Chapter 2

Not ten minutes after I got back to my room, the door flew open.

Mom stood in the doorway. Her eyes were red, but the weakness was gone. What was left was pure steel.

"Pack your things."

I pulled open the closet, grabbed my black gear bag, and started shoving in my equipment and clothes. "Where are we going?"

"The Plaza. My assistant already booked us a suite. You're not setting foot in this house again until Trials are over." She walked over and helped me fit my spare arrows into the quiver. Her hands were still shaking, but she moved fast.

"You're not going to ask if what I said downstairs was true?"

Mom paused. Took a breath. Looked me in the eye.

"I'm a businesswoman, Brynn. I deal in proof. And you never say things you can't back up."

I went to my desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and handed her a thick envelope.

"What's this?"

"Six months of blood work. Some from my regular physicals, some from a doctor I went to quietly on my own." I held her gaze. "You thought my scores have been slipping because of pressure. It wasn't pressure."

Mom tore open the envelope. Her eyes scanned the medical terms, then locked on the results. She went pale.

"Muscle relaxants... trace nerve suppressants..." She read each word through gritted teeth.

"That blueberry smoothie he makes me every morning." I kept my voice even. "The dosage was dialed in perfectly. Not enough to knock me out, not enough to land me in a hospital. Just enough to put a tiny tremor in my fingers at full draw. In archery, a few millimeters of shake at the anchor point is the difference between a ten and a clean miss."

The envelope slipped from her hands. Mom pressed her palm over her mouth. Tears spilled down her cheeks, but they weren't grief. That was fury.

"How could he—" She was trembling head to toe. "You're his daughter. His own flesh and blood. And he did this to you for that woman's kid?"

"Because Laurel can't beat me on her own." I shrugged. "Best coaches, best gear — doesn't matter. She can't touch me. So he figured if he couldn't raise her ceiling, he'd lower my floor."

Mom spun around, marched to my nightstand, grabbed the bottle of "pre-competition supplements" Dad had dropped off the night before, and smashed it against the wall. Glass exploded. Brown liquid ran down the paint.

"We're leaving. Now." She grabbed my wrist hard enough to bruise. "He's never getting near you again."

We carried our bags downstairs. Dad was in the living room trying to calm down a confused, wide-eyed Nolan. When he saw the luggage, his face shifted.

"Where do you think you're going? It's the middle of the night!"

He rushed toward us and tried to block Mom's path.

"Move." One word. The kind of voice that made conference rooms go dead quiet.

"Are you out of your mind? Trials are tomorrow! You're dragging Brynn to some hotel room the night before the biggest competition of her life? You'll wreck everything!" Still performing. Still doing the worried-father act.

I stopped and looked at him.

Right then, his phone lit up on the coffee table. A voice message notification. In the dead silence of the room, his hand caught the screen and the audio played out loud.

A girl's voice. Sugary sweet.

Daddy, do you think I can win the championship tomorrow?

Five seconds of dead air.

Dad lunged for the phone, fingers fumbling — and knocked it clean off the table.

I watched him scramble for it on his hands and knees. "Your good daughter's waiting for you. Drop the act. It's embarrassing."

Mom didn't look at him again. She took my hand and walked us straight out the front door.