Chapter 2

A month was all it took for my entire world to turn upside down.

Fueled by a bizarrely high win rate, Serena had skyrocketed to become the undisputed focal point of the team.

Meanwhile, I—formerly the top-ranked fencer in the Ivy League standings—was marginalized into a ghost. Every sponsor's gaze, the premium training resources, even the prime bench in the locker room—Serena claimed them all as her absolute birthright.

Yet, I still clung to a shred of delusion.

Tonight was the banquet that would determine the starting roster for the NCAA Championships.

Dressed in a black gown, I sat tucked away at the corner of the long table, my fingers nervously twisting a napkin.

Tradition dictated that the head coach and the team captain made the final call.

Just weeks ago at the regionals, fighting through the agonizing flare-up of an old wrist injury, I had bled and sweated my way to a gold medal.

That was my proof. It had to be enough.

Julian stepped up to the podium in a tailored suit, the warm spotlight catching the sharp angles of his handsome face. My heart rate kicked into overdrive.

"This season, we face unprecedented challenges," Julian's voice echoed through the grand hall. "For the glory of the Ivy League, and with the Olympic trials looming on the horizon, we need our sharpest blade. Therefore, after careful deliberation alongside the coaching staff, the fencer who will represent us in the NCAA Women's Individual Sabre, and serve as our anchor for the team event, will be—"

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the polished crowd.

Instinctively, I straightened my spine, shifting my weight to stand.

"—Serena Sterling."

The hall erupted into thunderous applause.

I froze, my mind flatlining.

The cheering crashed over me like a tidal wave, drowning out my breath. I watched Serena lift the hem of her gown and glide up to the stage like royalty, taking her place right beside Julian. They looked so perfect together. So sickeningly radiant.

"Why?"

The banquet had thinned out by the time I cornered Julian in a deserted corridor. My voice trembled, and a sharp, stinging ache burned behind my eyes.

Julian furrowed his brow, a flicker of impatience crossing his features. "Chloe, don't throw a tantrum here. It's for the good of the team."

"For the good of the team?" A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I clenched my fists, letting my nails dig mercilessly into my palms. "I took gold at regionals! My overall points are still higher than hers! On what grounds do you just hand her my spot?"

Julian took a deep breath.

When he spoke, it was with a chilling, clinical detachment. "I'm sorry, Chloe. But the prestige of the Ivy League matters more than personal feelings. Serena's ceiling is simply higher than yours. Her technique is more modern, and... she pulls in better sponsorships. I have to back the strongest athlete in the room, and right now, that isn't you."

"The strongest athlete?" I stared at the face of the man I had loved for ten years, suddenly realizing I was looking at a total stranger. "You're not selecting an athlete, you're just pandering to her! You know exactly what this roster spot means to me. This is my one shot at making the national team!"

"Enough!" Julian hissed, taking a step forward. "You're always so emotional, so incredibly selfish! For once, could you try to learn something from Serena's big-picture mentality?"

"Oh my, are you two arguing?"

A sickly-sweet voice drifted from around the corner. Serena sauntered into view, a flute of champagne balanced effortlessly in her hand. She looked at me, her eyes brimming with a victor's quiet mockery.

"Chloe, I know you're hurting. But competitive sports are just cruel like that, aren't they? A true champion wouldn't be out here screaming in the hallway like a shrew just because she lost a spot."

She pivoted gracefully toward Julian, her tone instantly softening into something velvety. "Julian, please don't be too hard on her. After all, pouring ten years into this only to end up as a backup... anyone would lose their mind a little."

Her words acted like a serrated blade, sliding with surgical precision right into my most vulnerable nerve.

Ten years of friendship. Ten years of silent, agonizing love. In a fraction of a second, the entire foundation collapsed into dust.

I looked at Julian's face—his damning silence acting as tacit agreement—and then at Serena's perfectly plastered smile.

My stomach violently churned.

I remembered ten-year-old Julian throwing up before our first tournament, and me promising we'd face it together.

I remembered him comforting me after bitter defeats, and our shared vows during endless 5 A.M. runs to reach the Olympics side by side.

Now, every one of those memories was nothing but a sick joke.

I didn't utter another word of protest. I knew better now; you can't wake someone who is only pretending to be asleep.