The stable is nearly empty by the time Scarlett returns.

The afternoon light filters through the high windows in pale gold bands, catching dust in the air. Most of the riders have already left for the hotel. The noise of the day has faded into something distant and manageable.

Arasael lifts his head as she approaches, ears flicking forward.

She doesn’t speak at first.

She just opens the stall and steps inside.

The door slides shut behind her with a soft click.

For a moment, she stands there—hands resting against the cool wood—letting the silence settle. No audience. No clipboard. No measuring gaze.

Just breath.

Arasael nudges her shoulder.

She exhales.

And this time, the breath shakes.

It’s small. Almost imperceptible. But it’s there.

She presses her forehead against his neck, fingers curling into his short mane.

“I didn’t hesitate,” she whispers.

The words sound fragile in the empty aisle.

Footsteps echo softly behind her.

Not heavy.

Not commanding.

Familiar.

Max stops outside the stall but doesn’t announce himself.

“I know,” he says gently.

She closes her eyes.

He doesn’t say you were perfect.

He doesn’t say your father was wrong.

He just says that.

And it lands differently.

Scarlett doesn’t turn around. “You don’t have to stay,” she says quietly.

“I know,” Max replies.

Silence stretches between them.

Dakota shifts in her stall across the aisle, pawing lightly before settling again. A soft, restless energy—even at rest.

Max leans against the frame of Arasael’s stall.

“You know what I saw?” he asks, tone lighter now, but not teasing yet.

She doesn’t answer.

“I saw a rider who adjusted mid-stride because she knew her horse.” He pauses. “Not because she panicked.”

Her fingers tighten in Arasael’s mane.

“That’s not hesitation,” he continues. “That’s partnership.”

The word hangs there.

Partnership.

Scarlett swallows.

No one has ever framed her riding that way before.

It’s always been about outcome. Placement. Performance.

Never about connection.

Arasael lowers his head slightly, his breath warm against her collarbone.

Max steps closer—not into the stall, but near enough that she can feel his presence.

“You don’t have to earn everything,” he says quietly.

Her throat tightens.

“That’s easy for you to say.”

There’s no bite in it this time. Just tired honesty.

Max considers that.

“Maybe,” he admits. “But that doesn’t make it less true.”

She finally turns.

Not fully. Just enough.

Her composure isn’t gone.

But it isn’t seamless either.

“Why do you care?” she asks.

The question isn’t sharp.

It’s vulnerable.

Max’s teasing smile softens into something steadier.

“Because,” he says lightly, “it’s exhausting watching you fight a war no one else signed up for.”

A pause.

“And because,” he adds, quieter now, “you deserve to enjoy at least one thing in your life.”

Scarlett looks at him.

Really looks.

Not at the wealthy rider.
Not at the smirk.
Not at the competition.

Scarlett walks beside Arasael, the reins loose in her gloved hands.

No arena.

No fences.

Just the soft crunch of gravel beneath her boots and the slow rhythm of hooves beside her.

Max walks on the other side, hands in his pockets, close enough to speak but not touch.

“For the record,” he says lightly, “this might be the first time I’ve seen you outside of battle formation.”

She exhales through her nose. “This is not rebellion.”

“Of course not,” he agrees easily. “It’s a strategic retreat.”

And despite herself—

She smiles.

It’s small. Brief. But real.

Arasael lowers his head as they pass the far paddock, stretching his neck toward the pale winter sun. His stride loosens. Scarlett feels it immediately. The tension she didn’t realize she was carrying eases by a fraction.

This is what riding feels like without a stopwatch.

Without judgment.

Without him.

“See?” Max says softly. “The world didn’t end.”

She opens her mouth to reply—

“Scarlett.”

Her father’s voice cuts clean through the air.

She freezes.

Arasael’s ears flick back.

Max goes still beside her.

Her father stands near the barn entrance, coat perfectly buttoned, expression unreadable.

“This is not part of your schedule,” he says calmly.

The warmth drains from her spine.

“It’s only a walk,” Max says before he can stop himself.

Her father’s eyes shift to him.

Sharp.

Measured.

“And you,” he says evenly, “are not part of her training plan.”

Silence stretches.

Scarlett feels it—the invisible line being drawn.

Her father steps closer.

“Discipline is not optional,” he continues, his voice low but carrying. “Moments like this create weakness. Weakness creates loss.”

Scarlett’s fingers tighten on the reins.

Arasael lifts his head, sensing the change.

Her father’s gaze settles fully on her.

“I warned you about divided focus.”

The words are quiet.

Deadly.

And suddenly the five minutes feel like betrayal.

Max shifts beside her, jaw tightening. “She rode clean,” he says. “She earned a breath.”

Scarlett’s father doesn’t look at him.

“She will breathe when she wins.”

That does it.

Scarlett steps back into position.

Reins shorten.

Spine straightens.

The softness vanishes like it was never there.

“I apologize,” she says, voice smooth, composed. “It will not happen again.”

Max looks at her.

Really looks at her.

And sees the wall slam back into place.

Her father nods once.

“Return him to the arena,” he says. “We are correcting the third element.”

Scarlett adjusts the reins, shortening them automatically. Arasael’s frame tightens beneath her, responding to the shift in her posture.

Perfect again.

Controlled again.

Her father steps aside to allow her through, already discussing stride distances as if nothing interrupted them.

Max doesn’t move.

“Return him to the arena,” her father repeats calmly.

Scarlett begins to turn.

“Or,” Max says evenly, “you could let her breathe.”

The air changes.

Scarlett freezes.

Her father turns slowly.

Measured. Unimpressed.

“This does not concern you.”

Max steps forward anyway.

It isn’t aggressive.

It isn’t loud.

It’s steady.

“It does,” he says. “Because you don’t get to treat her like she’s an investment portfolio.”

Scarlett’s heart slams against her ribs.

Her father’s expression hardens by a degree.

“You are overstepping.”

“Am I?” Max replies calmly. “She rode clean. She adjusted because she knows her horse. That’s not weakness. That’s skill.”

Silence.

Her father’s voice drops. “You presume to instruct me?”

“No,” Max says. “I’m asking you why nothing she does is ever enough.”

The words land like a struck rail.

Scarlett feels exposed.

Seen.

Her father’s gaze sharpens on her now.

“Is that what you’ve been discussing?” he asks her quietly.

The question is a blade.

Scarlett swallows.

“No, sir.”

Max’s jaw tightens.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says to her — not softly now. Firm.

Her father steps closer.

“She will answer when spoken to.”

And then Max does something no one does.

He laughs.

Not mockingly.

Disbelieving.

“She’s not a subordinate,” he says. “She’s your daughter.”

The word hangs there.

Daughter.

Not rider.

Not asset.

Not legacy.

Scarlett’s throat tightens.

Her father’s composure thins — just slightly.

“You will remove yourself,” he says, voice now unmistakably cold. “Or I will have you removed.”

Max doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t step back.

“I’m not fighting you because I have to,” he says quietly. “I’m fighting you because I want to.”

His eyes flick to Scarlett.

“Because she deserves someone who chooses her.”

The silence is suffocating.

Scarlett feels something fracture inside her.

Her father fights for reputation.

For status.

For perfection.

Max stands here — risking reputation, risking scandal, risking access —

For her.

Not because he benefits.

Not because he must.

Because he wants to.

Her father speaks first.

“If you continue to interfere, I will ensure you no longer compete alongside her.”

The threat is clean.

Efficient.

Scarlett inhales sharply.

Max doesn’t flinch.

“Then I’ll earn my way back,” he says simply. “I don’t scare that easily.”

And then he steps back.

Not defeated.

Not dismissed.

Just deliberate.

Her father turns to Scarlett.

“You see what distraction breeds,” he says.

But for the first time—

She doesn’t feel shame.

She feels something else.

A quiet, terrifying realization.

The right people don’t fight because they’re obligated.

They fight because they choose to.

And Max just chose her.

Scarlett feels the weight of it — the expectation of immediate alignment.

Immediate obedience.

Arasael shifts beneath her hand, warm and steady.

Max stands a few paces away, silent now.

Not retreating.

Not apologizing.

Waiting.

Her father gestures toward the arena. “Return to work.”

Scarlett nods automatically.

“Yes, sir.”

She turns.

Takes one step.

Then stops.

It’s small.

Barely visible.

But it is there.

Her fingers tighten on the reins.

Arasael flicks an ear back toward her.

Behind her, Max doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t have to.

She can feel it — the difference between being ordered… and being chosen.

Her father’s voice cools.

“Scarlett.”

A warning.

Not loud.

Never loud.

She swallows.

For a fleeting second, she considers it.

What would happen if she didn’t move?

If she stayed.

If she said no.

Her pulse pounds in her ears.

The world feels suspended — frost still clinging to the edges of the paddock, Dakota restless in her stall, Max unmoving at her back.

Choice sits in her hands.

Heavy.

Terrifying.

Her father takes a single step closer.

“I will not repeat myself.”

The spell breaks.

Scarlett inhales sharply.

And steps forward.

Arasael moves with her, obedient as ever.

Perfect again.

But this time—

As she walks away—

She does not look at her father.

She looks at Max.

Just for a second.

And in that look is something new.

Not apology.

Not surrender.

Awareness.

Then she faces forward.

And rides.

The ride ends the way it always does.

Clean.

Calculated.

Controlled.

Scarlett brings Arasael down to a walk, then a halt. Her posture is flawless. Her breathing measured. There is no visible crack in her composure.

Her father checks his watch.

“Better,” he says.

Not praise.

Not warmth.

A measurement.

She inclines her head. “Yes, sir.”

He turns away first. He always does.

Scarlett dismounts smoothly, boots landing softly in the sand. She loosens the girth with steady hands, avoiding the direction Max stands in.

Only when her father disappears toward the office does the air shift.

Max approaches without hurry.

No smirk this time.

No teasing.

Just him.

“You almost didn’t,” he says quietly.

Scarlett keeps her focus on adjusting the stirrups. “Almost didn’t what?”

“Walk away.”

Her hands pause.

Just for a second.

Then resume.

“You’re mistaken.”

“I’m not.”

She finally looks at him.

The arena lights cast long shadows across the footing. Dakota shifts in the distance, impatient as ever. Arasael lowers his head beside her, calm but alert.

“I saw it,” Max continues. “You stopped.”

“It was a misstep.”

“No,” he says gently. “It was a choice.”

Silence stretches between them.

Scarlett tightens the girth hole unnecessarily, her fingers colder now.

“You shouldn’t have spoken to him like that,” she says instead.

“Why?” Max asks.

“He can make things very difficult.”

“For you,” Max says.

“For anyone.”

He studies her face.

“I don’t care.”

The words are simple. Unadorned.

She exhales sharply. “You should.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not worth it.”

His expression shifts then — not anger, but clarity.

“You are.”

That lands.

Harder than anything her father said.

Scarlett’s composure flickers.

“You don’t know what you’re interfering with,” she says.

“You’re right,” he replies. “But I know what I saw.”

She looks away.

He steps closer — not touching, just near enough that she can feel the warmth of him beside the cold air.

“You hesitated,” he says again, softer now. “Not because you were afraid of him.”

Her throat tightens.

“You hesitated because part of you didn’t want to go.”

That silence is different.

He isn’t accusing.

He isn’t pushing.

He’s naming something she hasn’t dared to.

Scarlett swallows.

“That doesn’t change anything.”

“No,” Max agrees quietly.

“But it means something.”

Arasael shifts, nudging her shoulder gently.

Max glances at the gelding, then back at her.

“I’m not fighting him because I like conflict,” he says. “I’m fighting because I want to.”

Her pulse stumbles.

“You don’t have to fight alone.”

The words hang between them.

Not dramatic.

Not demanding.

Just true.

Scarlett doesn’t answer.

She gathers the reins.

Turns toward the stable.

But this time—

Her steps are slower.

Thoughtful.

And when she passes him—

She doesn’t tell him to stay out of it.

She just says, quietly,

“You shouldn’t risk things for me.”

Max’s voice follows her.

“I’m not risking them,” he says.

“I’m choosing them.”

She doesn’t look back.

But the words follow her all the way down the aisle.