“Rose?”
“No.”
Gloria exhaled.
“Where are you?”
“River café.”
“Stay there.”
“I’m safe.”
“That was not the question.”
I watched a server wipe the empty table beside mine. The ordinary motion made my voice feel more fragile.
“I’m at a public table.”
“I am coming.”
“You have work.”
“I am leaving work.”
“You don’t need to rescue me.”
“No. I need to sit beside my sister while she takes responsibility without deciding pain is fatal.”
“Okay.” My voice failed. “Please come.”
She did.
Blake formally disqualified us at four. The sponsor statement cited the eligibility and truth-certification sections we had signed: we had not been romantic partners at application, and the submitted origin history was materially false. It made the application truth public without mentioning the unrelated marathon registration. The gym transferred our accumulated prize credit to a community fund. No cash. No hotel package. No reimbursement. The certification plan remained possible without it. Amy had already proved that. Blake asked whether I wanted to make a statement.
“No.”
“Public speculation will continue.”
“I know.”
“We could frame the relationship as a success despite disqualification.”
“No.”
They studied me.
“Correct answer.”
Our names remained first on the office leaderboard until Blake drew a line through them.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“For the application?”
“For involving the gym.”
Blake leaned back.
