Chapter 3

The dining room felt like a stage set for a play I'd already seen—the worst performance of my life, with the most devastating ending. But this time, I was the only one who knew the script.

I sat at our family's ornate breakfast table, my fingers curled around a porcelain coffee cup, watching as my father stood at the head of the table with his hand resting on Celeste's shoulder.

"I'd like you all to meet Celeste Halvorsen Sørensen," Magnus announced, his voice carrying that authoritative tone he used when he expected no questions. "My daughter."

My mother's teacup clattered against its saucer. I remembered this moment—the shock that had rippled through me the first time, the confusion, the hurt on my mother's face. But now, I felt nothing but cold calculation as I studied Celeste's practiced smile.

"I'm so happy to finally meet you," Celeste said, her eyes wide with manufactured innocence as she looked at me. "I've watched all your competitions. You're amazing."

The same words. The exact same words she'd used before. I forced my lips into a smile, remembering how genuine my response had been the first time—how I'd embraced her, welcomed her, never suspecting that behind those admiring eyes lurked a woman who would orchestrate my destruction.

"Thank you," I said, my voice steady despite the rage burning in my chest. "That's very kind."

Elliot, seated beside me, squeezed my hand under the table. "This is wonderful news," he said, his voice warm with false sincerity. "The more family, the better."

I turned to look at him, at the face I had once loved, the face that had smiled down at me in a hospital bed while revealing how he had helped destroy my life. His handsome features showed nothing but charm and support. A perfect mask.

Just like mine.

"Absolutely," I agreed, squeezing his hand back while mentally cataloging every detail of this moment—the way Celeste's gaze lingered on him a second too long, the slight tensing of his fingers against mine when she spoke, the calculated distance they maintained. All the signs I had missed before.

Breakfast continued with stilted conversation, my father dominating as usual while my mother sat in silence, her face a careful blank. I excused myself as soon as was polite, kissing Elliot's cheek and welcoming Celeste once more before retreating to my study.

Once alone, I pulled out my laptop and began researching equestrian facilities in Seattle. I needed somewhere exclusive, somewhere with impeccable security, somewhere far from Los Angeles—and far from the reach of Celeste and Elliot.

I found it in the Mercer Equestrian Center, a state-of-the-art facility with a reputation for discretion and excellence. I sent an inquiry immediately, emphasizing my Olympic status and need for privacy. Then I began drafting a new training schedule, one that would require me to spend at least half of each month in Seattle.

A soft knock at my door interrupted my planning. My mother entered, her face drawn with worry.

"Astrid," she said softly, closing the door behind her. "Are you alright?"

I looked at her—really looked at her—and felt my heart constrict. She was still whole, still unbroken by the violence that had shattered her in my previous life. No bruises marred her delicate skin, no fear darkened her eyes. Not yet.

"I'm fine," I assured her, then gestured to the chair across from me. "But I wanted to talk to you about something."

She sat, her movements graceful but cautious. "Is this about your father's... announcement?"

"No," I said, though it was a lie. Everything was about that announcement—about the bomb that had just been dropped into our lives. "It's about my training. I've been thinking about changing things up, spending some time at a facility in Seattle."

Her brow furrowed. "Seattle? That's so far."

"I know," I said, reaching across to take her hand. "But I think I need a change of environment to really push myself for the next Olympics." I hesitated, then added, "I was hoping you might consider coming with me, at least part of the time. I could use your support."

Surprise flickered across her face. "You want me to come?"

"Of course," I said, squeezing her hand. "You've always been my biggest supporter. And honestly, I think it might be good for both of us to have some... space."

She didn't immediately answer, and I saw the conflict in her eyes—the ingrained loyalty to Magnus battling with her desire to support me. In my previous life, I had never asked this of her. I had never tried to separate her from my father's influence.

"I'll think about it," she finally said, and I nodded, knowing that was the most I could hope for now.

Later that afternoon, I found Elliot by the pool, his golden skin gleaming in the California sun. He smiled when he saw me, that same smile that had once made my heart race. Now it only made my skin crawl.

"There's my champion," he said, pulling me down beside him on the lounge chair. "What have you been up to all day?"

"Planning," I said, settling against him with practiced ease. "I've been looking into a training facility in Seattle."

His arm stiffened around me. "Seattle? Why?"

I traced a pattern on his chest, playing the role of the reluctant girlfriend. "I think I need to change up my routine if I want to defend my title. The facility there is supposed to be incredible."

"But that's so far away," he protested, his voice a perfect blend of concern and disappointment. "We'd hardly see each other."

I looked up at him, marveling at how convincing his performance was. Did he already know about Celeste? Were they already plotting?

"I know," I sighed, letting my head rest against his shoulder. "I'd hate to be apart from you. But it would only be for part of each month. And it's just until the next Olympics."

He frowned, but then kissed my forehead. "If it's what you need to do, I support you. You know that."

"I do," I murmured, and in the silence that followed, I made my next move. "Actually, there's something else I've been thinking about."

"What's that?"

"I want to contact Arthur Pendleton about coaching me again."

Elliot raised an eyebrow. "Your old coach? I thought he retired."

"He did," I confirmed. "But he's the best, and I think I could convince him to work with me for one more Olympic cycle."

As Elliot continued to play the supportive boyfriend, I mentally added another task to my list: contact Leo Vance, the most discreet private investigator in Los Angeles. Because while I planned my escape to Seattle, I needed eyes in Los Angeles—eyes that would document every betrayal, every lie, every piece of evidence I would need to destroy Celeste and Elliot before they could destroy me.

This time, I would be ready. This time, I would protect what was mine. This time, I would win.