From my perch in the salon, I watch my company mill about. The goddess on my lap—Alessandra? Anastasia?—runs a finger over the tattoos on my neck as she chatters with the group around me. Her barely-there bikini leaves little to the imagination.
Another pretty distraction that won’t last past sunrise.
My favorite kind.
My gaze flashes to the muted TV hanging over the bar. Someone had the genius idea to flick on the Tokyo Olympics. I’m inexorably drawn to the screen, where the first men’s Saber team match is unfolding. The same event I took gold in four years ago.
I’m too sober for this.
“Be a dear and fetch me a drink, would you?” I tap on Alessandra’s thigh and reach for my unbleached cigarette papersand imported French tobacco—a vice, one I would never turn to if I were in competition, but fuck it. What more do I have to lose?
The chipped nail polish on my fingers looks like blood. I roll the cigarette, my fingers moving over the paper with the same precision that makes me deadly on the fencing strip.
Made, I correct.Mademe deadly.
I light my cigarette with a vintage Zippo, inhaling deeply to allow the smoke to burn and plume within my lungs.
My eyes flit back to the screen. There they are—my U.S. Fencing teammates, standing on the sidelines and on the piste.
Competing without me.
The camera flashes to him. Quentin Brisbois.
I white-knuckle the armrest, feeling the phantom hilt of the saber in my hand before I’m transported back to Budapest, where everything went to hell in the most righteous way possible.
The Fencing World Cup. A week after my twenty-sixth birthday.
The beginning of the end.
I’d solidified my spot for the Olympics months earlier. This match was supposed to be a breeze. A stop on my road to defending gold.
I was running through my pre-match routine when I saw Quentin Brisbois swaggering over to me. He’d been the thorn in my side at every competition. Always trying to get in my head before matches with his mind games and insufferable sneer. His blade work is solid enough, but his real talent is being a first-class pain in the ass.
He cornered me by the equipment check, away from prying ears. “Saw you with Linus earlier. Heard you two are quite close.”
“He’s my teammate, Quentin. Can you get fucking lost? I’m getting in the zone.”
Quentin’s smile turned predatory. “Can’t help but think how…intimatesome teammates can be. Personally, I never took a dip in my teammates’ pool. But maybe you and Linus don’t mind breaking that particular taboo.”
My blood ran cold. That night with Linus flashed through my mind—post-semifinals victory, adrenaline running high, stolen moments in the locker room. His first kiss with a man, desperate and searching.
For me, it was another night of fun, but for him? It was everything—his identity, his career, his family relationships—all balanced on the edge of a blade.
I saw the terror in his face afterward, his hands shaking as he made me swear secrecy. I planned to guard his secret as carefully as I protected my flank in competition. Not because I was involved, but because Linus trusted me with something so fragile.
“Watch your fucking mouth, Quentin, or I’ll shut it for you,” I said.
The World Cup arena blurred around me.
“Such compromising positions,mon petit champion.” Quentin’s voice dripped poison. “Imagine the photos I could share. What would happen if his father found out—he’s quite the traditionalist, from what I hear. How would sweet Linus handle being disowned before the Olympics in a few short months?”
Photographs? That would be fucking impossible. Unless someone broke into our locker room. Quentin had done petty shit before, but this would be a new low.
Growing up a Hastings meant mastering the art of defense against threats and jealous tongues. I’ve deflected countless attacks at galas, charity events, anywhere the elite gathered to whisper.
But this wasn’t another social bout.
This was fencing. My sanctuary. Where I’d transformed from the dyslexic, fucked-up rich kid into someone worthy of respect. My teammates came to me for technique tips, studied my footwork, watched with reverence as I commanded the piste.
