure you actually saw him?”

“No.”

“Well, there you go.”

Silence again. Alcohol again. Darkness again.

Clarke’s world now is not dates, not schedules, not calls. It’s heat dissolved in someone else’s fingers, the vague anxiety in her chest, and the melting line between pleasure and pain.

She closes her eyes. For a second she feels sixteen again.
That Valkyrie is still there.
That Imogen isn’t crying in the car.
That her mother’s voice isn’t full of panic.

And then — the drop.

The loose curtains drift apart in the wind, letting in London’s murky light — everything is grey, everything damp, everything feverish. The windowpane trembles under the streams of rain — steady, insistent, as if the whole city wants to remind her that it’s still here. That reality still exists.

Clarke doesn’t wake all at once.
First — sound.
Then — taste. Ash in her mouth, a raw scrape in her throat, something metallic on her tongue.
Her body aches. The position is awkward: she’s curled up on the carpet like a child, her head resting on the Stranger’s discarded blazer. Her T-shirt is rucked up, her legs are cold.

She opens her eyes.
First — the ceiling. Then — the soft outline of the armchair.
Then — her.

The Stranger sits opposite. One leg tucked under, the other dangling. In her hand — a cup of coffee that no longer seems to steam. She watches Clarke with that lazy expression that could hold anything — boredom, interest, faint regret, desire.
Or nothing at all.

“You look like the cover of a magazine about death,” she says.

“Do you say that every morning?”

“No. Only to those who can’t be scared by the truth.”

Clarke props herself up on her elbows, wincing.
The phone is somewhere under the sofa. It pulses with anxiety, but she doesn’t reach for it. Not now. Maybe never.

The Stranger keeps looking, head slightly tilted. Clarke meets her gaze, squinting as if against bright light. A smile creeps slowly across her lips — crooked, almost mocking.

The Stranger’s lips twitch. A slow, soundless smile, like a crack spreading across glass.
Clarke shifts to her knees, pulls herself closer, and kisses her.

Unhurried.
Not drunk — no. There’s no urgency, no passion in it. Only emptiness they both agree, for now, not to fill.
Lips dry. Breathing uneven. The kiss is like a gulp of oxygen after too long underwater.

When Clarke pulls away, neither of them says anything.

Outside, beyond the glass, a man in a grey coat walks past.
He stops, as if for a second looking in.
Clarke freezes.

A mirage?
A coincidence?
A memory?
Or has reality finally caught up to her?

She looks away.
Lets a strand of hair fall across her face.
Then she whispers — not to the Stranger, but to herself:

“I knew you’d come, Daddy.”

West London. Near the Griffin estate.

The car was parked at the curb, positioned as if it were simply waiting for one of the gardeners.
Tinted windows. Soft leather interior.
The scent of leather, expensive tobacco, and controlled anger.

In the back seat sat Thomas Griffin.
His posture straight, fingers interlaced, the nail of his right index finger tapping against the watch bracelet with jeweller’s precision. Eyes fixed on the tablet in his lap. On it — photographs. Blurry, grainy, taken at night from a distance, but clear enough to recognise his daughter. And the woman beside her.

“She’s not answering. Not a single call,” he said coldly, without looking up.

“I know where she was last night. A club on Greek Street, then — an apartment on Sloane.”

“Sloane?” His brow twitched. “What the hell is she doing on Sloane?”

The private investigator in the front seat only shifted a shoulder.

“The girl she’s with — not ordinary. Identity not yet confirmed. She avoids being photographed up close. But she has connections — possibly club business, possibly something more… flexible. I’ve made some inquiries.”

“Dig deeper,” Marcus cut him off. “Find out who she lives with, who’s paying her, who she’s paying, who owns her.”

“And Clarke?”

Thomas finally looked at him. Cold. Direct.

“Twenty-four-hour surveillance. No contact with the police. No contact with her mother.” He narrowed his eyes slightly, the tapping of his fingers resuming.

“If she decides to bolt — you’ll know first.”

He paused.

“If someone around her is dangerous… you’ll know that too. And you’ll deal with it. Quietly.”

The engine started, and the car pulled away slowly from the ancestral home.

The Griffin family knew how to take care of their own.
In their own way.

London. Sloane Street.

The room, once grand, now breathed laziness, hangover, and the residue of decadence.
Heavy curtains shut out reality, letting in only a strained, dusty light. It lay in stripes over scattered clothes, tangled sheets, and the marks left on the mirrored coffee table.
The smell — cigarettes, leather, alcohol, and something else, cloying and empty, like the last drag before nausea.

Clarke lay sprawled across the couch, wrapped in a blanket that looked more like a spill of silver fabric caught on her thigh.
She wore only a T-shirt — someone else’s, too soft, too expensive. Not hers.
Her fingers lazily gripped the edge of a pillow, as if clinging to air.

The Stranger stood by the kitchen, in underwear and an open robe, a coffee cup in one hand and a rolled-up banknote in the other.
On the dining table, framed by ornate moulding and a forgotten tea set — a white line. Straight, like someone else’s fate.

“Gonna get up, princess?” Her voice was velvet, lazy, a little husky from the night.

“I’m already at the top,” Clarke mumbled into the pillow, lifting her head. Eyes puffy, sleepless, indifferent. “I can see everything from here.”

The Stranger smirked.
She came back, sat beside her, the smell of coffee wrapping around them like a memory of something that had almost been warm.

“For a wake-up?” she lifted the banknote.

Clarke sat up, crossing one leg over the other as if this were a press conference, not the aftermath of a three-day bender.

“I’m as fresh as a Catholic’s conscience.”

“So… half-dead?” The Stranger leaned toward her, her lips still carrying the taste of tequila and menthol.

“You’re adorable when you’re snide,” Clarke stretched, winced at the pull in her neck, then leaned back with her head propped on her hand.

“I’m adorable all the time. You’re just not always in a state to notice.”

Silence.
A sharp tap of the card against the mirror.
Clarke inhales — sharp, searing. Her head tips back, eyes rolling as if beyond this room there were only sleep and oblivion.

“Ahhh… now it’s good morning.”

The Stranger laughs.
Clarke reaches for the coffee, takes a sip — it’s cold, bitter. Almost pleasant.

“Why is everything you have always so… filtered?” she asks, looking into the cup.

“Because I know how to live beautifully.”

“That’s not living,” Clarke whispers, her gaze sliding past her. “It’s a garish montage. Scene after scene. An endless trip.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“Because being here is easier than being there.” She shakes her head. “Where it’s all real.”

The Stranger crouches down in front of her.

“Everything you feel is real. Everything you do is you. You’ve just finally dropped the mask.”

“Yeah. Now I just have to find the face that was underneath.” Clarke smirks, but there’s a rasp in her voice. Too raw.

Too honest.

A pause.
Silence stretches like slow-motion film.
Then — coffee again. Another line. Another kiss.

“You know,” the Stranger says, running her fingers through Clarke’s hair, “all this time you never even asked my name.”

Clarke laughs. Rough. Bitter.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“It’s that unimportant?”

She nods.

“If you want, I can name you. I don’t know… Ellie, maybe.”

“You… ‘named’ me? Like a dog?”

Clarke leans closer, almost brushing her lips.

“No. But, you know… you’re a real bitch.”

She kisses her. Greedy, hungover, almost angry — not for something, but instead of everything she can’t say.

And somewhere, at the edge of reality, her phone blinks with a message from Imogen:

Please. Just tell me you’re alive.

But Clarke doesn’t hear it.
She’s sinking.

Chapter Text

La Malva-Rosa, Valencia. A year and a half ago.

The blinding Spanish sun beat into her eyes even through the tinted glass. The black Mercedes-Maybach glided smoothly along the wide seaside boulevard, where palm trees wrapped in fairy lights lined up in equally arrogant columns, as if they too belonged to the upper class.

Clarke sat in the back seat with her eyes half-closed, her wrist dangling out the open window—slender, stubbornly bony. In her other hand, a coffee cup—cold and long bitter, like her life over the past year. She stayed silent, watching with detachment as storefronts with five-thousand-euro dresses and restaurants with gilded doors flashed by, where Michelin-star chefs no doubt fed people just like her—beautiful, wealthy, and quietly dying inside.

“Well, at least it’s not raining,” Thea muttered beside her, rubbing her neck. Her short hair was tousled from the flight, her jaw chiseled like granite, her gaze always slightly suspicious.

“Spanish sun. How sweet of you to treat not only my joints now, but also my melancholy,” Clarke replied, glancing sideways without turning her head.

“I’d recommend starting with yoga and quitting smoking on an empty stomach.”

“That would be far too healthy,” she drawled with a strained smile. “And I prefer to die slowly and with style.”

“You’re not dying, Griffin. You’re… resting. In a villa with an ocean view.”

“Exile. Let’s call things by their name, Thea. This is exile with soft upholstery.”

“If this is exile—it’s the most fucking luxurious exile I’ve ever seen,” Thea snorted and nodded ahead. “There’s your palace.”

Clarke turned her head to see wrought-iron gates with golden patterns slowly opening. The house was buried in greenery. Perfect geometry of lines, flawlessly manicured lawns, a mosaic-tiled veranda in white and blue tones, a balcony overlooking the endless turquoise of the Mediterranean. Architecture—a blend of modern minimalism and Mediterranean classic: white walls, panoramic windows, glass balustrades, silence so pure you could hear the wind breathe.

“Welcome to La Malva-Rosa,” Thea said in the tone of a luxury real estate ad. “Neighbors—yacht club, two bankers, one movie star, and I hear over there lives the widow of some former prime minister.”

“Charming. I hope she’ll invite me for tea and share her antidepressants.”

“Are you really not even going to pretend you like this?”

“I am,” Clarke raised the coffee cup to her lips. “Pretending.”

The driver got out and opened the doors for them. Thea stretched, vertebrae cracking, while Clarke stayed seated a moment longer, as if internally delaying the collision with this whitewashed reality. In her head, the dull rhythm of airplane-sleep still played, where horses broke their legs and people walked away without looking back.

When she stepped out, the humid air of the coast hit her face. There was something too alive in it, too saturated—as if all this sun and salt were trying to melt the shell she had learned to hide in for the past two years. Too bright. Too loud. Even the birds seemed provocative.

“The sea,” Clarke said, staring into the distance. “It’s beautiful, sure. But it’s impossible to drown in it quietly.”

“Good thing I’m here to drag you out. Over and over again,” Thea replied dryly.

“I thought you’d given up after last time.”

“I’m a masochist. And, unfortunately for you, I have an ironclad contract.”

Inside, the villa smelled of cool stone, jasmine, and endless money. The house seemed to be waiting for someone far more alive. White walls, light marble, glass staircases, mirrors in gilded frames. And emptiness. Piercing, almost crystalline silence.

Clarke tossed her bag onto a leather sofa, opened one of the French doors to the terrace, and stepped out.

Below, beyond the hedge, the beach lay smooth and untouched, as if made to keep the imprint of bare feet. The sea was blindingly blue, absurdly peaceful. A serenity that felt insulting.

“Think this place will help me?”

“I don’t know. It might at least give you a pause.”

“From what?”

“From everything,” Thea said, holding her gaze. “From memory. From Lexa. From the horse. From having to be a Griffin.”

“The problem, Thea,” Clarke smirked, leaning on the railing, “is that I am all of that.”

And the sunlight on her face suddenly made her look not like a girl, but like a hologram—perfectly composed, smooth, untouchable. While inside, everything shattered into shards.

The sun never seemed to set. It burned away even her dreams.

At dawn, Clarke stepped outside barefoot, in a black T-shirt and pajama shorts. Her hair was tangled, her eyes lifeless, like an abandoned pool left through the winter. She followed the mosaic path, down—past the living hedge, onto the strip of sand and salt air. Everything was sterile-beautiful. Disgustingly picturesque. Palms like stage props. The sea like an ad for idiots.

Silence clung to her skin. Every wave was a slap. Rhythmic. Insistent.
She walked straight into the water without taking off her shoes. The sand gave way under her heels, the waves lapped at her knees, and somewhere inside, something was building—familiar, sharp-toothed. Creeping closer with a caress.

The wind struck her cheeks, and suddenly—everything was louder. Rustles, droplets, breathing. The sound of her own heartbeat in her ears, like pounding on glass.
Heart.
Ribcage.
The ribcage won’t open.

Clarke froze. Her legs shook. Her arms—no. She couldn’t feel them at all.
The world tilted. The horizon line slipped. Air was suddenly scarce. Far too scarce.

You’re here again.
You’re alone again.
You broke everything.

She tried to inhale—and couldn’t. No breath. No sip.
Her knees buckled.
Sharp stones under them. Sand in her teeth. The sea warm as blood. Or memory.

Valkyrie. Step. Another. Crack. Scream. Nothing.
Lexa in the hallway, her back. Never turned. Not once.
Mother. Letter. London. The end.

No tears came. Panic did—thick, disgusting, drowning her. Her fingers clawed at the sand, as if she could dig herself some air.

“Hey.”

A voice. Female. Strange.

“Hey!”—louder, closer.

Hands on her shoulders. Strong. Salty. Alive.

“Listen to me. Look at me. Here.”

A face. Blurred, like a ghost’s. Reddish strands. Freckles. Bare knees. Eyes—green as diluted absinthe.

“Breathe. Look at my hand. See? Here. One—in. Two—out. Together. Look. Yes, like that.”

Clarke trembled. She gagged on dry air. But she watched. Watched the stranger’s fingers moving in rhythm. One. Two. One. Two.

“You’re breathing. Good. You’re breathing. It’ll pass. Panic is like a wave. See the sea? It comes and goes. That’s all. Just a wave.”

“…everything… broke,” Clarke whispered, barely audible.

“We’ll fix it. Or burn it to the fucking ground. Then build something new,” the girl smirked, with no pity and no fear on her face. Only clarity. And a spark. As if she had seen episodes like this before—and knew how to tame them.

“I’m Sophie, by the way. And you? Or do you want to be just a sea witch risen from the depths for now?”

Clarke’s lips twisted into something between a laugh and a sob.

“Witch works.”

“Perfect. Witches get lost too.”

Sophie sat down beside her. Bare feet in the sand, hands braced back.

“Want a cigarette?”

“That’s… extremely unhealthy.”

“Yeah. Like you, like me, like this whole fucked-up world,” she said, lighting one and passing it. “Let’s bond over that.”

They smoked in silence. Waves licked at their heels. The sun rose, as if nothing had happened. Sophie sat like the sea was her old friend, and pain an old lover.

“Where are you from?” she asked later.

“Hell.”

“More specific?”

“London.”

“Oh, so you’re just a spoiled English girl on the edge of a breakdown?”

Clarke gave a short huff.

“And you?”

“An artist. A deviant. A saver of the drowning. The list goes on.”

“You live here?”

“I hide here. Slightly different thing.”

Clarke nodded. Her breathing was steady now. Her fingers had stopped shaking.
For the first time in many months, she wasn’t alone.

And the wave really had gone. Leaving behind two girls—barefoot, broken, a little dangerous—on the edge of someone else’s world.

Clarke didn’t know why she had gone out. Or why she had ended up here — in an alley with graffiti on the shutters, where laundry hung from balconies like flags after a revolution.

She had spent the entire morning lying around the house, avoiding Thea, avoiding the mirror. Her head throbbed — not from wine, no. From the emptiness that had settled inside her like a stone.

When she spotted Sophie, the girl was sitting at a café against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her fingers, as if she had been born in that pose. The coffee in front of her was already cold, but she wasn’t in a hurry.

Clarke hadn’t planned on stopping. But when Sophie lifted her gaze — green, shameless, absolutely alive — something caught. Like a needle that suddenly found a nerve.

“Looking for the end of the world again?” Sophie asked lazily, without looking away from her.

“And you? Looking for another episode for your memoirs?” Clarke shot back.

“Always. The more I listen to you, the fatter the chapters get.”

Sophie gestured to the chair.

“Sit. If you’re not afraid of me.”

Clarke sat. Almost automatically.
The waitress appeared a moment later — thin, with lipstick far too bright. Sophie ordered something in Spanish. Clarke didn’t catch it.

“You been here long?”

“In Valencia?” Sophie took a drag. “About two years.”

“Why here?”

“Because this is a city where you can disappear and still breathe.”

Clarke looked away. Familiar.

“And you? Always this close to the edge? Or did I just catch you at the right moment?”

“I…” Clarke faltered.

“Don’t answer. You don’t have to.”

Sophie tilted her head, as if she truly didn’t want to know.

“Sometimes it’s better not to unpack parcels from the past. There’s only debris in them anyway.”

The coffee was bitter. Spanish. Without additives. Like Sophie.

They drank in silence, watching the passersby. Clarke felt strange. As if her body had already returned to reality, but her mind was still on the shore, with her hands bloodied and salt on her lips.

Sophie crossed one leg over the other.

“I’m working today. Come by, if you start missing the pointlessness.”

“Where?”

“My studio. Close by. Pintures Street, number 12, iron door. Smells like paint, wine, and truth in there. You’ll like it.”

Clarke didn’t answer. She only nodded. Barely. As if she already knew she would go.

The iron door was chipped.
Red, like a wound. No bell. No sign. Only scraps of paint and two crooked crosses drawn in marker in the lower left corner.

Clarke stood before it, one hand shoved into the pocket of her hoodie, the other curled tight around a lighter. Her fingers trembled from the faint wind, from something else—unacknowledged.

She pulled out a cigarette, lit it. A deep drag. Smoke burned her throat as if whispering, go back.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Thea had probably already realized she was gone. Probably swore under her breath. Or stayed silent. Thea always knew how to make silence loud.

Clarke looked at the door. Took a step forward. Then back.

“Shit,” she breathed, closing her eyes.

Broken tiles underfoot. Somewhere inside, music started up—as if someone on the second floor had decided that Radiohead was fitting for painting. Or for being alone.

She dragged again, flicked the ash. Almost turned to leave.

Leave.

Sophie—that damn stranger with too much knowing in her eyes—what did she know? What did she want? Clarke didn’t want to be anyone’s drama. Not anymore.

But…

Her knuckles tapped three times—quick, as if she were trying to fool herself.

One, two, three.

“You came back,” came a voice from deep inside.

Sophie lived in what used to be either a garage or a hangar, now something between a shrine and a crime scene. Huge arched windows, bare concrete, peeling ochre on the walls, and inside—as if a storm had hit, but an artistic one.

Paintings were everywhere. Large canvases on the floor, against walls, propped on furniture, blocking the walkways. Some had merciless streaks of crimson, others black-and-white silhouettes, bare backs, screams frozen on lips.

Sophie stood with her back to her. In a men’s shirt smeared with white and ochre paint. She held a brush in her outstretched hand like a cigarette. Hair in a careless knot atop her head. At her feet, an ashtray and a bottle of water. On the floor—something like a broken figurine. Or a mirror.

“I never promised,” Clarke replied, leaning on the doorframe, as if leaving herself an escape.

“All the better. I love the ones who come back without promises.” Her voice was soft, like it had been strained through a filter of cigarette smoke.

Sophie didn’t turn around. Just kept moving the brush across the canvas. Each stroke a dare.

Clarke stepped inside. Smoke still curled upward from her cigarette, as if it too wanted to leave.

“Or maybe you just love the ones who break,” Clarke scoffed.

Sophie smiled with the corner of her mouth, but didn’t look.

“Are you broken?”

“No. I’ve always been like this. People just kept trying to glue me back together.”

Sophie turned. On her cheek was a mark from the hand that had held the brush moments ago—a pale streak of titanium white cutting across her cheekbone like an accidental scar.

“Drink.” She offered her a glass. “You’re running on empty.”

Clarke took it. Sipped. Her hand trembled, but didn’t spill. Her gaze swept over the canvases—chaos, pain, dreams without a narrative.

“This you?”

“All me,” Sophie nodded. “Even when it’s not me in them. Especially then.”

Clarke moved closer. One canvas showed a woman’s figure in water, distorted. The face blurred, as if the artist had been afraid to finish it.

“You… you’re not afraid to show this?”

“I’m afraid not to paint. Everything else—shameful, sure. But bearable.”

Sophie looked at her like something strange and potentially dangerous. With studying delight.

“Do you often collapse like that on the beach? Or was it just for me?”

Clarke smirked, but with an edge.

“I practice. Soon I’ll open a show.”

“Call it Anatomy of a Collapse.”

“Or Fuck Off, I’m Drowning.”

“Brilliant. See? We already have synergy.”

Sophie brushed past her lightly, like wind, and sat on a low wooden platform spattered with acrylics.

“Tell me something ugly.”

“Why?”

“There’s enough beauty in you already. The dirt—that’s interesting.”

“People usually hide the dirt.”

“I dig it up. And put it on display.”

Clarke sat opposite her. Slowly. Almost theatrically.

“I wanted to die when they put my horse down.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Sophie leaned forward like a predator that had heard a twig snap.

“And then?”

“Then… I stopped wanting anything. Even to die.”

Pause. Sophie’s gaze didn’t waver. It was almost a touch.

“Wanna paint?” she asked suddenly.

Clarke raised a brow.

“I’m no artist.”

“All the better. No one’s born knowing how to speak with words.”

She handed her a canvas. Small, with a background already laid.

“Here. Don’t think. Just feel. Let it out.”

Clarke took the brush. Twirled it like a weapon. She didn’t know why she agreed. But she couldn’t leave. Not now.

And stroke by stroke, she let herself be wrong. Not be Griffin’s daughter. Only breath, only pain, only this stranger’s converted hangar and her, sitting on the floor with ochre stains on her wrists.

“You know, I like you,” Sophie said suddenly. “You look like a disaster. But a real one.”

“So do you.”

“Of course. I’ve always been honest in destruction.”

Brushes clacked. A faint hiss from the vinyl spinning somewhere in the corner.
The world became tolerable again.

An hour passed. The room was wrapped in silence that, surprisingly, didn’t press in. If anything, it was almost cozy… calming.

Clarke sat on the windowsill, smoking, trying to soak in everything around her. The paints. The atmosphere.

Sophie stood at her canvas, never once turning, continuing the work Clarke had interrupted.

Clarke stubbed out her cigarette in the nearest ashtray. There were already about eight in there, each slightly bent, as if smoked down to finger-ache.

She circled Sophie at last—to see her face. Cheek in paint, lips dry. Eyelashes made long by the lamplight, almost drawn on.

“And what are you painting?”

Sophie stepped back. On the canvas—something blurry, almost abstract: a woman’s back, traced in an unsure black line. There was something unsettling in it. As if the figure were about to vanish.

“Nothing yet. But you’re already in the way,” Sophie said.

“So, same as always.” Clarke perched on the sill.

“Are you always this dramatic?”

“Disappointed?”

Sophie shrugged.

“More like… anticipating the disaster.”

“You’re a romantic.”

“I’m honest. That’s rare. Especially here.” She nodded toward the street beyond the dirty glass.

Clarke looked the same way. Night wrapped the city like black oil. Somewhere far off, music played. It sounded like it came from a basement. Or from inside.

“So what, you just live here? Alone?”

“Sometimes with someone. Sometimes alone. Changes the taste.”

“And with me?”

Sophie finally looked at her. Slowly. Deeply.

“With you, I think it’ll be bitter. But very clean. Like strong rum on an empty stomach.”

Clarke smirked. Fingers tightened on her knees.

“I came because I didn’t know where else to go. That doesn’t mean I’m yours. Or anyone’s.”

“Another plus,” Sophie said evenly. “I’m only interested in those who belong to themselves. And can give something freely.”

Silence. The studio smelled of paint again, then of breath. Then of nothing.

“I don’t know how to be ‘freely’,” Clarke whispered. “I only know how to be ‘desperately’.”

Sophie set the brush on the edge of the table. Stepped closer. Her fingers smelled of turpentine.

“Then we start with that. Desperation’s a fine foundation. There’s a lot of truth in it.”

They stood close. Almost touching.

Clarke looked at her like an enemy she was still willing to open the gates to. For an hour. For a night.

“I’ll stay,” she said. “But if you start talking in riddles again, I’m climbing out the window.”

“Then I’ll speak with my body,” soft as a breath.

Heartbeat. One. Two.

And the night slowly took them both.

Chapter Text

Clarke stood on the mat, curling her toes in an attempt to steady herself. The room smelled of pine and herbal tea — Thea had already set a cup on the small table by the window. Sunlight from the large glass doors ran across the floor, stretching the shadows of the terrace palms.

“Not so sharp,” Thea’s voice was even but firm. “Relax your shoulders. You’re clutching them again like a life ring.”

Clarke grimaced. Her shoulders twitched as if in protest.

“A life ring?” she exhaled. “More like an anchor. All this just drags me down.”

“Then let go. I know it’s hard for you. But you won’t drown. Not yet.”

She didn’t look at Thea. Her eyes were tired and wet from a sleepless night. Her face — a shade paler than usual.

“I don’t know how much ‘not yet’ I’ve got left,” Clarke whispered.

Thea took a deep breath, then sat down on the floor, crossing her legs.

“Listen, Clarke, you know I’m not the kind to coddle you or hold your hand. I’m more the straight-and-no-bullshit type. You’ve got no idea how many times I’ve seen people fall, and there’s no way back for them.”

“That’s exactly what I need — a private version of the apocalypse,” Clarke shot back sarcastically, trying to shift her gaze to her. “Thanks for the concern.”

“You don’t need concern. You need truth. And discipline.”

“You think yoga is going to discipline me?” she smirked, rising from the pose.

Thea stood with her.

“Not yoga. You. Your body. As long as you keep listening to it, it’s still with you.”

Clarke abruptly stepped back to the window. Her gaze slid over the street, where olive tree branches swayed in the wind.

“And my soul?” she asked hoarsely. “What about that?”

“The soul is a word that’s hard to treat. We’re not talking to it for now,” Thea paused. “I’m here to bring you back to life. Not to your soul. First the body.”

Clarke said nothing.

“You stayed at Sophie’s again last night?”

“Yes. Again.” Her tone was dry.

“And? Did you feel free?”

“Free — I don’t know. Sometimes it’s easier. I forget my rules. For a while.”

“That’s not freedom. That’s running. You’ve barely been home for three months, Clarke.”

“Running is all I’ve got left,” Clarke said, her voice tight. “And you know what? I don’t want to be saved. I want to forget.”

Thea stayed silent. Then she stepped closer, placing a hand on Clarke’s shoulder.

“But you can’t. Not like this. You won’t come out of it without scars.”

“Maybe I want scars,” Clarke said quietly.

“Then you’re playing a dangerous game,” Thea let go of her shoulder, looking her straight in the eyes. “And I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you.”

“You promised to stand,” Clarke said with a mocking edge.

“I am standing. Just watching you fall.”

Clarke turned away, walking to the table. Her hands clutched the cooling tea with a tremor.

“I’m tired of myself,” she said. “I’m tired of expectations, of constant self-deception. I’m tired of always having to be ‘good,’ ‘strong,’ ‘unbreakable.’”

“And Sophie?” Thea stepped closer. “You think she’s going to give you something you don’t already have?”

“She’s the explosion I’ve been afraid of my whole life. I know it’s dangerous, but…” Clarke took a deep breath. “Sometimes it’s the only thing that makes me feel.”

“Your ‘feelings’ are poison,” Thea said flatly.

“Maybe. But I’ve already learned to live with it.”

“Don’t. Ask me how it ends.”

Clarke stayed quiet. Then, with a faint bitterness, she smirked.

“You’re a doctor and a former athlete. In your world everything boils down to facts and strength.”

“And in yours? What does it boil down to?”

“To not giving up. Or at least not right away.”

“Then we have a baseline in common.”

“Maybe.”

Silence settled over the room again. The sun rose slowly, spilling light and warmth. But inside Clarke, there was still the low roar of a storm.

“Tonight I’m going to Sophie’s,” she said suddenly.

“Are you sure you want to go somewhere you risk disappearing?” Thea asked.

“Not sure. But not going means staying in this vacuum. This swamp.”

“Then be careful.”

Clarke smiled — soundless, hopeless.

“That’s almost a habit by now.”

When Clarke walked down the slope to the beach, the sky was already sinking into a thick amber sunset. The waves lazily stroked the shore, the wind tugged at the hem of her shirt as if asking her to stay.

Sophie was sitting on a blanket, legs stretched out, leaning on one arm. In the other — a bottle of red. No glasses, no snacks, no drama. Just wine and her crooked, damnably confident smile.

“Well, look at that, you came. I was already thinking you’d trade me for tea with that terrifying Amazon of yours,” she threw out, not getting up.

“Tea doesn’t drink wine. And she doesn’t smile when she’s spewing destructive crap,” Clarke replied, coming closer.

“So I smile?”

“You do it even when you’re destroying people.”

“Compliment accepted,” Sophie handed her the bottle. “Drink. Tonight you look like you were buried yesterday, but no one decided — for real or just temporarily.”

Clarke sat down beside her. The sand was warm, the wine smelled cloying. She took a swig — it burned her throat.

“This is awful.”

“It’s cheap. Which means it’s honest,” Sophie shrugged. “Not like your English wines with the undertone of ‘I’ve been suppressing my emotions for three years straight.’”

Clarke smirked. Her lips left a dark red mark on the bottle’s neck.

“You have a talent for reducing complicated things to the level of a child’s building set.”

“Life is a building set. The question is how quickly you put together the guillotine.”

Pause. The sea broke against the rocks. The wine began to pound at her temples. The wind tangled Clarke’s hair, and she didn’t fix it.

“Do you come here often?” she asked, without looking at Sophie.

“Only when I want to be with someone who won’t last until dawn.”

“Encouraging.”

“Realism is my middle name,” Sophie lay back on the blanket. “Though… sometimes I dream. Like about us drinking on the rooftop of a hotel in Marrakech. Or riding a motorcycle over the Pyrenees, boredom chasing us, and we outrun it. Or…”

“Or you just like running away,” Clarke inserted quietly.

“And you like lingering. See, we’re incompatible. Which means we’re perfect for each other.”

Clarke looked up at the sky. Everything inside her was quiet and tired, like a city after a storm.

“I don’t know what I want, Sophie.”

“That’s what makes you interesting.”

“You hate indecisive people.”

“I collect them. You’re a special edition. Battered, damaged packaging, but with rare inner mechanics. One in a hundred.”

Clarke laughed. Roughly, shortly.

“I’m just broken, don’t romanticize it.”

“Oh, please. You’re not broken. You’re… calibrated to a different frequency. The problem is, the world’s a dumb receiver. It can’t pick you up.”

“And you can, of course?”

“Sometimes. Between a cigarette and the sixth glass. Especially if you’re in a black shirt and looking like you want to die but can’t quite commit.”

“Sounds real healthy.”

“At least it’s honest.”

Sophie suddenly sat up.

“Let’s go. There’s a bar nearby. Smells like rotten rum, neon signs, and a boy bartender who’s been in love with me since last spring.”

“Charming. Everything I’ve dreamed of seeing.”

“You have a choice: either the bar, or sit here and listen to the sea eat the shore.”

“It does it more beautifully than most people.”

“But not me. I do it with fireworks.”

Clarke stood up. The wine had gone to her head, but not much. She followed Sophie — barefoot, over sand that was already starting to cool.

The bar was almost empty — a few locals at the counter, muffled bass from the speakers, and the smell of tropical air freshener barely masking tobacco. Behind the counter really was a boy of about twenty, whose eyes lit up the moment he saw Sophie.

“Clarke, meet Alejo. He makes the best daiquiri and is the worst at understanding the word ‘no.’”

Alejo smiled and started mixing something without questions. Sophie perched on a high stool, crossing one leg over the other. Clarke stayed standing, leaning on the bar as if it were the only stable thing in the room.

“You want me to crash, don’t you?” she asked quietly.

“I want you to live. However you want. Even if that means — over the edge.”

“Over the edge already happened. There’s nothing there.”

Sophie leaned forward slightly, looking into her.

“No, it’s just dark there. But you get used to it. At least no one there asks you to be better.”

“And you don’t ask?”

“I ask you to be real. Even if that version is ‘I’m crushed and I want to disappear.’”

“That’s what you call honesty?”

“What else? A pill? Therapy? A retreat in Mallorca?”

“Tea would say it’s better to slowly put yourself back together than destroy yourself quickly.”

“Tea says boring things. You weren’t born for boring, Clarke.”

They fell silent. The bar kept living its cheap, pulsing life. Outside — darkness and the beach, where other mistakes began.

Clarke took a sip of her cocktail. The taste cut at her tongue, as if whispering: come on, further.

She didn’t resist.

Clarke didn’t get drunk — but she was at that borderline where everything seems to soften. Voices sound through cotton, lights blur, Sophie’s words feel like they’re said not to her, but to someone else who still cares.

“…he still writes me poems. Can you believe it?” Sophie was talking about some poet from Barcelona. “In Spanish. I don’t understand a damn thing, but I suspect half of it’s about my legs and the other half about hell.”

“You’ve always been the muse of questionable decisions,” Clarke took another sip. “Surprising you haven’t joined a cult.”

“I’m in one, baby. Only it’s the cult of the free. We don’t pray, we burn.”

“Sounds like a straight road to a clinic.”

“Sometimes the clinic is where they finally leave you alone.”

Sophie stood up. Not abruptly, just — like a shadow growing out of the stool.

“Let’s go. It’s stuffy. I want to see the moon drown in the water.”

“That’s physically impossible.”

“So are you. And you’re still alive.”

They went out. The streets near the beach were empty, except for a few teenage couples in love and one street musician with a beaten-up guitar. Sophie walked ahead, hair messy, barefoot, with sand stuck to her calves.

Clarke caught up to her only at the water’s edge. Sophie’s dress clung to her body — damp, dark, like a night river. Clarke looked at her, and for a moment it seemed like all of this was a mirage. That she was back in London. That she would wake up to a message from her mother: you’ve disgraced the family again.

“Have you ever felt ashamed?” she suddenly asked.

“Of course. But I learned to live in it. Like a new skin. It itches at first. Then — it feels good.”

“And the pain?”

“You can redirect it.”

She took a step closer. There was no touch between them — only that strange chemistry when words are too loud and breathing is picked up without effort.

“And where do you redirect it?”

“Into you, for example. When you let me.”

Clarke stayed silent. She knew that here, at this point, she had a choice. To leave — and stay in her cracked but still controlled darkness. Or take a step. Into where she could drown, but where it might stop hurting for a moment.

Sophie’s breathing was too close. Her lips were slightly parted, as if waiting not for a kiss, but for a signal to strike.

“Tell me,” she whispered, “why you really came?”

Clarke lowered her eyes. The sea was loud. So was her heart.

“Because I can’t go back there.”

“Where?”

“In my head. In loneliness. In truth.”

Sophie touched her hand. Light, almost accidental. But Clarke froze.

“I can’t promise it’ll be better. I can only promise — it won’t be boring.”

“I haven’t cared about ‘better’ in a long time,” Clarke exhaled.

Sophie smiled. Almost gently. Almost.

“Then let’s go. There’s a house further up with a roof. View of the bay, a bed, and no obligations.”

“You make it sound like a guided tour through hell.”

“Sometimes hell’s the only place that’s warm.”

And Clarke went. Not because she wanted to. But because she didn’t want anything else anymore.

The apartment was on the third floor of an old building with peeling stucco, curtains instead of doors, and a gallery floored with warm ceramic tiles. Garlands hung from the ceiling, unlit—until Sophie switched them on with one motion, and the room bloomed with honey-colored lights, as if someone had scattered stars beneath the ceiling.

“This isn’t mine,” she said, slipping off a sandal with her foot. “The guy went to Berlin for a couple of months. Left me his keys and his old theory that I’m incapable of fidelity.”

“You just brought me here. I think he was right,” Clarke said darkly, still standing in the doorway.

Sophie flopped onto the couch—she was down to a tank top and short black shorts, frayed with salt and sand.

“Fidelity is something invented by people who are afraid of being alone. And me, as you’ve noticed—I’m not.”

“You’re only afraid of boredom.”

“And of what sobriety does to my brain.” Sophie pulled out another bottle. The wine was cold, damp. “Drink. You’re in a foul mood tonight. Even for you.”

Clarke sat beside her, not touching. Leaned back. The ceiling spun—or maybe it was the garlands, or the evening wine, or the way everything in her was trembling—beneath the skin, beneath the ribs, beneath Sophie’s gaze.

“I dreamt about my horse today,” she blurted out suddenly. “Valkyrie. We were in the paddock. I was stroking her neck. She was trembling—like from fear. I knew she was gone, but she stood there. Watching. As if she’d always known I betrayed her.”

Sophie didn’t answer right away. She listened. Watched.

“Was that a dream or a confession?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

Sophie leaned closer. Her palm came to rest on the inside of Clarke’s thigh. Not pushing—just a tangible weight.

“You need to switch off, Clarke. Not for an hour. For a week. A month. For everything that was before. You’re still holding on to the past like reins. But the horse is gone.”

Clarke swallowed with effort. Her head was spinning.

“And if I let go—what’s left?”

“We. Here. Now.”

They stayed silent. For a long time. Music drifted in from the street, muffled, guitar-laced, Spanish. Someone on the roof was smoking weed. Somewhere, a dog barked. The sea—beyond the walls—breathed.

Sophie stood, went to the door leading to the roof.

“Come on. I’ll show you the city from above.”

And how it looks when you first allow yourself to be lost.

Clarke followed. Bare feet on tile, pulse in her temples, an emptied-out “I” inside her. Upward.

On the roof were two lounge chairs, a table with bottles, a blanket strewn across the floor. The air—hot, damp, smelling of salt and lemon.

Sophie lit up. Offered her a cigarette. This time, not tobacco.

“Have you ever thought that you don’t have to be saved?”

“I thought I had to suffer.”

“That’s almost the same thing,” Sophie smirked.

Clarke took a drag. The smoke was sharp, with a bitter edge. Somewhere inside, something let go. Not the pain—no. The pain still sat at her feet like a dog. But it was… dulled. Slowed.

Sophie came closer. Sat down beside her. Didn’t look into her eyes. But her voice was everywhere.

“You could stay tonight. Here. No one will call. No one will tell you who you have to be. Only the night. Only the body. Only the choice.”

Clarke looked out at the city. The lights. The towers. The pinkish haze. Palms swaying with the wind. Everything was too beautiful for a world where she had nothing left to lose.

“I don’t know what I want,” she whispered.

Sophie smiled. Let her fingers glide along Clarke’s collarbone.

“Then trust those who know how not to want.”

And Clarke let her. Not because she wanted to. But because nothing else was working anymore.

They came back inside around midnight. The air in the apartment was thick as syrup, the light—soft, pooling in the corners. Somewhere, water dripped from a tap. Music from someone else’s speakers came muffled—just the beat, without words.

Sophie walked ahead, undressing slowly—not seductively, more like she was hot. The tank top dropped onto a chair, then the shorts. She didn’t turn, didn’t ask, didn’t call. Just disappeared into the space of the room, lit only by the garlands.

Clarke stood in the doorway as if unsure whether she’d stepped into the apartment… or into someone else. Her shirt clung to her back. Her heart beat like in mid-jump—not from desire, from… falling.

“Are you always this polite?” Sophie’s voice came from the dark. She lit another cigarette. “You can stop thinking. No one’s counting here.”

Clarke stepped inside. Dropped her shirt. Then her shorts. Cool carpet underfoot. The faint tremor of the air under her fingers, as if the night itself was vibrating.

Sophie lay on the couch, on her side, half-covered by a blanket. Without extra eroticism—just a body, alive, breathing, waiting. But her eyes—attentive. Almost studying.

When Clarke sank down beside her, Sophie touched her thigh. Slid her fingers down… and stopped.

“Where’s the scar from?”

Her tone was quiet. No judgment, no pity. Just a question.

Clarke blinked. For a moment everything inside her froze. Air. Blood. Thoughts.

“A tournament.”

“Which one?”

“It doesn’t matter. I fell. Then… there was surgery. Then they put Valkyrie down.”

Sophie asked no more questions. Silently traced the scar with her fingers—as if reading aloud, only with skin.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Like a memory. Like proof.”

Clarke turned away. The words scraped. Tenderness hurt the most.

But Sophie didn’t stop. She moved upward—with her lips, her palms, her wrists—to her shoulders, her collarbones, her neck. Lightly. As if touching ash.

Clarke clenched her teeth. Let her. But inside—there was no arousal. There was… relief. That someone wanted to touch her at all. That something could still be felt.

“You’re like an old house,” Sophie whispered into her ear. “No one dares go in because it all seems cursed. But inside—such halls… such portraits… such cracks.”

Clarke gave a bitter laugh.

“Thanks. You just called me abandoned property.”

“Abandoned doesn’t mean worthless.”

“Sometimes it means exactly that.”

They went still. Side by side. Bare shoulders. Heavy air. Half-closed eyes. A pulse in the throat. A thin film of wine, smoke, heat between them. The world narrowed to this space, this couch, this night.

And in this compressed, flooded time, Clarke did something she hadn’t done in a long time: let herself be used. Not as a victim—but as a way to disappear. To dissolve. If only for a few hours. Until morning came. Until she had to be herself again.

After that, everything was slow.

No rush, no staged passion, no Hollywood tempo. As if their bodies weren’t for pleasure, but for forgetting. For forgetting they were bodies. That they were people.

Clarke allowed it. And moved—not with desire, but with the exhausted compliance you have when, after a long run, you sink to your knees under the shower. She answered touches, kissed back, touched—but inside, stayed somewhere apart. Not in the body. Not in the room.

Sophie was attentive. Too much so. As if catching every breath Clarke took not because she wanted her, but because she wanted to understand. To catch the rhythm of her pain, to read the language of her silence.

“You’re still somewhere else,” Sophie whispered when they stopped. Clarke lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. “No matter what I do, you’re not here.”

“And you still think I want to be?”

Clarke’s tone was flat, almost empty. Not even angry—just tired.

Sophie pulled the sheet over her hips, sat up, lit a cigarette. Opened the window—the air cooled instantly.

“Want some wine?”

Clarke shook her head.

“Amazingly, no.”

A pause. Clarke sat up, pulled on a T-shirt. Went to the window. Outside—black water reflecting the city’s lights. Waves licked the shore softly.

“I’m not good at this,” she finally said. “Any of it. Sex, people, ease.”

Sophie drank from the bottle.

“Because you’re used to being a good girl?”

Clarke gave a rasping, joyless laugh.

“No. I just don’t see the point anymore. Any of it. What for, if in the morning everything’s back again. The same loneliness, the same emptiness. Only now there’s the smell of someone else’s body on the sheets.”

Sophie came closer. Stood behind her. Didn’t touch.

“You hurt all over,” she whispered. “In every word. In every look.”

“Welcome to my house,” Clarke replied. “Sorry, didn’t tidy up.”

They fell silent again.

Maybe this was intimacy. The kind broken people have: when silence means more than touch.

When touch is just a way to keep yourself from splitting open.

“Want to stay?” Sophie asked quietly. “No follow-up. Just stay.”

Clarke shook her head.

“I’m better off alone.”

“You’re lying.”

“I know.”

She dressed—slowly, as if putting on armor. Sophie didn’t stop her. Didn’t hold her back. Just watched—with something almost tender in her gaze, but not in the way that mattered. Sophie wasn’t about saving.

More about the delicate, slow, mutual fall. Without a safety net.

At the door, Clarke stopped.

“Thanks,” she said without looking. “For not pretending we meant something to each other.”

Sophie smirked, tilting her head.

“The night’s still young, Clarke. In this city, everyone starts pretending a little later.”

Morning hit like a slap in the face.

No warning, no softness. Cold, sticky, unwelcoming. The room was stuffy despite the open window. Somewhere, a coffee machine hummed—or maybe it was the fridge, wheezing out its last breaths.

Clarke sat on the edge of the bed, bare feet against the cold floor. The sheet was a crumpled mess at the far end of the mattress. Her head throbbed—not from alcohol, but from the weight of meaninglessness.

She didn’t remember what time she’d come back. Or how she’d even gotten home. Maybe Sophie had called her a cab. Maybe she’d walked, slapping down empty streets in a T-shirt and jeans, jacket unzipped. The coastal breeze, too cool for the south, still clung to her lungs. The salt was gone from her mouth. Only the metallic taste of cigarettes and guilt remained.

There was a bite mark on her ankle. She didn’t even remember when that had happened.

A deep purple bruise bloomed on the inside of her thigh. Sophie had been rough—not cruel, but certain. She’d kissed like she was searching for something of her own inside Clarke. Like she wanted to leave marks.

“Like landmarks on a map,” Sophie would say. “So you know where to look for the pieces of yourself.”
Or maybe she’d already said it. Clarke wasn’t sure if it had been a dream.

She drank black coffee standing in the kitchen. The coffee was old, bitter. It smelled like an ashtray.

No food. She didn’t want any—at all.

The fish she’d eaten at the bar last night sat in her stomach like a stone. Her body felt like an ill-fitting piece of clothing—too tight, too damp. Something to stretch, to escape, to shed.

She sat at the window, pulling her knees up to the sill.

She lit a cigarette. Fourth one that morning. For the first time, she couldn’t taste the tobacco.

Her fingers shook, but not from fear. From emptiness. As if something inside her had been scorched clean, and now her body was scrambling to find anything to hold on to.

Thea came around noon.

No knock. No questions.

She was in leggings and a tank top, yoga mat under her arm.

“You’re up?” she asked, looking at Clarke.

“I’m in the process,” Clarke rasped without turning.

“Cigarettes aren’t food.”

“It’s not a cigarette. It’s breakfast made of crushed hopes and tar.”

“Cute. Let’s go,” Thea said, tossing the mat onto the floor.

“Where?”

“Gym. I’ve got a class at one of the beach clubs—decided to sign up while I had the time. Restorative yoga, forty-five minutes. Not starting without you.”

Clarke stubbed out the cigarette.

“You’ve got an interesting idea of fun. Working while you work. Can I just lie in savasana? Quietly. In the corner.”

“Only if you don’t glare at me in judgment.”

“I’m not judging. I’m jealous. Your insides are still in one piece. Mine…”

“And yours?”

“Like a carton of milk left in a backpack since last month.”

Thea nodded like that was exactly the answer she’d expected. She turned toward the door.

“Let’s go.”

The studio was cool and quiet. It smelled of wood, lavender, and a hint of sweat—like any honest space where people moved their bodies instead of their egos.

Clarke didn’t bother changing. She sat on the mat wrapped in her hoodie. Thea set a bottle of water beside her without a word.

The session was slow. Stretching, breathing, holding the body in place. Thea spoke softly, like she wasn’t teaching but weaving spells.

“Feel the weight of your body… let your thoughts flow away, like water…”

Clarke listened. And didn’t. She just tried to be. Sit. Breathe. Survive the morning without falling apart.

But her body was a traitor. It ached, it resisted. It held memories her mind wanted to throw away.

Her neck hurt. Her hips felt caught in a vice. The faint pain on the inside of her thigh reminded her of the night.

Sophie. Whisper. Skin. The abyss.

Clarke sucked in a sharp breath. Thea glanced at her but didn’t stop.

“It’s okay. Stay in your body. You’re here. Now.”

But she wasn’t. Not here. Not now.

She existed like smoke—on the edge, in between. Part of her still in the bar. Or on the beach. Or caught between someone’s teeth.

After class, they didn’t speak.

Clarke sat against the wall, back to the mirror, clutching her water bottle.

“You look… like you didn’t sleep,” Thea said.

“And you look like someone who knows how to close doors behind her.”

Thea nodded and sat down beside her.

“What do you want, Clarke?”

“I slept,” Clarke deflected. “At some point.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the most you’re getting.”

Thea looked at her—too long, too honestly.

“She’s not your therapy, Clarke.”

“I know.”

“Then why go back?”

“Because I can’t not go back. It’s… like an itch under your skin. You know you’ll scratch yourself bloody, but you still do it.”

Pause.

“Do you want me to stop you?”

“And do you want to be that person?”

Thea stayed silent. Then stood.

“Then at least eat something. I made rice with vegetables. Has vitamins and all that.”

“You care?”

“No. I just don’t want you dying on my mat. Too much paperwork afterward.”

Clarke smirked.

“Mercenary care is my favorite.”

Thea left. Clarke stayed.

There was a lump in her throat.

Not from tears. From exhaustion.

And from the twisted, rotten pull to go back.

To Sophie.

To the smell of paint.

To fingers that left marks like signatures.

To that emptiness—the one she at least knew.

Chapter Text

“I said I wouldn’t come back. But my fingers remember what to do when I can’t feel anything at all anymore.”

The house was silent.
So loud it made Clarke’s ears ring.

Thea had left three hours ago, leaving behind a neat trail of order: a clean bowl on the kitchen counter, a blanket stretched over the back of the couch. Everything looked like life. Like someone actually lived here.

Clarke sat on the floor, her back against the wall, arms wrapped around her shoulders. The jacket she wore wasn’t hers—maybe Thea’s, maybe one Sophie had left behind once. It smelled of tobacco, salt, a woman’s body, and time.
It smelled like coming back.

Her phone lay beside her, within reach. Like a trap.

She’d been staring at it for forty minutes. Her head was humming. Not from exhaustion. From lack.

Lack of that particular emptiness you could fall into—deep, without a trace. The emptiness where everything became simple: body, touch, gaze, crash. Where you could hide from the self that was too loud, too filthy with its demands for accountability.

Her finger twitched. The screen lit up.

Contacts — S.
The name erased. The photo gone too. Only the first letter. As if Sophie was just an abstraction, an idea. The idea of falling.

Clarke tapped the chat. Her finger hovered over the keyboard.

19:47
“You home?”

Deleted.

19:49
“I haven’t slept. I can still feel your hands.”

Deleted.

19:51
“You knew what you were doing. Knew I’d come, even if I promised myself I wouldn’t.”

Deleted.

Clarke tossed the phone onto the bed. Stood. Walked across the room. Came back. Sat down again.

Her breathing was uneven. Her ribcage felt like a cage stuffed too full of fear.

In her head—frames. Torn, but sharp.
Sophie in a tank top, barefoot on cold tile.
Sophie kissing her like she wanted to take the last thought away.
Sophie laughing hoarsely when Clarke trembled against her shoulder and whispered, “Don’t let go.”

She always let go. She always would.

19:57
“I can feel you. Even now. Under my skin.”

Clarke hit send.
Froze.

The message was gone, sent.

A moment—and the dam broke.

She opened her photo album. Scrolled. Beach. Paint on glass. Clarke laughing without makeup. Sophie’s hand on her waist. Behind them—the evening sky, a sunset, a bottle of wine.

The next—bare shoulders. A back streaked with paint. Sophie drawing on her skin with her fingers. Sophie looking at her like she saw something in her that didn’t exist.

Clarke’s chest tightened. She forgot to breathe.

She closed the album. Deleted it.
Then pulled out a cigarette. Lit it by the open window.

Her fingers shook. The hollow in her stomach was like hunger, only worse. Hunger for someone who had destroyed her—but did it beautifully.

She wasn’t reaching for Sophie. She was reaching for the void. Sophie was simply its shape.

The phone buzzed.
No reply.

It didn’t matter.

Clarke was already changing. Pulling on jeans. Her hands moved on their own.

Tie her hair back. Put on the jacket. Grab the keys.
No words. No thoughts. Only motion.

She stepped into the night.
The street greeted her like an old friend: with dirt, noise, and the smell of someone else’s smoke. She walked fast, as if afraid something human might wake up inside her again.

Phone in her pocket.
Pulse in her throat.
The cold somewhere inside, not outside.

Sophie didn’t live far. Clarke knew the route by heart—through backstreets where windows were boarded up and walls were scribbled over in graffiti. She passed a shuttered tattoo shop, an antique store with a CERRADO sign that never changed.

Then—an archway. Rusted gates. A trail of broken tiles leading inward.
And finally—the building.
Once a garage or a hangar. Now—a studio. Or an altar. Or a trap.

Light spilled from the arched windows. Warm, blurred, uneven.
Like something inside was still alive in a way that defied reason.

Clarke stopped. Took a breath. Pressed the buzzer.

The light leaking from the window was molten yellow, like honey on a blade.
She didn’t remember how Sophie opened the door. One moment she was under the night sky, the next—inside, in that deranged concrete snare where everything pulsed with someone else’s life.

“You’re wet,” Sophie said.

Her laugh was quiet, but not warm. Not care—mockery.
Clarke’s hair stuck to her face. Her jeans were heavy with rain. Her heart beat not in her chest but in her temples.

“And you’re drinking without me again,” Clarke replied, stepping inside.

She kicked off her sneakers. Stripped down to her T-shirt.
Sophie handed her a glass—the same wine glass from last year, unforgettable, like a burn on the tongue.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” Sophie said, a predator’s spark flickering in her eyes.

“So did I,” Clarke answered, downing it in one go.

The room was like a shattered hallucination.
Paintings everywhere—oil, acrylic, blood—figures, flashes, mouths without eyes, eyes without faces.
Mattresses on the floor. Pillows abandoned like after a fight. Tablecloths for curtains.
The smell—wine, varnish, leather, cheap cigarettes, something burning.

Music—low from somewhere, but with a pulse.
Sofi Tukker? Massive Attack? Something in between.

Sophie sat on the floor. Pulled the bottle to herself. Poured for them both.

“Take it all off,” she said.

“Too obvious,” Clarke shot back, sitting beside her.

Their knees touched. The air was thick as syrup.

“Still pisses you off when I look at you?” Sophie asked, tilting her head, letting herself stare.

Clarke took a sip, said nothing.
Her skin pulsed—not from desire, but from alcohol, from something toxic in her blood, from the constant war inside.

Sophie reached out. Her fingers—cold—brushed Clarke’s collarbone.
They didn’t stroke. Didn’t explore. They marked. Like a brush across canvas.

Clarke didn’t pull away. She allowed herself neither fear nor disgust nor want. Only the hollow tightening in her gut.

Sophie kissed her shoulder. Then lower. Her hair tickled Clarke’s chest like grass in childhood. Only now—no one was laughing.

“You’re shaking,” she whispered.

“It’s not you,” Clarke said. “It’s everything.”

They kissed not like lovers. Not like people searching for comfort.
They kissed like two who had already gone past the edge and were just grabbing whatever was closest.

Sophie’s tongue was sharp. Her lips insistent. Her hands didn’t ask permission.
Clarke let it happen. Not from attraction. From exhaustion. From the desire to vanish.

They fell onto the mattress. It smelled of ash and skin. Sophie stripped off her T-shirt. Ran her nails down Clarke’s ribs. Too slowly not to be cruelty.

Clarke bit her lip. Not from pain. From not knowing where she ended and all this began.

“Still can’t say no?” Sophie murmured against her ear.

“And you still have to check?”

No answer. Only movement. Jagged, uneven, like old film on a broken projector. Bodies tangling—not in rhythm, but in dissonance.

Clarke felt someone else’s hands, someone else’s skin, someone else’s weight—but not herself.

Somewhere between a kiss and a breath she thought:

I said I wouldn’t come back.

But my fingers remember what to do when I can’t feel anything at all anymore.

Light doesn’t come for real.
At first—it’s like film. Gray-yellow. Dusty. It seeps through the cracked glass above, like water through a rotting ceiling.
Clarke opens her eyes—and doesn’t recognize the ceiling.

Concrete. Exposed beams. Strands of cobweb hanging from the lamp.

She’s lying on her side. The blanket—no, not even a blanket, more like an old coat—has slipped to the floor.
Beside her—Sophie. On her back. Naked. With a cigarette between her teeth and a broken, reckless smirk, even in her sleep.

Clarke doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
Her body is fog. Her mouth is dry, as if she’d been drinking sand.

Muscles hum. Skin feels foreign.
Every movement—like a glass shattering in slow motion.

She sits up. Her back aches. Her head throbs. From the speakers on the floor drifts a fragment of a track. Maybe Lo-Fang, or maybe Sophie again, writing her own hell to someone else’s rhythm.

Next to it—a wineglass with dried residue. A half-crushed pack of cigarettes. A lighter shoved into her boot.

Clarke runs her fingers along her neck—there’s a hickey. Somewhere lower—nail marks.
She doesn’t remember when it happened.

Sophie stirs. Exhales hoarsely.
Clarke looks at her—like at a fresco that should’ve been painted over long ago, but for some reason wasn’t.
Out of pity. Or fear.

Her legs tremble. The floor is cold.
Pulling on a stretched-out T-shirt and her jeans that reek of someone else, Clarke heads to the bathroom. The hallway light is too harsh. Like an operating room.

The mirror is cracked. The light flickers. Rusty water spills from the tap.
She washes her hands. Then her face. Then her hands again. For a long time. Until the skin reddens.
And still smells like the night.

The water runs. The mirror doesn’t reflect her.

Clarke looks herself in the eye—and can’t hold the gaze.
She lowers her head.
Leans on the sink with both hands.

In a whisper—almost voiceless:

— God.

No one answers.

She steps into the kitchen. Only—there is no kitchen. Just a mess. Paintbrushes, ashtrays with the remains of yesterday. On the wall—a portrait. Unclear. Sharp, like a stroke of rage. The eyes in it—very much like hers.

Clarke looks at the door, but doesn’t move toward it. She sits on the windowsill, pulls her knees to her chest. Her fingers are cold. Her eyes are dry. No tears. No anger.

Just emptiness.

Sophie wakes up. Stretches like a cat. Looks at her—with a lazy half-smile.

— You smoke in the morning? — she asks.

Clarke doesn’t answer. Presses her hands between her knees.

— Do your eyes always look like that in the morning? Or just after me?

Sophie’s laugh is brittle, like an ice cube in wine. Clarke turns her head and simply stares.

— I’m leaving, — she says.

Sophie nods without getting up.

— Go.

No drama. No stopping her. Just a day. Just a body that stopped belonging to itself.

Clarke gets up. Barefoot.

The air in Sophie’s studio was thick as paint—and just as toxic.
Clarke walked past scattered brushes, empty glasses, a row of dried buds in an olive jar. Past the sheets on the floor, past the foreign skin still glistening with the traces of the night.

She takes her jacket. Leaves nothing behind.
There’s nothing to leave.

She steps outside. The light cuts her eyes. The air smells of sea and sewage.

The city lives.

Clarke—doesn’t.

When she slips out of the space that was once a garage and now something between a shrine and a crime scene.
The huge arched windows behind her catch the sun dimly. Peeling ochre. The smell of solvent and cheap wine on her skin.
The wind catches the edge of her unbuttoned jacket. She walks automatically, her feet sticking to the pavement.

Blinding morning.
Valencia—empty as a hangover.
The world slowly coming back, like a pulse after an overdose.

She moves through streets where trash bins are already stuffed with plastic cups and cherry pits. Past graffiti glowing with acid shadows on the walls. Through the piercing cry of a seagull. Through the smell of coffee and gasoline.

She climbs onto the bridge. And then—like a blow.

Thea.

In a track jacket cinched at the waist. Hair tied back. On her shoulder—a folder with X-rays, a plastic bottle of water. Her face—unyielding. Not unfamiliar. Not hostile. Just—reality.

They notice each other at the same time.

Clarke freezes.

Thea stops and looks.

— Charming, — she says. Expressionless. Like a diagnosis.

— You weren’t at the clinic this morning.

Clarke takes a step. Then another. But not toward her—just somewhere. The wind blows her hair into her face.

— I…

Her voice is flat.

— I couldn’t.

— No. You just didn’t want to.

Harsh. Without accusation. In that way only she can. As if a mirror had been slammed in her face.

— Where were you?

— None of your business, — Clarke whispers.

— Of course.

— I just need to record how you’re slowly and steadily diving into the abyss. Don’t bother stopping—I’ll submit it to the journal.

Clarke almost laughs. Almost. But it comes out rough, torn.

— Maybe you’ll give me a minus?

Thea steps closer. Stands right in front of her. Looks at her face—like at a cut.
At her lips, bitten until they bled. At the paint stains on her neck. At the shirt with its buttons done up wrong.

— You think if it hurts—it’ll feel even a little alive. Or the opposite—nothing at all. Doesn’t matter.

Clarke swallows.

— Shut up, — almost inaudibly.

— I’m quiet. But you still hear me.

She doesn’t look away.

— You chose night over your body. Oblivion over recovery. A loud death over slow healing. That’s a choice too, Griffin.

— And you chose to be a jailer, — Clarke spits.

— Protocols, reports. Problem girl—and a checkmark next to it. Convenient.

— Convenient? — Thea smirks. Without humor.

— You think I don’t know what that’s like?

She takes out the bottle of water. Holds it out.

Clarke doesn’t take it. Looks up—like from the bottom of a pit.

— Why are you even following me?

— Because I can see where you’re heading. And I know that trajectory.

The wind carries the scent of salt, asphalt, and burnt paper.

Clarke turns to leave, but Thea pulls out her phone and switches on the camera.

— Look at yourself. Just for a second.

The screen—a glassy film. On it: a swollen face. A vacant stare. Wrinkled clothes. Like the city just spat her out.

Clarke swats at the phone. Not hard.

— Delete it, — through her teeth.

— Already did.

— But you’ll still remember what you looked like.

Clarke turns away. Step. Another.

— You don’t know what it’s like.

— I do.

She said it very quietly, with a note of bitterness, and something Clarke never could place.

— Believe me, I do.

And Clarke walks. Not because she wants to—because she can’t stand still.
Because if she does—she’ll fall apart.

And Thea stays. Like a checkpoint. Like an exit Clarke didn’t take.

She walked down the street without feeling her fingers. The asphalt was damp, cold. The Valencian air, deceptively warm by day, now smelled of salt and ash. The wind pulled from the sea as if trying to rip everything off her: the last scraps of composure, the mask of cynicism, that alien shirt she’d fled the apartment in.

Clarke stopped by a dark shopfront. Her own reflection—not in a phone, not under Thea’s gaze, but here, between neon and darkness—she didn’t recognize.

“You don’t know what it’s like.”
I do.

She did.
What it’s like—when you can’t wake up without feeling rubble in your chest. When every new day is a lottery: will everything inside burn to the ground today, or will you manage once again to pretend you’re having fun.

When silence is louder than any words.

She laughed, so she wouldn’t break.
She drank, so she wouldn’t remember.
She dove headfirst into parties, because if you stopped—you’d collapse.

Some said she was destroying herself.
But this wasn’t destruction. This was survival. In the only form still available to her.

At some point—you simply don’t know another way.

She sat down on a bench, not caring if it was wet or not. Tilted her head back—and stared at the black sky for a long time.

And didn’t cry.

Because she no longer knew how.

London, Sloane Street. Present Day.

Four days.
Or five. Clarke had stopped counting.

Somewhere between coming back and losing all sense of time, she had found herself in the apartment again — the one where everything was too white, too perfect, too expensive to let herself fully dissolve. Even her own mess here looked like defiance. Even vomit, when it happened, seemed to apologize for the inconvenience.

Inside, it was muffled and warm, like a womb. All the curtains were drawn open. All the doors — left ajar. Her coat lay discarded in the hallway, as if she had shrugged it off in a rush, with disgust. On the kitchen counter sat empty glasses and an unfinished bottle of something red, gone sour.

Only the dull, throbbing ache in her solar plexus reminded her that the body was still here. That it, unlike everything else, hadn’t left. Hadn’t vanished. Hadn’t been saved.

Clarke sat on the windowsill. The same night Imogen had come. The same pose — one leg tucked under, back hunched, forehead pressed to the glass. Damp sweat on her temples, traces of something warm and heavy inside — wine, maybe, or pity. She couldn’t tell which weighed more.

From the third floor, the view was almost theatrical: neon stains on facades, the clean symmetry of urban calm, the occasional passerby, the crunch of asphalt under cars. Clarke watched it like a silent film. Sometimes she blinked. Sometimes she didn’t.

She noticed the headlights immediately. Quietly creeping in, like hesitation.

Imogen.

Even from here, Clarke knew it was her.
She stepped out of the car, lingered on the pavement, looking around. Looked up. Too long for it to be a casual glance. Too intently not to meet a gaze in return. And she did. Of course she did.

Clarke didn’t move.

Still — something inside her flinched. Dull, almost instinctive. Like when you see someone who knows how to save you — but you’re not ready to be saved. Don’t want to be. Can’t be.

Imogen said something to that unpleasant old woman who’d yelled at her after the bar — but the glass let no sound through. Only light. And shadow.
The shadow of her body, her stretched neck, her hands gripping the strap of her bag.

Clarke thought how strange it was: how stupid, how obscenely honest — to hope you’d be forgiven for not opening the door.

She watched Imogen step back. Look at the windows one more time.
Walk away slowly, barely blinking.
Turn. Leave.

When the car door slammed, Clarke closed her eyes for the first time all day.

The headlights flared. Pierced the facade, the glass, the insides of this sterile apartment.
For a few seconds, Clarke was caught in the center of the light, as if under an X-ray.
Bare, dismantled, burned through.

And then darkness returned. And it almost felt like relief.

She slid down from the windowsill.
Her legs buckled — not from alcohol, but from emptiness.
And still, she didn’t fall. Just sat down on the floor. Back against the radiator. Forehead to her knees.

Imogen’s name burned in her throat.
But didn’t escape.

Silence hummed like an open wound.
And Clarke suddenly realized: if she had gone out — she wouldn’t have known what to say.

So she stayed. Inside.
Her muteness. Her choice. Her impossibility.

Chapter Text

London. Sloane Street.

Seventh day. Eighth—whatever. Night and morning had stopped being different.
The flat smelled of ash, stale alcohol, and that particular kind of loneliness that only grows in places that are too expensive. Here, even despair managed to look curated. Even her broken voice—if she had let it out—would have echoed with aristocratic restraint.

Clarke hadn’t slept. Not because she couldn’t, but because she was afraid to fall—into that darkness where memories began. Where Valkyrie vanished again, where Lexa stayed silent, where her mother’s voice sounded like a sentence. In those dreams, everything she ran from while awake was already waiting for her.

She sat on the floor. Or lay. Or moved—though she always felt as if she were paralysed.

The flat’s owner—who’d left Clarke the keys, a few bottles of wine, and a barbed comment about her “unbearable manic streak”—had vanished three days ago. Hong Kong, or the north, or simply “not here.” Clarke hadn’t asked. It didn’t matter. The place she couldn’t breathe had nothing to do with who kept the door unlocked.

Sometimes, in the silence, she imagined the woman was still there. Somewhere in the next room, silent, waiting, watching from behind mirrored glass. Sometimes—it was just her shadow that had been left behind.

She remembered that laugh from one of those nights. Clear, empty, like a wine glass thrown against the wall.

“You’ve got a manic talent for self-destruction,”
she’d said lazily, almost with pleasure.
“It’s almost art.”

Calls had come in waves. First her father. Then Imogen. Then her father again. He didn’t text—he never had. Just called. At the same intervals, mechanically. As if certain that one day she’d pick up. Stupid. Funny. Disgusting.

She didn’t open her messages. But she saw them—four unread from Imogen. Only the name, and the first fragments:

“Clarke, I just want…”

“Please, just let me know…”

“I’m not angry, I…”

“You can stay silent, just…”

She never read the rest. Just flipped the phone over. Sometimes it buzzed—whether from phantom vibrations or the real thing, she couldn’t tell. Eventually it stopped altogether. The silence spread like oil paint. First over the walls. Then inside her.

She had once thought silence meant peace. Now she knew: no. Silence scraped. It was air you couldn’t breathe. It was the ringing pressure behind your eyes before a migraine, when the only sound left was blood—yours, someone else’s, it didn’t matter.

At some point in the blur of days, she’d cleared out the fridge. The smell had turned her stomach. She’d tied the bin bag shut and left it by the door, but never took it out. It stayed there—black, swollen, almost alive. A reminder that she couldn’t manage even the simplest thing.

She went to the bathroom. Stood before the mirror. Stared for a long time. Didn’t recognise herself—or worse, she did. Shadows under her eyes. Lips cracked. A dull ache in her neck like after a scream that had never been let out. Hair tangled. Weakness clinging like damp cloth over her skin.

Sometimes she thought she had died.

Sometimes—that she had died back in Windsor. That everything since was just the body’s residual memory. Bunker dreams. Reflexes of a parasite. A wandering ghost.

You feel nothing because you’ve already felt everything.
You don’t answer because one word would tear you apart.
You don’t go out because breathing hurts.

She moved through the flat like through a trap. Everything felt foreign. Even her body. Even her reflection. She leaned on the walls, slid her shoulder blades along them, as if there might be a way out—out of the pain, out of herself.

Nights were worse.
Her body burned. Temples pounded. Something jagged and uneven battered inside her chest. Panic came fast, without prelude—gripped her throat, pressed on her eyes, left behind a hollow like after a fight. Sometimes she gripped the table edge to keep from falling. Sometimes she just lay on the floor staring at the ceiling. That was easier. Quieter.

She wanted to disappear. Properly. But even disappearing required strength she didn’t have.

When she did sleep, she dreamed of Valkyrie. Not the whole of her—just black mane stirring in the wind. Sometimes the arch of her neck dusted in glittering motes, as if she’d stepped out of light itself. It wasn’t a memory—it was something older, rooted, like the breath before a fall. Like a home that no longer existed. She would wake as if she’d tripped inside the dream. As if she was falling again. Breaking again. Alone again.

There was no strength for anger. None for pity. Even less for words. Only that tight vacuum between her ribs, like something had once lived there but had long since dried out.

She exhaled. Slowly. As if expecting something to leave her with the breath. But nothing did. No rage. No regret. No will to fix anything.

She grabbed a pill bottle, a bottle of water, and went back to the living room.
Sat on the windowsill. The same spot. The same posture. Only now—after everything. Without hope. Without question. Just—because it was easier to breathe that way. Or not breathe.

She remembered Imogen saying once:

“You know how to suffer theatrically. So much it makes people want to applaud.”

Not now. No theatre, no audience, no curtains.

The street below was empty. No headlights. No Imogen. No passers-by. Only her reflection in the glass. Blurred. Ghost-like.

So we live, Clarke thought.
Then corrected herself—So we die.

She curled into herself—not from pain, but from shame. For not going out to Imogen. For letting herself disappear. For not remembering the last time she laughed—truly laughed—without irony, without armour, without that sour half-smile the paparazzi loved.

Her heart beat in her throat, her ears rang. And for the first time in days, something flared inside her instead of emptiness—anger. Quiet at first, then hotter. At everything. Everyone. Herself most of all.

Near dawn, she got up.
Stood in the bathroom for a long time, looking at herself like at a misplaced fragment of film.

No trace of Clarke Griffin the athlete. No shadow of the girl who hugged a horse’s neck while the sun rose over the pasture.

No sound. No faith.

She wiped her face with a towel—not for tears. There were none. Just to be rid of the sweat, the cling of her own skin.

By five o’clock she had put on her coat. The black one—too big, too expensive. Thin sweater and jeans underneath. No make-up, no phone, no bag.

She left the flat without locking the door. The stairwell met her with damp. The street—with black air that smelled of bread and rancid smoke.

And she walked.

Where—she didn’t know.
Why—she didn’t ask.
Just—away.

From the sterile white world. From the sticky memory. From the night that had nothing left to say.

She walked fast. The wind hit her face. And for the first time in days—she could breathe.

Through Mayfair, past tea shops, hotels, boutiques she’d only ever entered to escape the snow. Her feet throbbed. The coat was too thin. She stuffed her hands into the pockets—found an old receipt, a snapped button, a wad of dried gum. All useless. All real.

Somewhere along the way, she turned into a park. Empty, grey benches, tired grass. Leaves stuck to her soles. The air smelled of wet earth—almost like the stables. Almost—but not quite.

Time blurred. The city dissolved into jump cuts, scenes flickering and overlapping. The rhythm uneven, jarring. She didn’t know how long she’d been outside. An hour? Two? Half a day? Space went flat. Air turned heavy. Streets lost their edges. Faces lost their meaning. Everything smeared into one thick grey paste—concrete and glass.

She felt nothing in her body. Only the pounding in her skull, like someone driving nails in slow motion. Her fingers were numb, her breathing shallow, her throat dry. No water. No food. Only coffee. Only cigarettes. Only the void.

And then—Gloucester Road. Or near it. Victorian houses, parked cars, a dog in a sweater dragging its owner across the street. And suddenly—a flash.

Imogen.

On the far side of the road. Mustard coat, backpack, standing outside a bookshop window. Light caught her hair, giving it a hint of gold. She turned a heavy, dark-covered volume in her hands, as if weighing something important. She looked tired. A little lost. But still—whole. Real.

Clarke jerked back into the shadow of an archway. Her pulse spiked like a spotlight had found her. Imogen didn’t see. Couldn’t. Mustn’t.

Clarke turned away. Walked off. Backwards, blind, like cornered prey. Slipped away, breath breaking, splashing through puddles, colliding with strangers. Her shoulders shook. Her mouth hung open, but there wasn’t enough air. The world narrowed. Streets squeezed in. Light flickered like in a tunnel.

She ducked around a corner, braced her palms against a brick wall. Cold shot into her hands. Her knees buckled. A sharp spasm gripped her chest, as if something inside had torn. Her breath came ragged, choked. Not inhale—gasp. Not exhale—mute howl.

Panic hit instantly. Heavy, crushing. Like a wave that doesn’t strike—it presses. Covers. Erases thought. Her chest burned. Her eyes streamed. The world rocked.

She slid down the wall, forehead to knees. Shaking. Fingers clawed.

There was no one. No enemies. No friends. Not even Imogen. No one to say her name. No one to stop her.

She shook. Tears came—silent, relentless. The pain didn’t stab—it corroded, like acid. With every second there was less air, less meaning, less hold.

Panic peaked.

And eased. Not all at once—like the tide pulling back after a storm. First from her fingertips. Then her breath deepened. Then she could lift her head. The world stayed blurred. Everything still hurt. But the quiet inside was different now. Not empty—burnt out.

She sat on the cold stone in wet clothes, hair tangled, breathing. Barely—but breathing.

A girl with headphones passed. Stopped. Looked back. Took a step as if to ask. Clarke raised her eyes. The girl read something in them—and left. Right choice.

Clarke stayed alone. In the wet courtyard. Leaves stuck to her shoes. Hands trembling as if her veins were on fire. One thought: one more time, one more day, one more morning.

She wiped her face on her sleeve. Stood. Swayed. Drew in air—salty, with the taste of blood and smog. Walked on. Nowhere in particular.

But the quiet inside now rang. Like a bell. Like a warning. Like a plea.

And somewhere in that ringing emptiness, for the first time in a long while, came the thought:
Not like this anymore.

She kept walking. Each step grinding somewhere deep inside. Sweaty palms clenched her coat sleeves. Cheeks burned—from panic, from shame, from cold, from the fact Imogen might have seen her.

Her heart still beat unevenly, but it wasn’t breaking anymore. Just beating. Just beating. Just beating.

She stopped outside a closed café. Empty tables inside. In the glass—her reflection: a black silhouette, hair wild, face hollowed out. No more tears. No relief. Only fury.

“Happy now?” she hissed.
“Enjoying the show?”

The sound of her own voice startled her. It landed like a slap. Like a short-circuited burst in her chest.

Anger rose fast, like blood from a split lip. Low and thick, like pus. At Imogen, at her father, at Lexa, at the Stranger, at everyone who’d stood by and let her go on. And at herself. Most of all at herself.

You knew, Clarke. You knew where you were going. You just walked faster so you wouldn’t change your mind.

She wanted to smash the glass—but didn’t. Too small. Too predictable. Instead, she laughed. Low, crooked. And when it faded, only pain remained, scattered through the London morning.

She turned into a narrow alley. Sat on the metal fire stairs to a restaurant’s back door. And then—a line. A clean shot from the past, a blade honed over years:

“Guilt is a luxury. And you no longer belong to yourself, Clarke.
You’re part of a reputation. And reputations can’t afford cracks.”

Her mother’s voice. Calm, cold, like ice in a glass. Looking over her glasses, scrolling something on her tablet. No emotion. Just verdict.

Clarke remembered how badly she’d wanted to scream then. To smash something. To run. She hadn’t done any of it. Just nodded. Like a good girl.

And here was the result. Sitting in an alley, hair greasy, pain wedged under her ribs so every breath felt like a scalpel. Perfect, obedient daughter. Now—useless. Silent. Unacceptable.

You win, Mum, Clarke thought.
I really don’t feel anything anymore.

She stood, unsteady. Legs cramped. Knees throbbing. But her body obeyed. For now.

She walked to the nearest bus stop and sat on the bench. No one around. Just the sign above her head: Sloane Street – South Entrance.

Strange. She’d walked in a circle.
Back here.
Back to the start.

She reached the flat without thinking. The stairs felt longer. The door still ajar—as if the place wasn’t sure whether to let her back in.

She stepped inside. Inhaled. Same air. Stale. Heavy. Dead.
Closed the door. Slowly. Without a click. Took off her shoes. Let the coat fall to the floor.

The room was dim. Only the streetlights through gauzy curtains. Everything muted, greyish, like a record stuck on one chord.

The phone lay on the windowsill where she’d left it. Black screen. But at her touch—it lit.
Notifications. Voicemail.

The first message—her father’s voice. Hoarse, restrained. Almost flat.

“Clarke. It’s me.
I… I know you don’t want to talk.
But I’ll keep calling.
Because it’s my job.
Because…
Because I can’t not.”

She sat on the floor. Phone pressed to her ear like someone else’s skin. The voice sounded far off, as if coming through water. He said other things—about the weather, about news, about an upcoming board meeting, and how he’d “figure out a way to reach her” if she didn’t turn up.

Clarke didn’t hear the words. Only the tone. Too familiar, too formal. Like he was reading a letter. Like he didn’t realise his daughter wasn’t just ignoring him—she was dying a little more every day.

The next message was shorter.

“I dreamed of your voice. Small.
You were singing in the stables, remember?
I was by the gate.
I didn’t come in.
I’m sorry.”

She flinched. The phone slid from her hand and thudded on the floor. The vibration hummed through the boards—then stopped.

She lay back on a cushion, stretched out on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Inside, everything was dry. Burnt out. Even the tears wouldn’t come.

It felt like, if she closed her eyes, she’d vanish. Like the moment in theatre when the last spotlight dies, and the applause isn’t for the actor, but for the dark.

Sleep came instantly. Not like drifting off—like falling. Sharp, without warning. Like the floor giving way.

And again—Valkyrie.

Not whole. Just the mane. Just the breath. Just the scent—that same familiar one that caught in her throat like a note she couldn’t quite reach.

In the dream, she stood at the paddock. But she knew—she hadn’t been there. Not then. She’d been in a hospital bed, in plaster and fog, while they put Valkyrie down without her.

But the dream insisted. Showed her how it could have been. How it should have been.

The vet held the syringe.
Her mother stood beside him.
Her voice detached, even:

“You don’t understand. This is mercy, Clarke. The only right choice.”

The words cut. Like scissors through hair. Through bonds. Through childhood.

“We can’t let her suffer. You don’t want her to suffer, do you?”

Valkyrie looked right at her. Black lashes trembling. In her eyes—trust. Not a question. Not fear. Trust.

Clarke reached out—but couldn’t close the distance.
She screamed—but no sound came.
The world thickened, slowed—like water moving too slowly to swim.

And then—Valkyrie spoke.
Without sound.
In a language Clarke didn’t know, but understood.

You didn’t betray me.
You just didn’t know how to fight.

She woke.

Chest tight. Forehead damp. Hands trembling.
But her heart—was beating.

Not like before. Not like it should. But beating.

She stayed there. Face in the pillow. Shoulders tucked in. Legs drawn up like a sleeping horse ready to rise and run at any moment.

Light was pushing through the curtains. New light. Another day.

She didn’t know if it would be different.
But it had begun.
And she met it.

Chapter Text

Clarke walked into the store as if on autopilot. A thin cashmere scarf wrapped around her neck, her hair perfectly in place, as if she hadn’t just spent the past week sleeping on the floor. The sales assistants—immaculate, sweet-voiced—spoke to her the way people only speak to the very rich and very empty. She replied politely. Without a smile. Without meaning.

In her hands—two bags. Black, heavy, with silver logos. A Celine purse. Byredo perfume. A new lipstick—a cold nude. All of it—a mask. All of it—protection.

She stepped outside, hailed a cab. The club had a simple name—Verre. Glass. Inside, it looked like the afterlife edition of Vogue. Chrome. Ice. Light scattered through mirrored panels, reflecting emaciated silhouettes clad in designer armor. This wasn’t a place people went to—it was a place where people disappeared.

“Name?” the hostess asked without looking.

Clarke gave a false one. Her voice didn’t falter.

They took her coat. Her shoulders glistened under thin satin. The floor beneath her—polished marble. She had no goal. No desire. She just walked. Past tables, past bodies, past music that throbbed like a heart on morphine: low rhythm, a pulse without life.

The light flickered—like in an operating room. Alcohol poured—like water in a sink. Clarke reached the bar, ordered water with lemon, but the bartender misunderstood—or pretended to. He handed her vodka on ice. She didn’t object.

Her body moved smoothly. Fingers touched the glass as if it were a foreign object. Her lips brushed the rim—taste burning, too real. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t notice. Didn’t feel.

Someone passed by. Someone wrapped an arm around her waist. Someone laughed. She stood there—like a fixed point in an ellipse. Too polished, too beautiful to approach, and too ruined not to notice.

Then—a sharp sound behind her: laughter cutting the silence. Clarke turned.

Her. The Stranger.

Black hair. Rust-colored lipstick. A dress that looked sewn with needles. Nothing in her face had changed. Only her eyes had grown slower. More dangerous. As if she had known Clarke would come.

“Surprised?” she said as she approached. Her voice—warm, like poison in a glass.

Clarke wanted to answer. She couldn’t. She only nodded—as if handing something over. She was here again. Which meant nothing was over.

The Stranger extended her hand. Fingers adorned with a ring on the middle one. Eyes like scissors. And Clarke, without thinking, took it. As if she hadn’t been at the edge a week ago. As if she hadn’t begged to disappear. As if she hadn’t been dying.

“Dance?”

Clarke nodded.
They moved onto the dance floor—into the very crush of bodies, the very center of the pulse, where everything was motion.
The music slammed into her body—not sound, but pressure. The beat hit her stomach. The lights flickered like lightning beneath the skin.

The Stranger pressed against her. Tight. Hips. Breasts. Mouth at her neck. Clarke didn’t pull away. On the contrary—her hand slid slowly down her back, as if moving through water.

She didn’t feel like herself. But the pain was gone.

There was only this: a hand under her top. A tongue at her ear. Alcohol on lips.
And—a voice.

“You taste like the dead,” the Stranger whispered against her temple. “Let’s get out of here.”

Clarke didn’t reply. She simply followed. Through the corridor. Into the elevator. Into the night. Into the void.

The door shut with a muted click.

The room—cold, with floor-to-ceiling glass reflecting all of London: glossy, distant, false. On the floor—silk carpet. On the table—crystal glasses, twisted glass figures. The interior like a gallery, never meant to be lived in.

Clarke didn’t even look around.

The Stranger shoved her against the wall. Lips crashing, sharp, without warning. A hand in her hair. A brutal yank. Pain as an impulse, as a command to obey.

“Did you miss this?” she exhaled, fingers gripping Clarke’s chin. “Say it.”

Clarke said nothing. Only inhaled sharply. Eyes half-closed. Spine arched. Her whole body a bow ready to snap.

“That’s right,” the Stranger smirked. “I don’t want words either.”

The movement was swift, like a strike. Clarke’s back slammed against glass, chest rising sharply. The Stranger clawed at her shoulders through thin fabric. Not tender. Deep. Clarke didn’t resist. No sound. Only breath. Only tremor. She wasn’t here. She was in her body, but not inside it.

The skirt lifted easily, like in an ad. Clarke’s knees parted. A thigh pinned her against the wall. The Stranger’s fingers slid down—hard, insistent. No rhythm. No prelude.

“This is what you wanted,” she whispered. “Last time you nearly tore me apart. And now—you’re silent?”

Clarke moaned—not like a woman. Like someone wounded. Like someone released.

The Stranger pressed her knee harder between Clarke’s legs, driving her deeper into the cold glass. The air between them—vacuum: sticky, thin. Sweat trickled down Clarke’s back. A dull pain flared beneath her shoulder blade, as if bone had rubbed against concrete.

Clarke clawed at the glass, nails scraping the chilled surface. Her head tipped back. Her body vibrated as if hooked to a live wire. And she didn’t care. As long as she felt nothing else.

The Stranger dropped down, yanking Clarke’s underwear off with a single violent tug. Silk tore with a crunch—discarded on the floor. Cold stung her bare skin. Clarke jolted, but the Stranger caught her wrists, pinned them to the glass—unyielding.

“Better,” she said, lowering her head.

A tongue—hot, precise, merciless. Like a scalpel along the inside of her thigh. She wasn’t exploring—she was measuring, like a jeweler at the brink of incision. Lips bit, cut the air. Movements dry, rough. Not for pleasure. For submission.

Clarke let out a ragged sound. Not a moan—more like a choked sob. Her body arched mechanically. Inside—emptiness wired with current.

She didn’t beg. Didn’t plead. Only breathed. Greedy. With short sobs on the exhale.

The orgasm hit—like a seizure. Sudden. Ugly. Harsh.

Her body convulsed. Legs buckled. She slid down the glass, onto the floor.

The Stranger stepped toward her, now completely naked. Skin white as porcelain. Eyes of steel. Pupils narrowed. Her whole face a Venetian mask: glossy, foreign. She sank onto the edge of a low sofa, legs spread as if posing.

“On your knees,” she said quietly, without raising her voice.

Clarke obeyed. Slowly. Fingers trembling. Her knees sank into silk—soft, almost luxurious. Nearby—a shattered glass she couldn’t remember dropping.

“Show me you remember,” the Stranger whispered. “Or are you worthless now?”

Clarke took her into her mouth. No transition. No preparation. Almost defiant—as if this alone could count as victory.

The rhythm was brutal. Clarke gagged, but didn’t stop. The Stranger held her by the hair, guided her, never let her pull away. Her cheeks burned. The air thick with her taste. Clarke’s head jerked in time with each thrust. She lashed her tongue, caught her clit between lips, dragged from her curses, harsh “more,” a moan sharp enough to crack glass. Tears welled at the corners of Clarke’s eyes. Her lips slick. Saliva dripping down her chin.

All of it—against London’s panorama. The city mirrored in the glass, like in a display window. They were dolls in a showroom. Silent. Perfect. Unreal.

When the Stranger finally released her, Clarke fell back. Her chest heaving. Blood under her nails. She didn’t know from where. From her own scratches, maybe. From fingers.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re empty,” the Stranger whispered. “Like an antique vase. Fragile. Useless. Expensive.”

Clarke laughed. Hoarse. Almost silent. Air rasping in her throat. She staggered to her feet. Hugged the Stranger. Not from feeling. From inertia.

“Show me what you’ve got,” she breathed against her collarbone. “Now.”

The Stranger smiled. Went to the table. Opened a leather bag. Inside—everything: heroin, coke, microdoses. She picked a white packet.

“A gift for good effort,” she said. “Only the best for expensive friends.”

A white line on glass—thin as a cut. The Stranger traced it with a black American Express card. Plastic sliding, hissing, with a surgeon’s precision.

“Your toast,” she said. “To lost girls.”

Clarke stayed silent. Bent down. Inhaled—fast, like a whipcrack. Burned her nostrils. Head thrown back. For a second—everything froze.

Pulse—spiking. Space—expanding. Sound—underwater. Heart—skipping across a white field. London beyond the glass shimmered like mercury. Everything—glittering. Too sharp. Too bright.

Falling was also flying, if you didn’t look down.

Clarke straightened. Lips trembling. Pupils blacker than coal. Her skin felt every molecule of air. The taste—ozone, champagne, blood.

The Stranger stroked her cheek. Dry. Almost tender. Almost.

“There. Now you’re almost real.”

Clarke lunged first. Instinctively. Like an animal. They crashed to the floor, onto silk. Against a glass coffee table that nearly toppled. The Stranger laughed. Loud. Almost deranged.

Clarke kissed her. Not lips—her face. Cheekbone. Neck. Shoulder. With teeth. Without reason. She sucked skin like she could erase the scent. Licked away sweat, perfume. The Stranger moaned, twisting beneath her. Hooked Clarke’s hips with her legs.

“More,” she gasped. “Hurt me, if you can.”

Clarke could.

She dug her fingers into her chest, leaving dents. Raked nails down her stomach. Then—thrust into her. No gentleness. No rhythm. The Stranger bucked, clawing at Clarke’s back, leaving trails.

“Yes, yes, that’s it, bitch,” she gritted. “Break me.”

And Clarke broke her. Each thrust a blow. Tears in the corners of her eyes. Faces close, then far. The world shaking. The room a photograph with a trembling lens effect. They spun, caught in a vortex.

Glass somewhere. Mirrors somewhere. Everything reflecting: breasts, hands, hips, shadows.

Her mind switched off. Everything—mechanics. Sweat. Spasms. Air like shards. Clarke gasped, relentless. The Stranger came again—screaming, jerking. Her knees buckled.

Clarke collapsed over her. Drained.

Both—covered in bruises, in sweat, in the gleam of London’s skyline. Beautiful. Exhausted. Needed by no one.

They returned in silence. The car smelled of leather and Tom Ford, its windows tinted to black. The Stranger stared out as if Clarke wasn’t sitting beside her, but flickering somewhere on a screen. The driver said nothing. Clarke sat upright, hands on her knees. Her cheeks burned. Her lips were swollen. Wrapped in her coat, she felt like she’d been packed into an expensive disposal bag.

She wore no underwear. Only the coat—unfastened just above her thighs. Bare skin pressed against the cold leather seat. In her hands—a bottle of Cristal. Someone had pushed it into her grasp at the club. Or maybe the Stranger had bought it. Or maybe Clarke herself—she couldn’t remember. She raised it to her lips. The champagne lashed down her throat, bitter, icy. Her hands shook. Her jaw ached.

When the car stopped on Sloane Street, she stepped out first. The Stranger didn’t call after her. Didn’t hold her back. The lift was cold, mirrored. The ride up felt like an eternity. PH level: zero.

The apartment greeted her with silence. No music. Only the drone of the city spilling in through the glass. London lived, breathed, thrummed beneath her—like a machine keeping a patient alive. None of it mattered.

Clarke walked straight into the bedroom without turning on the light. In the half-dark, the bed gleamed—someone else’s sheets. White satin, pressed smooth. Perfect, like a showroom display. She let the coat fall to the floor. Didn’t bother to take off her shoes. Lay down just like that. Champagne still scratching her throat with bubbles. A silk pillow under her head.

Her spine cracked. Veins throbbed. Legs hummed.

Clarke dragged her palm across the sheet—and raised the bottle again. The alcohol burned at her cracked lips.

Inside—nothing. No thoughts. No images. Only the sensation that everything had already happened. That everything was already over.

And there she lay. Hair undone. Mascara smeared. Heels on silk. As if she belonged to someone else. As if she’d already been forgotten.

Valencia. A year ago.

Morning. Light spilled across the floor like milk. Through the slatted blinds—sunlight, lazy, Mediterranean, warm. The room smelled of salt, lavender, and sex.

Clarke lay on her side, the sheet slipped below her hips, her chest bare. Her back arched faintly. Hair tangled like brushstrokes. A faint mark from Sophie’s ring pressed into her wrist. A bruise bloomed on the inside of her thigh.

Sophie sat across from her, propped against a pillow. In her hand, a glass of juice—orange as fire. She didn’t drink. She only watched. Her eyes drifted slowly over Clarke’s body, like a brush across canvas.

“You’re not a person,” Sophie said quietly, with a faint smile. “You’re a painting.”

Clarke didn’t move. She stared at the ceiling. It was hot. Sticky. She was thirsty.

“I want to hang you on a wall, Clarke,” Sophie went on. “So you’ll always be there. So you won’t leave. So you won’t spoil.”

Clarke laughed—low, dry, breathless. Sophie leaned in, kissed her shoulder.

But Clarke already knew: she was loved as an object. As an aesthetic. As an image. Loved only while she was beautiful. Silent. While she remained a painting.

Not a human being who could leave, break, ask, rage, need.

And then—for the first time—something cracked in her chest. Microscopic. But permanent.

There was no light in the room. Only rare flickers of neon from the street — cold, inhuman, as if falling through layers of water. They cut the walls into diagonals, like traces of someone else’s presence.

Clarke lay on the bed — one leg bent, the other still in a heel. Under her head — a stranger’s pillow. Beneath her body — strange sheets, smelling of perfume. Her body hummed. Muscles ached. Beneath her fingers — the seam of the sheet. None of it was hers.

Beside her — the Stranger’s breathing. Rhythmic, steady, as if deliberately measured. She seemed to be asleep. Or pretending.

The bottle of sparkling wine lay by the headboard, already half-empty. The air in the room — sweet, heavy, with a metallic edge. Blood, or champagne.

Clarke didn’t move. She didn’t even blink. Her eyelids felt like cotton. Her thoughts — like jelly. A broken phrase floated up in her head, like a line from someone else’s letter:

“If the body is occupied — the mind goes quiet.”

She tried to laugh — couldn’t. Her throat was dry. Her pulse stuttered. Everything blurred, trembled, like underwater. Even the Stranger’s face — indistinct.

Clarke closed her eyes. The light outside shifted, turned into a line. Then — a dot. Then — nothing.

And in that silence, in that empty in-between, in that sensation of being only a shell, only an outline, only a hollow stain on someone’s wall — it came:

“You’re not a painting.
You’re dissolving.”

The thought — not as revelation. As diagnosis.

No metaphor. No epigraph. No stylization of suffering.

Just fact.

Someone turned over beside her. The Stranger stirred, exhaled, placed a hand on Clarke’s stomach — not out of tenderness. Just inertia. Fingers warm. The ring — sharp. Silver. Skin to skin — like glue.

Clarke didn’t push the hand away. Didn’t flinch.

It didn’t matter.

The pulse beneath her skin — faintly shifted. Somewhere deep inside. Barely perceptible. Almost accidental.

And that was it. Pause. Glass.
The end.

Chapter Text

Clarke opened her eyes.

The light beyond the panorama was no longer night. London had faded, turned pale steel. Cars droned below, lights flickered like meaningless signals. Morning had come uninvited, like a hangover. Without promises. Without hope.

She lay on her back. Her mouth was dry. Her temple throbbed. The sheet beneath her—creased, damp. Her neck ached from how it had been gripped. Her thighs burned.

Beside her—the Stranger. On her stomach, one leg thrown over Clarke. Nakedness was not arousing. Only a reminder. Of how it had been. And how now—there was nothing.

Clarke turned her head. Looked at her. At the curve of her spine. At the line of her shoulder blades. At the arm dangling limply from the mattress. Beautiful. Lifeless. Like a model. Or a corpse.

The Stranger stirred. Opened one eye. Smiled.

“Morning, angel,” she rasped. “Alive?”

Clarke didn’t answer. Only turned toward the window. London was there. Clarke was not.

She sat up slowly. The sheet slid from her shoulders. Beneath it—bruises. Bites. Scratches. Like a restorer’s notes on canvas: here—a crack, here—scorched, here—an attempt to erase.

The Stranger stretched, let her fingers drift across Clarke’s lower back.

“What, silent again?” her voice ironic. “Or do you think I’ll ask how you are?”

Clarke smiled. A smile like a fracture. Thin, sharp-angled.

“I think,” she said, “that you don’t care.”

A pause. The Stranger laughed. Soft, genuine laughter. That was what scared her.

“Of course I don’t. You wanted it this way.”

Clarke stood. Walked to the bathroom. Uncovered. Unhurried. Her back straight. Her thighs trembling slightly.

The door slammed shut. The mirror greeted her like a verdict. The eyes in the reflection—not hers. The face—swollen lips. Her neck—marked. Her skin—salt.

She turned on the water. Ice cold. Splashed her face. Inside—nothing.

You’re not a person. You’re a painting. I want to hang you on the wall, Clarke.

Clarke stepped out of the bathroom.

The floor beneath her feet was cold, glossy. The air smelled of fresh coffee and something almond—fragrant, artificial, sprayed from a designer bottle. The curtains were already drawn open: glass dotted with droplets—whether rain, condensation, or just the remnants of too long a night.

The Stranger stood in the kitchen. In a white men’s shirt. No underwear. Hair pinned up carelessly. She moved with ease between the coffee machine and the sink, as if this was her territory, as if she had lived here for years. Though she herself could not remember where she had woken yesterday.

“You can stay,” she said without turning. Her tone flat. Ordinary. No invitation. No request.

Clarke said nothing.

She walked to the window. Leaned against the frame, felt the cold seeping through the glass. No sound—except droplets dripping from the ledge. No movement—except her shoulders mirrored in the pane.

She didn’t know how many minutes passed. Five? Ten? Time had stopped existing again.

Behind her, steam hissed. The Stranger poured something into cups. Set two espressos on the marble counter. One—closer to herself. The other—slightly aside. Not for Clarke, not for her.

Clarke still stayed silent. She simply stayed. Not because she wanted to. Not because she had nowhere to go.
But because moving was also a choice. And she no longer chose.

Then everything blurred into one tone.

Days—if they could be called days—slipped through her fingers. Like expensive oil. Like champagne spilling from a crystal glass shattered against marble. Splashes, chime, sparks—and emptiness again.

Clarke stopped counting time. She stopped counting anything at all.

Each morning—the same. Coffee. Mirror. Silence. The Stranger against the panorama, in different lingerie, with a different perfume. A smile—a slightly raised corner of her lips. Sometimes tender. Sometimes mocking. Sometimes void.

And then—night.

And it began again.

Glossy clubs with dimmed lights and too-bright flashes. Cold cocktails served like jewels: in smoked glasses, ice cubes carved by hand. Fingers gliding down her back as she walked past. iPhone cameras. Shadows on walls.

Clarke drifted through it all as in dreams, where you cannot remember who you are, yet everyone else is sure you’re someone.

She always wore dresses. Expensive. One-shouldered. Exposing collarbones. Concealing her throat. Silk, velvet, organza. Sometimes leather gloves. Sometimes barefoot. Always beautiful. Always refined.

One dress—left in some gallerist’s flat. Clarke remembered her only by her voice. And the ring she slipped onto Clarke’s pinky, as though for balance.

Another—vanished on a staircase. In the passage between clubs. Or hotels. Or simply in a black car with a logo, where the smell wasn’t perfume, but power.

Sex as protocol. In bathrooms with gilded handles. On staircases smelling of cigars. In strangers’ cars where the AC blasted too cold, numbing her fingers.

She didn’t know their names. They didn’t ask hers.

She remembered no faces. Only taste. Or pain. Or short, breaking gestures, as if they weren’t fucking but forcing something of their own inside her. Foreign. Excess.

Sometimes she felt her body was not a body, but a window. A display case. A reflection of other people’s desires.

Sometimes—that none of it was real. That it was merely an art performance she had once stumbled into and couldn’t leave.

Clarke didn’t resist.

She drifted.

The dress—slipped. Lips—scraped. Thighs—bruised. Breath—caught in her throat. Night after night. No touching the face. No looking in the eyes. Just as agreed.

Sometimes she woke in a stranger’s bedroom—mascara stuck her lashes, collar torn down the back. Light struck through the window—like a hammer. She didn’t know where she was. Only knew: tonight it would happen again.

Pulse—steady. Body—obedient. Inside—empty.

The Stranger appeared sometimes at her side, sometimes gone. Sometimes pressed her hand. Sometimes brought people. Sometimes left without a word. Only left a pack of cigarettes. Or a short message on the screen:

“Tonight. You know where.”

And Clarke came. Always. Like clockwork. As though she really did know. As though choice no longer concerned her.

One of the nights—stood out. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was only emptier than the rest.

The club had some symbolic name—Mara, or Delirium. Or maybe no name at all. Just a building in an alley, behind a velvet curtain with bouncers and a guest list that never asked her surname—because they already knew. Or knew who she was supposed to be.

Clarke walked inside through flashing lights. The music was bass—into bones, into chest, into her gut. She didn’t feel it, only heard her pulse trying to catch up with the rhythm.

She wore a silver dress, shimmering like fish scales. Hair pinned high. Skin glossed. She looked not like she was entering a club, but a ball at the devil’s.

The Stranger—beside her. A step behind. Gaze like a blade. Cigarette in hand. Black backless dress with a chain running down her spine.

“Ready to disappear?” she whispered against her ear, and Clarke nodded. Not from agreement. From inertia.

The dance floor swam in smoke. People moved as if in cotton. Not touching. Not feeling. Eyes—fogged. Smiles—not human. Only pupils, blown wide into grotesque.

Clarke slipped off her heels. Right there. Toes touched the cold marble. The floor sticky, slick. No one stopped her. Instead—gave way.

The music swelled. Light pierced her pupils. Her temples hammered. Her body drifted. Everything blurred.

Someone touched her hand. Then her neck. Then her thigh. She didn’t resist. Didn’t accept. She just existed.

“Flesh is the best silencer for everything else,” the Stranger said later, into her ear, when Clarke nearly collapsed.

Clarke laughed. Silly. Bitter.

Everything was blurred. The air—sweet, like burnt sugar. Hands—foreign. Lips—wet. Everything—outside time.

She danced. Eyes shut. Hair loose. Skin slick. The sounds—not sound, but a current. She didn’t feel herself. Didn’t feel others. Everything was… neon.

The Stranger again at her side. Fingers sliding down Clarke’s back. Clarke threw her head back, like a doll. A smirk. Cigarette smoke blown into her face. And a whisper:

“Do you want to get lost, Clarke? Or just to never be called by name again?”

Another hour—or a minute, or eternity—and the trip began.

Clarke sat on a sofa in the private zone, between a mirror and a column, where the sound came muffled, delayed, as though through water. In her hand—a glass with melting ice. On her skin—a foreign hand. Or two. Or none. She didn’t know.

Her lips trembled. Too much for cold. Too little for desire.

The Stranger sat beside her, half-turned, empty grace in the way she shook a few pills from a blister into her palm. Dry, businesslike, like candy.

“Water?” she asked.

Clarke didn’t answer. Just opened her mouth. Like in a clinic. Like at the dentist. Like with her mother—when she gave her a child’s sedative before television interviews.

The pill touched her tongue. She swallowed. The taste—bitter. The throat—empty.

And then—everything shifted.

Her pulse stopped being hers. The walls began to breathe. Music turned to honey: thick, viscous, melted, like sun frying on metal. Sound no longer struck, it wrapped. Not bass, but slime. Warm. Sweet. Numb.

Her legs—cotton. Tongue—tangled. Fingers—melting.

She stood. Unsteady. Like newborn.

Walked. Through the hall. Through bodies. Through people without faces, only glowing outlines, masks of light. Someone whispered her name—but it didn’t echo. Didn’t ring. So it wasn’t hers.

The dance floor was hot. Light—crimson. Like veins. People moved slow, as though in syrup. The music thundered, but had no notes. Only pressure. Only pounding. Only a wail.

Clarke dissolved. Like sugar in liquor.

Arms by her sides. Hips swaying. Head tilting back. Hair falling over shoulders. Dress—second skin. Sticky, thin, silk. Everything breathing. Everything vibrating. She—not alone. She—part of it.

The Stranger appeared like a shadow. From behind. Fingers on her neck, then chest, then wrist.

“Do you hear?” she asked.

Clarke nodded. But truly—no. She didn’t hear. She saw sound. Colored. Layered. Like liquid spreading through air.

The world—flat. Like a painting. Like a hallucination. Like a museum you’ve stayed in too long—until you can’t tell art from yourself.

The Stranger kissed her—shoulder, throat, lips. Slowly, theatrically. They were watched. Filmed. Cameras. Flashes. Clarke knew. She didn’t react. None of it mattered.

She closed her eyes. Her body—burning. Between her thighs—throbbing. On her skin—tremor. But not arousal. Not joy. Just… absence.

“Another one?” the Stranger asked, already sliding out a second pill. Her voice glossy. Shiny, but tasteless.

Clarke took it herself. Placed it on her tongue. And smiled.

Her pupils blown wide. Breath even. Inside—silence. Perfect. Absolute. Almost beautiful.

I’m dissolving, she thought.
And it felt good.

Another club. Another night. Or maybe morning. No difference anymore.

Clarke in a dress slit to the thigh. A glass in one hand. The Stranger’s hand in the other. Thin. Cold. Manicure—scarlet. Like a blade.

They walked past the crowd, and people parted. Some whispered Clarke’s name. Some looked without recognition. Some—too long.

The Stranger pulled her forward. Smooth. Sure. As though leading not a person, but a possession. An ornament. A pedigreed dog on a leash.

In the VIP zone she sat Clarke down on a sofa, slid in beside her. Poured something metallic into her glass. Ran a finger along her cheek.

“You’ve got that look again,” she said. “Like you’re here under sentence.”

Clarke smirked. The sentence was gentle. It called her by name and kissed her temple.

“Relax,” the Stranger whispered. “You’re mine now.”

She drew a velvet box from her pocket. Thin. Opened it—inside a ring. Minimalist. Silver gleam with a dark stone.

“What’s that?” Clarke asked, eyes unfocused.

“A gift,” she replied. “So you remember who you belong to.”

Clarke laughed. Low. Hoarse. Without irony, without belief.

“A joke?”

The Stranger didn’t laugh. Only lifted one brow.

“I’ve already owned you. And you didn’t even notice.”

She slid the ring onto Clarke’s finger—slowly, sealing the pact. Then lifted her hand to her lips and kissed the knuckles. The ones that had so recently trembled from cocaine.

At that moment neon flared through the club. Moonlight slashed down, cold as a scalpel. The music shifted. Sharper. Pulsing. Almost violent.

Behind the Stranger—two girls kissed, someone snorted off the back of their hand, someone drank champagne straight from the bottle, standing on a sofa.

And Clarke sat there. With this ring. With this body. With this empty sensation of borrowed warmth.

I feel good, she thought.
I think I feel good.
I’m supposed to feel good.

Then she raised the glass and drank it dry.

Valencia. Nine months ago.

The air smelled of salt, waves shimmering below like mercury. Clarke stood barefoot on the balcony, in a long nightgown. Smoking. Silent. The cigarette barely burned—the grip of her fingers too weak to hold it properly.  

Inside, a door slammed.  

“You’re silent again?” Sophie’s voice flew across the room, wrapping around her like steam.  

Clarke didn’t move.  

“That face again. Empty. Without eyes. Without fire.” Bare footsteps slapped against marble. “Do you hate me that much?”  

Clarke inhaled. Calmly. As if she weren’t smoking a cigarette, but the night itself.  

Sophie came closer. Wearing only a shirt. Wet hair clung to her collarbones.  

“You don’t feel anything! Nothing! Like porcelain! Like a doll!”  

Her voice pitched up. She snatched a glass off the table—and hurled it at the wall. The sound cracked like a shot. Shards scattered across the floor, one slicing Clarke’s foot. A red line slid down her ankle. She didn’t even flinch.

Sophie stepped closer. Her palms against Clarke’s cheeks. Eyes locked on hers.  

“You don’t belong to yourself,” she whispered. “You belong to me. You’re a painting, Clarke. I invented you. I painted you. Without me, you are nothing.”  

Clarke blinked.  

“Then why don’t I care?” she said quietly.  

A pause. Sophie recoiled. Laughter—hysterical. A smack of her palm against Clarke’s chest.  

“You were a stained glass window, Clarke. And I shattered every pane. Now you don’t even catch the light.”  

The wind rose from the sea. The balcony trembled.  

And Clarke stood there. With blood on her ankle. Ash on her fingers. And that strange, foreign calm within her. As if the electricity inside her had been switched off.

The music in the club shifted. There was no rhythm anymore—only a pulse. Only a hum, like the breath of some alien organism. It wrapped around, seeped through, gnawed into the skin. Lights flickered too fast. The air—electric, viscous, like gas.

Clarke was dancing barefoot. Her heels left somewhere—at the bar. Or in the bathroom. Or with that boy with brown eyes who had offered her “one more.”

Her body moved as if it wasn’t hers. At times slow, like underwater. At times sudden, like a spasm. Skin gleaming with sweat and light. Her pupils blown wide. Almost black.

Beside her—the Stranger. Lips slightly parted. Hands trailing like a veil. She pulled Clarke along, like a puppet, like a toy, like property.

“It’s all right,” she whispered against her ear. “Everything’s under control.”

Clarke laughed. A short, brittle sound.

Control? There was none. Not a drop. Only wind inside her, like in an empty hall after a concert. Only the vibration of blood in her temples. Only a face that had long since ceased to be hers.

She passed a mirror. Didn’t look right away—afraid. But her gaze snagged anyway.

In the reflection—there was no Clarke Griffin. No sun, no Valkyrie, no father, no Lexa, no Imogen.

The reflection—slowed. There, a being. Girl? Woman? Too lifeless. A mask. A face smeared with neon. Lips—not hers. A neck—with the mark of a bite. Eyes—not watching, but spilling.

If I don’t recognize myself—then there’s no pain either.

She stopped. Pressed her palm to the reflection. It was cool. Her pulse slowed. Heart—struck once, dully. Then froze.

The Stranger returned. Took her hand. Led her. Through the crowd. Through the music. Through the light.

Clarke looked back. Someone stayed in the mirror.

But it was no longer her.

Chapter Text

Imogen knew by the days.

At first—it was a week of anxious silence, when Clarke’s phone still received messages but never replied. Then—the second week, when it went dead altogether. After that—messages to friends, checking their usual spots, wordless walks across campus. By the end of the month, when lectures had begun to fade like an old photograph, she stopped counting. But inside, she still knew: today marked exactly forty-five days since the morning Clarke never came back.

The apartment was silent. The kind of silence no sound could break anymore. Not the kettle, not the slam of windows, not even the old music Clarke used to put on before the shower. Imogen sat at the desk, leaning on her elbows. In front of her—an open notebook. Ink dried mid-sentence. Outside, rain was falling—gray, heavy. The kind that only came in December: when winter had technically arrived, but nowhere could you really feel it.

At first, she tried to pretend nothing had happened. She got up at seven, tied her hair, went to lectures. Sometimes she even wore the lipstick Clarke had given her back in September—as a token of the “first semester, new era.” Imogen remembered how Clarke had said it: with a smirk, half-serious, but with that familiar spark in her eyes that always hinted—what if this time it’s real?

Now it was gone. The lipstick. The spark. Even Clarke’s shadow in the mirror.

Imogen woke up in an empty room, across from the door that still led into Clarke’s bedroom. Closed. Sometimes—ajar. But always empty. Her jackets were still hanging in the closet. A stack of books on the desk—untouched by Imogen. Introduction to Cognitive Science. The Boundaries of the Self. Attachment Theory. Clarke’s handwriting in the margins remained. Like a shadow. Like evidence.
In the bathroom—a brush tangled with blonde strands. Imogen didn’t move a thing. Not because she didn’t want to. Because she was afraid: if she cleaned up, it would mean admitting it was over.

The university was silent. No one said a word about her disappearance. Not a single official letter. Not even rumors. Imogen couldn’t tell whether the Griffin family had smothered the matter, or if this place simply preferred to ignore the personal. Life carried on as if nothing had happened. Only once did the sociology professor falter while checking attendance: “Miss Griffin…”—and fell silent. Never mentioned her again.

Everything on campus seemed dimmed, as though the brightness had been turned down. Lectures went on. Exams drew closer. Professors called names, students laughed in the cafeteria, discussed conferences, assessments—some were already being invited to winter scholarships.

Imogen was present. Physically—yes. Mentally—not at all.

She caught herself, upon approaching the glass entrance of the right building, glancing up—what if Clarke was there. On the steps. With a paper cup of coffee. Or sitting, legs crossed, the way she used to—tired, but unbeaten. Sometimes Imogen even thought she saw her—a shadow, a figure, hair moving in that exact way. Every time her heart jumped. Every time—a false alarm.

But Clarke wasn’t there.

And every evening when Imogen returned to their apartment, and silence still rang behind that door—she felt something inside her sink deeper.

She hardly slept. Or if she did—it was restless, with a coldness under her skin, as though any second someone would knock. Every sound an alarm. Every shadow a trace. She stopped looking out of the windows at night. Stopped wearing headphones in the streets.

Now—sitting at the desk—she held a pen in her hand. The lines trembled. On the page, only one sentence:

Clarke, if you’re reading this…

Then—silence.

Imogen tried again. Took a deep breath. Closed her eyes. Then—read it out loud. Her voice trembled. Broke somewhere near the end. But she kept going.

The letter—wasn’t finished yet.

Imogen packed without haste, but every movement felt wound tight, like a spring.

The suitcase—gray, dented on the side—filled slowly: a couple of warm sweaters, books, a laptop charger, a thermos, the blanket Clarke had once thrown over her shoulders in the common room when she’d spiked a fever. The blanket had been in the closet ever since. Now—it felt foreign.

Her fingers trembled. Not from the cold.

She placed the suitcase by the front door and returned to her room. Let her gaze sweep across the space: neatly made bed, a candle on the windowsill, a note from her father on the shelf—“If you get bored, read Huxley. He’s worse than boredom.” Outside—the sky was gray, either morning or eternity. Everything seemed stuck. Even the clouds refused to move.

Imogen turned off the light, locked the door, and walked down the campus corridor, still hoping—like an idiot—that any second now Clarke would come around the corner. Hood up. And, as if nothing had happened, say: “You won’t believe where I’ve been.”
But the corner was empty. As always.

She stepped into the parking lot. The car stood where it always did. Clean, new. As though it had never carried her to the place where everything went to hell. As though it had never heard her screams, never felt her grip the wheel until her fingers went numb.

The drive to London was like moving through cotton wool. The radio played softly. Her eyes stung. The ticking of the indicator was monotonous, like a pulse. Imogen wasn’t rushing. She’d deliberately chosen a weekday: her mother would be home, but not in the mood. The fewer people, the fewer masks she’d need to wear.

On the way she didn’t think of her mother.

She remembered how Clarke once said: “London just feels like a shop window. Behind it, everything’s rotting.”

Now Imogen looked at the city as if it were true. Facades—neat, bright, glassy. But behind every window—someone lying. Someone drinking. Someone dying.

And Clarke…
She could be in any one of those flats. In someone’s bed. In someone’s arms. On someone’s phone.

Imogen pressed her palms against the steering wheel until they hurt.

She had no right to look for her. But neither could she not look.
Inside—everything burned.

When she entered Chelsea, the city shifted. The streets—pristine, polished. Houses—cut from the same mold. Everything too perfect, like postcards. She remembered coming here as a child with Clarke for the holidays—how they fought over lollipops, how her mother would say: “Imogen, don’t slouch like that, your back looks dreadful.” It had always felt like someone else’s life, one she was only permitted to glimpse from the window.

She parked by the building with the green railings. Got out. Approached the door.
Stopped for a second—and pressed the buzzer.

No answer.

Then—the click of the lock. She climbed the stairs. Her footsteps echoed, hollow. The air smelled of expensive wood and something medicinal.

Her mother opened the door as if expecting a courier. She wore a white kimono. Hair tied up. Glasses perched on her nose. Tablet in hand.

“You didn’t call,” she said.

“This way’s better,” Imogen replied, stepping inside.

They didn’t embrace.

Her mother returned to the living room without looking back. Imogen followed, feeling the air here denser than outside. Everything was sterile: the sofa showroom-perfect, magazines aligned on the coffee table, curtains heavy and half-drawn. The room looked like a set, an exhibition of something that had never really existed.

“You haven’t visited in a while,” her mother said, eyes fixed on the tablet.

“We both know why.”

She nodded, as if agreeing about the weather.

“Have you had dinner?”

“No. I’m not hungry.”

Silence.

“I could order something. They deliver everything these days.”

“That’s not why I came,” Imogen said dryly.

Her mother looked at her. Long. Piercing. As if scanning her.

“So—it’s because of her, after all.”

Imogen said nothing. Only sat in the armchair, crossing her legs. Her hands trembled, so she hid them beneath the blanket. Kept her face calm.

“I’ve heard what they’re saying about her. Gossip, innuendo, the usual. They say she’s in some kind of decline. Or already at rock bottom.”

“Don’t,” Imogen cut her off. Her voice was low, but steel trembled within it. “Just don’t.”

“I’m not saying anything. Your life. Your choices.”

“She’s my friend.”

Her mother smirked. Briefly. Without joy.

“Imogen, please. Let’s not play with words. Friend?”

Imogen stiffened.

“You don’t know what she’s going through. You have no right to judge.”

“And you do?”

Pause.

“Do you even realize what she’s doing right now? Where she spends her nights? What she’s taking?”

“Enough,” Imogen hissed. “I know more than you. And I’m there.”

“Where are you?” her mother narrowed her eyes. “She’s been gone for over a month. You don’t know where she is. You don’t even know if she’s alive.”

Imogen froze.

“That’s no reason to betray her.”

“And have you thought, maybe she’s already betrayed you? Or herself?”

The silence that followed was taut, like a string ready to snap. Imogen turned to the window. Outside—dim light, wet asphalt, the occasional car.

“She isn’t your friend,” her mother said. “And she never was.”

The words landed flat. As if they were talking about some old acquaintance no longer invited to dinner.

Imogen stood.

“I wasn’t planning to stay the night. Thanks for the warmth.”

“This isn’t warmth. This is reality. You’re smart, Imogen. You’ve always been smart. Don’t waste yourself.”

She stopped in the doorway. Her back straight. Her face marble.

“And you’ve always thought being smart meant being cold. You were wrong.”

She left without slamming the door. Fastened her coat to the throat. The air outside was thick, damp—the kind of London chill that doesn’t bite, but seeps under the skin. From the car park, her BMW blinked its headlights. Her father had insisted on the alarm, as though a single flashing light could guard against everything.

Imogen opened the door, slid into the seat, placed her hands on the wheel. Didn’t start the engine. Just sat, listening to raindrops slide down the roof. Tears—if they had come—would have sounded the same. Monotonous. Without hysteria. Without hope.

The streetlight cast its glow across the hood, drawing a sharp line between before and after.

She knew she could drive back to Oxford. Now. Tonight. In two hours she’d be home. In her room, where everything was in place, where textbooks were sorted by color, where boxes of letters she’d never sent still sat.

But her hand turned the wheel left. Not right. And that alone was a choice.

She drove aimlessly, music off. The radio silent. The navigator off. London’s streets blazed bright, as if all December’s darkness had been forced into the windows. Cars sped past, shop lights flickered across the windshield. Soho. Piccadilly. Somewhere there.

On impulse—too sharp—she pulled over. Set the handbrake. Breathed, counting to six.

Just get out. Just walk. Just see if the city still breathed, even if Clarke had vanished from it.

She locked the car. Tightened the strap of her bag. Heels thudded against wet pavement. The rain had just ended, and the asphalt gleamed, as though the city had shed its skin.

Past boutiques, a café, a flower stall somehow still open. Around the corner—a newsstand. The glass fogged, but inside the light burned. Magazines stacked by the door.

She wasn’t looking for anything. Her eyes just caught.

A black-and-white photo. High contrast. Clarke.

Imogen froze.

She stepped closer. Not believing—yet already knowing.

Clarke’s face stared at her from the page, as if from another world.
The photo was blurred, grainy, taken on a phone or cheap lens.
A moment in a club: half-turned, hair disheveled, eyes black with dilated pupils. Dress—short, slipping off her shoulder.
In the background—a silhouette. Barely visible, but enough for Imogen.

Headline:
“Scandalous Heiress: The End of the Clarke Griffin Era?”

Smaller subheading:

“Heiress of the Griffin clan spotted at her fourth party in a week. Scandalous photos, suggestive company, and silence from the family.”

Imogen’s fingers reached out. Trembling. Not with anger. With cold. Inside—something shifted. Like a bone fracturing in a fall.

She pulled one issue out. Flipped through—quickly, like ripping a bandage. Another picture. Later that same night:
Clarke sitting on someone’s lap. Head thrown back. Lips parted. A mark on her neck.
Caption: “Griffin: Lost or Free?”

Imogen wanted to put it back—but her hands wouldn’t obey.
Wanted to turn away—but her eyes clung.
She breathed through her nose—steady, slow. As if composure could be saved through rhythm. If you breathe right, you don’t break.

“She isn’t your friend.” —her mother’s words echoed. Flat. Without appeal.

Imogen lowered the magazine.
Stepped back.
Then again.

Her shoulders rose. Her chest tightened. Her eyes stayed dry.

Tears didn’t come. Not here. Not now.

She turned. Walked away. Past the café. Past the shop windows. Past everything.

But the sound lingered.
That rustle of magazine pages, like a funeral ribbon fluttering in the wind.

She walked back to the car without feeling her feet.
The pavement like cotton. The shopfronts like casts of other people’s lives. Everything inside her—fear, waiting, the last remnants of hope—had turned into something else.

Dull. Heavy. Almost viscous.

She opened the car door, slid in, shut it—not loudly, but as if cutting herself off from the world.

Her hands gripped the wheel. Released. Slowly. She pulled the key from her pocket, pushed it into the ignition. Turned. The car hummed. But didn’t move.

She sat there for a long time. Watching the windshield reflect the traffic lights, the silhouette of a hooded passerby.
On the passenger seat—her letter. Folded into quarters. Neat. Almost tender.

She picked it up. Unfolded. Slowly, as if afraid to crumple it.
Read line by line, though she knew them by heart. Knew—and still hoped that, maybe tonight, reading again, the meaning might change. The ending might change.

But it never did.

“Stupid, isn’t it?” she whispered.

The words rang like in an empty room. No reply. No addressee.
She didn’t even know where to leave it. On Sloane Street? In the clubs? In the lecture hall Clarke might have erased from her life forever?

Imogen folded the paper again. Slipped it into the glovebox. Shut it. Not locked—just hidden from sight.

But not from herself.

She turned on the headlights. The car rolled forward.

London slipped behind her like film sped too fast. Headlights, blurred silhouettes, shop signs. All drifting. All unreal.

“You don’t know where she is. Who she’s become.”
The thought cut sharp. Clean. Cold.

And still—her heart flinched.
Because somewhere inside, the tiniest ember still whispered: maybe she’ll read it. Maybe, by some miracle—she’ll know this letter existed.

That she was still needed.

The Griffin estate, the same day.

The Griffin estate was soundless. Even scandals here came muted—through marble walls, through the rustle of silk curtains, through the learned restraint.

The magazine lay on the floor, face up. Black-and-white cover, a photograph. Long legs. A wine stain on the hem. A half-smile that wasn’t a smile.

On the title: “The Fallen Equestrian Princess.”
Caption: “Clarke Griffin in an exclusive club—without a saddle, but with impact.”

“What is this?!” Abigail’s voice broke.

She didn’t scream—she raised her tone. As if at a board meeting. As in the lab, when an assistant dropped a vial.

“How dare they… How dare she?”

“Abby…” Thomas began.

Thomas was standing by the fireplace. The phone beside him, the newspaper, a cup left untouched.
He didn’t answer right away. He only looked. Silently. With a pain buried so deep it seemed not to exist.

Abigail lifted her eyes. There were no tears in them. Only shock. Thin, like an electric jolt.

“That’s not her. That’s not… my daughter.”

“It is her,” Thomas said evenly. “She’s no longer with us,” he added quietly. “Not for a long time.”

Only because otherwise his voice would have broken.

“You mean… she’s gone?”

“I said: not with us. That’s not the same thing.”

“You knew?”

A pause. He didn’t answer. Just walked to the side table, poured himself whiskey. Didn’t drink.

“You knew, Thomas?!”

“I saw the reports. But I hoped she…”

“Hoped?” Abigail laughed sharply. “Hoped it was just a phase? That she would crawl out of the clubs and go into psychiatry residency, just like you wanted?”

He said nothing.
She stared out the window. Rain. Snow. A mixed December.

“I don’t know who she is anymore,” Abigail said quietly. “I don’t even know if I want to know.”

Thomas lowered his eyes, lips pressed for a moment. He set the whiskey glass on the table. Moved to the window. Then—pulled a phone from his inner pocket.

Dialed a number. One of those never saved under a name.

He waited.
A pause.

“This is Griffin,” he said. “I need the latest reports. The situation is out of control.”

His voice steady. His shoulders tense. His fingers almost white from the pressure.

“Yes. Everything you have. Immediately. And… find her.”

Chapter Text

The room was too white.

Not clean—scrubbed. Like a showroom. As if a perfume commercial had just been filmed here. Or an autopsy.

Velvet curtains, translucent, laced with golden threads. A handwoven rug—stained with champagne. Or something like it. On the marble table—a crystal glass, half-full, ice melted. A cigarette in the ashtray—snuffed out, but still smelling of tobacco and vanilla. The thinnest kind. The most expensive. The most false.

Clarke opened her eyes. It didn’t register at first that this wasn’t home. Not the campus. Not even her own body.
The body lay on its side, sheet twisted, back exposed. Skin sticking to fabric. Hair tangled. Temples ringing. Mouth dry. Beneath her breast—a clotted drop of shimmer. Under her knee—something wet. Crunching. Maybe a crumpled tissue. Maybe a flower.

She raised her hand slowly. Around her wrist—a red mark, like from a grip. Under her nails—something brown.

Breathing was difficult. The air didn’t smell of sweat. It smelled of selective perfume. Expensive. Oud and musk. Kilian.
Nothing cheap existed here. Even disgrace had a price.

She sat up slowly. The sheet slipped. One breast—marred with a violet blotch. Like a stain. Like a mark.

The room—too spacious. With a terrace. In the corner—a designer armchair, a man’s shirt thrown across it. Carelessly. Almost provocatively.
On the floor—a thin belt. Black, patent leather. A woman’s. But not hers.

The mirror opposite the bed—massive, black-framed. The reflection—only her body. Spread out. Silent. Head thrown back, neck drawn taut. Like a statue someone had tried to undress—and then forgot to finish.

Clarke didn’t remember, at first, how she’d gotten here.

Fragments.

The club. The dance floor. The Stranger behind her. The man with the bracelet. A cigarette. A kiss. Then—a voice: “Wanna play?” Then—laughter. Then—her. Somewhere between them. Or beneath them. Or outside altogether.

And then—almost retching. Not from pain. From the fact that inside there was nothing but the image of her own hands—fallen uselessly onto the sheets. And then—darkness.

She didn’t know if there had been clothes. Didn’t know who had called her name.
Was she naked when she came in? Or only when she left?
Did she even come in on her own?

Her heart jolted.

On the floor lay things—a condom box, opened. A pack of menthol cigarettes. A lime, sliced by a knife left on the glass. A scrap of silk, like cut from a dress. Not hers.

No one. Not the Stranger. Not the man. No one at all.

On the chair—a dress. Silver, with pearl straps. Not hers. She would never wear that. Or would she?

Her phone? Not on the table. Not in her bag. Not in her bag, because her bag was gone. The dress—not hers.
No wallet, no keys, no clear memory.

She walked barefoot across the room. The floor—heated.

The bathroom looked like a hotel ad. Bright, brass fixtures. On the sink—two glasses. One smudged with lipstick. The other—bearing a fingerprint inside. As if someone had tried to catch the last trace.

The mirror didn’t answer. The face in it—smeared. Eyes swollen. Neck—bruised with a deep red mark, as though someone had held her throat, stealing her breath.
Clarke couldn’t remember. Only the sensation. As if she’d had to claw her own breathing back.

She reached for a towel. Wrapped it around herself, slowly. Each movement—like after surgery.

On the TV stand—there was a lighter. Black, matte. Cigarettes in a glass, as though here smoking wasn’t necessity but aesthetic. Yet she hadn’t lit a single one.

The windows faced west. The shadow of the sun fell across the bed. The bed looked carefully disheveled. As if someone had left it that way on purpose. Like a frame. Like evidence.

On the glass table lay a passport. A man. Age—thirty-four. French. A face—smirking. She wanted to flip it over. But couldn’t.
It wasn’t disinterest. It was—powerlessness.

She moved to the hall. On the floor—a black bracelet. She exhaled. Her legs trembled.

Her hands too. Not from shame. From depletion.

In the mirror by the exit she lingered. The face—still hers. But unfocused. Without shade. A mask. Icy. Thin. Cracked.

On the console—keycard. No logo. Just a number.
A rental apartment? Or someone’s? Who paid? Who invited?

She didn’t remember. She knew only one thing:

If I leave this place—nothing will change.
But if I stay—it will get worse.

The elevator was mirrored—reflecting her from every angle.

The towel knotted at her chest slipped, and Clarke barely noticed.
Her hair damp. Skin—cold, like fogged glass shocked by temperature drop. Veins in her legs—blueish.
On her thigh—a stain, like a burn. Wax, maybe. Or something else. She didn’t know. She didn’t want to know.