Chapter 1

When I was eight, I hid crying in a dark equipment room after a loss.

Julian, usually so cold, found me.

He wrapped his jacket around me, wiped my tears, and whispered, "To me, you're brighter than any gold medal."

That one moment of exclusive tenderness trapped my heart for ten years.

What exactly does ten years amount to?

For me, ten years was measured in over three thousand six hundred days of grueling sweat.

It was leaving every ounce of myself on the piste, just to earn a single, "Good touch" from Julian.

I always believed that as long as I racked up enough NCAA points, as long as I held onto the top spot in the Ivy League women's saber standings, Julian would forever be the one standing behind me, my steadfast second.

We worked part-time at the same fencing club and anchored the men's and women's varsity squads at our university. My life's trajectory had long been tied to this boy with the effortless, sun-drenched smile.

Until the day Serena Sterling pushed open the doors of the fencing center.

I had just finished a brutal set of high-intensity footwork drills. Pulling off my mask, sweat stinging my eyes, I instinctively turned to look for Julian, intending to toss him a water bottle.

But his eyes weren't on me.

Following his gaze, I saw her. Serena looked like old money pulled straight from a French Vogue editorial.

She had flawless blonde hair and endless legs. Even swallowed by a baggy fencing jacket, she radiated an innate, arrogant elegance that commanded the room.

"Listen up, everyone," the head coach clapped his hands, beaming like he'd struck gold. "Meet Serena, transferring in from Europe. She was the runner-up at the European Junior Fencing Championships. Starting today, she's joining our saber squad."

Serena took a graceful step forward, a polite smile resting on her lips. Her eyes swept the room before locking onto mine. It was the gaze of a predator sizing up its prey—seemingly mild, yet gnawing at my nerves like a viper.

"It's lovely to meet you all," she said, her voice dripping with a flawless, sugary sweetness. "I've heard Chloe is the best saber fencer on the team? I've been looking forward to crossing blades with a 'true prodigy.' Honestly, I haven't met much resistance since coming to the States."

The barb wasn't even veiled.

I frowned, parting my lips to fire back, but Julian was already moving.

"Serena," Julian said, his voice laced with a breathless eagerness I'd never heard before. He actually reached out and took her weapon bag from her shoulder. "I'm Julian, the men's captain. If you need someone to show you the ropes around here, I'd be more than happy to help."

My heart plummeted.

In the last ten years, Julian had never carried a girl's equipment. Not even the time I was running a 102-degree fever and nearly collapsed on the strip.

"There's no pity in competitive sports, Chloe. Grip your weapon," he'd told me coldly.

Yet here he was, fawning over a transfer student he'd known for less than five minutes.

The practice bout that followed was an absolute massacre. A total relegation in class.

Coach set us up for a fifteen-touch bout. Mask on, I gripped my weapon, planning to test her with my signature parry-ripostes. But Serena's style was bizarre and vicious. Every cut she made carried an unreasonable, suffocating pressure.

The scoring apparatus flashed red, again and again.

5 to 0. 10 to 3.

I was gasping for air, the sweat soaking through my plastron. Every clash of our blades sent an unnatural, jarring vibration down the tang of my weapon and straight into my wrist. Her speed was freakish. Even when I was certain I had executed a clean block, the machine still registered her touch.

"15 to 6. Serena wins."

I ripped off my mask, chest heaving violently, staring blankly at the digital scoreboard. I lost? On my home strip, utterly dismantled by a girl who had just walked through the door?

"You're good, Chloe," Serena said, strolling up to me. She pulled her mask off—she wasn't even sweating. Her tone dripped with condescending pity. "It's just that your technique is incredibly... dated. Back in Europe, we abandoned that kind of clunky defense ages ago."

I clenched my jaw, snapping my gaze to the sidelines. I desperately wanted Julian to walk over like he always did, clap me on the shoulder, and tell me it was just a fluke.

But he didn't.

Julian was standing right next to Serena, handing her a clean towel. His eyes were wide with naked awe and unapologetic admiration.

"That lunge you pulled off for the final touch was flawless, Serena," Julian's voice cut through the hum of the gym, piercing my eardrums like an ice pick.

Five minutes.

It took her exactly five minutes—the length of a single bout—to completely dismantle ten years of my stupid, desperate hope.

I stood frozen, watching them walk away shoulder to shoulder, and suddenly realized my entire world was caving in.