Scarlett has spent her entire life believing discipline is protection.

But standing there with Max only inches away, feeling the pull of something she cannot quantify or control, she begins to understand the cost of that protection.

And for the first time, she isn’t certain which loss would be worse-

Disappointing her father.

Or walking away from the only person who has ever made her question whether winning is enough.

The quiet between them does not break. It shifts.

Outside the stall, somewhere down the aisle, a horse stamps impatiently. Leather creaks. A distant stable hand calls out instructions. Life at Walden continues, orderly and structured, as if nothing inside this small wooden space has tilted off its axis.

Max doesn’t move closer.

But he doesn’t step back either.

Scarlett becomes acutely aware of everything at once - the faint scent of cedar shavings, the warmth radiating from her horse, the steady rhythm of her own pulse. And beneath it all, the dangerous steadiness of him.

"You should go," she says finally, though the words lack force.

He studies her for a moment. Not offended. Not wounded. Just assessing.

"Do you want me to?" he asks.

It’s not a challenge.

That’s what makes it worse.

Scarlett hesitates.

Want has never been the deciding factor in her life. Want is irrelevant. Want is indulgent. Want is what weakens your seat before a jump.

But she is tired of pretending she doesn’t feel it.

"I don’t know," she answers honestly.

Max exhales softly, something almost like a laugh but without humor. "That’s progress."

She almost smiles.

Almost.

He reaches out then - not for her, but for the stall door latch - giving her space to stop him if she chooses. She doesn’t.

Before stepping out, he pauses.

"For what it’s worth," he says quietly, eyes holding hers, "I’m not going anywhere just because he thinks I should."

The words settle deep.

After he leaves, the stall feels larger. Colder.

Scarlett presses her forehead back against her horse’s neck, inhaling slowly, forcing her breathing to steady. She cannot afford distraction. Not now. Not with her father here. Not with evaluators watching every ride.

She straightens.

Control returns piece by piece.

By the time she leaves the stall, her posture is immaculate.

That evening, Walden buzzes with quiet speculation.

Her father’s presence has not gone unnoticed. Faculty members speak to him in low, respectful tones. Riders steal glances as he passes. His reputation precedes him - strategic investor, patron of elite training programs, architect of competitive success.

Scarlett feels the weight of it everywhere she walks.

In the dining hall, conversations dip when she enters. Not silent. Just aware.

Max sits across the room with a group of riders, laughing easily at something someone says. He looks effortless again, all charm and relaxed confidence.

But when his gaze flickers up and finds hers, the smile softens.

Just slightly.

She looks away first.

Not because she wants to.

Because she knows her father is seated at the faculty table with a clear line of sight.

Halfway through dinner, her father stands and approaches her table.

The room does not go silent.

It tightens.

"Walk with me," he says.

Not a request.

Scarlett rises immediately.

They step out into the cool evening air, the academy courtyard illuminated by low lantern light. Gravel crunches beneath their shoes in precise rhythm.

"You will ride again tomorrow," he says without preamble. "Private evaluation."

Scarlett keeps her gaze forward. "Yes, sir."

"There are international scouts attending the Founders Exhibition this year."

That makes her chest tighten.

"I am aware."

"Are you?" His tone remains level. "Because awareness requires discipline."

She says nothing.

He stops walking.

Scarlett halts beside him, posture straight, chin level.

"I will not have your judgment compromised," he continues. "You are too close to the summit to allow sentiment to erode your focus."

Sentiment.

As if feeling anything is an illness.

"Max Summers," her father adds calmly, "is ambitious. But ambition without structure collapses."

Scarlett’s fingers curl subtly at her sides.

"He will distract you."

“I won’t allow it," she says.

Her father studies her carefully.

" See that you don’t."

He resumes walking, conversation concluded.

Scarlett remains where she is for a moment after he leaves, lantern light flickering against stone. Her pulse pounds in her ears, but outwardly she is perfectly still.

Too close to the summit.

She has spent her life climbing.

And suddenly she is aware of how lonely the top must be.

Across the courtyard, Max watches her.

He doesn’t approach immediately.

He waits until her father disappears inside the administration building before crossing the distance.

"You look like you’re about to duel someone," he says lightly.

She exhales. "Private evaluation tomorrow."

His expression sharpens. "With him watching?"

"Yes."

A beat of silence.

"You’ll crush it."

She doesn’t answer right away.

"I can’t afford not to," she says instead.

Max steps closer, lowering his voice. "Scarlett."

She meets his gaze.

"If you ride for him," he says carefully, "you’ll always feel like you owe him something."

"And if I don’t?" she challenges.

"Then you finally ride for yourself."

The words strike somewhere unguarded.

For a moment, the world narrows again - not to a jump, not to a finish line - but to the choice suspended between them.

Scarlett has never ridden for herself.

Not truly.

The realization is destabilizing.

A bell rings in the distance, signaling curfew.

Max steps back slightly, hands sliding into his pockets once more, the mask of ease returning in subtle degrees.

"Get some sleep," he says. "Tomorrow’s going to be interesting."

He turns before she can respond, giving her the space to decide whether to call him back.

She doesn’t.

But she watches him walk away.

And for the first time, Scarlett wonders if the most dangerous fall isn’t from a horse-

But from the life she was engineered to live.