Traitor.
Within thirty seconds he is toddling after bubbles with both hands out, laughing so hard he hiccups. I stand there watching him, the ache in my chest strange and complex—relief, fear, gratitude, guilt all tangled together like exposed wires.
Kavi glances up at me. “Go get dressed for your nonsense event. We’ve got him for an hour.”
“I’m not sure I’m emotionally prepared to leave him with a man who introduces himself via contraband bubbles.”
“Then you’re definitely not ready for this competition.”
“Unfortunately true.”
Back in the room, I shower fast and hot, scrubbing away the residue of travel. Steam fills the washroom. My skin comes out flushed. I stand in front of the mirror in a towel and look at myself without flinching away.
Tired eyes. Strong mouth. Shoulders tighter than they should be. A body that has done a thousand ordinary hard things and is now being asked for extraordinary ones.
“Professional,” I tell my reflection.
“Composed.”
“Do not let these people smell fear.”
The reflection seems unconvinced but willing to participate.
I dress carefully.
The blue falls cleanly over me, skimming instead of clinging, all sharp lines and soft movement. I pin my hair up, then take it down and redo it because the first attempt says regional bank manager and the second says woman with enough control to fake serenity. Minimal makeup. Good shoes. Wristband hidden as much as possible without violating the rules.
When I’m done, I almost look like someone who belongs at a high-level reception instead of a woman one missed paycheck from ruin.
That’s useful.
A chime sounds from my comm. Reminder:Mandatory Meet-and-Greet Reception begins in 30 minutes.
I close my eyes.
Then I open them, square my shoulders, collect my room key and folio, and head to retrieve my son from daycare before the reception staff sweep me into whatever polished social horror they have planned.
At the doorway, I pause and look once more around the room. The neat bed. Jesse’s small clothes folded in the drawers. The competition materials waiting on the desk. The window beyond, glowing now in sunset gold over the arenas and media towers.
Professional and composed, I remind myself.
Strategic.
If they want a contestant, they get one.
If they want a spectacle, they can work harder for it.
And if they think I’m here to smile prettily and drown, they’re about to be very disappointed.
CHAPTER 6
BRON
Fratvoy One smells like money, ozone, and lies.
That’s my first coherent thought when I step off the transfer line into the main compound with my guitar case slung over one shoulder and my travel bag bumping against my thigh. The air is warm in a curated way, climate-tuned to flatter skin and calm nerves. Above me, the sky is a high polished blue streaked with decorative clouds that look so art-directed I half expect a sponsor logo to drift across one.
“Subtle,” I mutter.
