Dorian studied her for a moment longer than necessary. There were things he could have said. There were so many things he had considered saying in the days since the incident, but he did not say them. He did not know what she wanted from him, and he did not want to make everything worse than it already was.
“All right,” he said quietly. “Do you feel confident about this?”
“I trust him,” she replied simply. “If he is able to do this, then he will win.”
“Then let us prove he is the very best.”
The preparation that followed was meticulous, almost ritualistic. Tempest’s tack was checked and rechecked, and the final adjustments were made in silence. The stablehands worked alongside them, aware that anything less than perfect would be noticed immediately.
Anne remained with Tempest throughout. When the time came to lead him out, she walked beside him as though the rest of the world had narrowed to the space between her hand and his shoulder. The horse responded to her presence instantly, as he always did.
Dorian walked on Tempest’s other side without speaking. They moved like that toward the paddock, the three of them bound together by something none of them had chosen but all of them were now responsible for.
Around them, the estate had transformed. Guests had arrived from neighboring properties, investors stood in clusters near the viewing areas, and the racing officials took their places as they prepared for the start.
But for Anne, none of it existed in any meaningful way. Her attention stayed fixed on Tempest. Dorian noticed her watching for weakness that no one else could see.
“You will exhaust yourself before the race even begins,” he said as they reached the paddock.
Anne did not look at him. “I will notice if something is wrong.”
“So will the trainers.”
“They did not notice before.”
That silenced him.
The memory of Tempest collapsing still lingered between them in ways neither had fully addressed. It had changed something fundamental in the way Anne viewed risk and in the way Dorian viewed her response to it.
They stood together in silence as the horse was prepared for mounting.
“If anything feels off,” she said, “I am bringing him back immediately.”
Dorian glanced at her. “You will not be the one making that decision mid-race,” he replied.
“Then someone else had better be paying attention.”
“They will be. I promise.”
For a brief moment, neither of them moved. She clearly did not believe him, but there was not much that could be done about that.
She reached up to steady Tempest’s bridle, her hand lingering for a moment longer than necessary, before she stepped back. Neither of them spoke again, not because there was nothing left to say but because there was too much.
Lady Vivian reached Dorian at the edge of the paddock just as the horses were being led for the line-up. She fell into step beside him, as though she had always belonged by his side.
“You look as though you expect a disaster rather than a race,” she said lightly, watching him rather than the track.
“It is a race, not a celebration.”
She tilted her head slightly. “You used to find them more amusing than this.”
Dorian did not respond, his attention fixed on the line of horses.
Lady Vivian adjusted her gloves and studied him more closely.
“She has not left his side since dawn,” she remarked.
“Anne is ensuring he is prepared. She understands what is required for an event such as this.”
