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POV: My stepsister is my bully, my rival, and the love of my life 🐎🐎🔥🌶️❤️‍🔥 START READING HERE 🚫🌶️HOTNESS LEVEL: 4/5 ⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️ I promised my mom I'd be nice to my new stepsister. I'm supposed to be straight. I'm supposed to be chasing the championship. I'm supposed to want my older trainer who promises to make me a star. Then I met Zara Walsh. She's an Olympic medalist with ice in her veins and a talent for making me cry. She wants me gone. She told me I'll never be a real rider. She pinned me to a wall by my throat and told me to leave. And all my body wanted was for her to get closer. Instead I want the girl who hates me — and kissed me back when she thought nobody was looking. Zara’s POV "What do you mean she's staying in my room?" My father doesn't stop walking. I have to match his pace down the hallway, half-jogging to keep up, which is exactly how he likes his conversations — on his terms, at his speed. "It's temporary. Just until we finish the guest wing." "Temporary? Dad, her suitcase is next to my bed. Her clothes are in my closet. I woke up this morning to the sound of her breathing three feet from my face." "Then you'll both have to manage." Manage. For twenty years, everything on this property has been mine — the stables, the arena, the horses, the schedule. I've never shared a single thing because there was nobody to share with. And now I'm supposed to manage? "She can sleep in the guest cottage. Or the study. Or literally anywhere that isn't—" "She's staying in your room, Zara." He checks his watch without breaking stride. "I also need you to let her use Rembrandt for training." I stop walking so fast my shoes squeak on the tile. He doesn't even glance back. Rembrandt. My horse. The one I spent three months earning — three months of patience, standing still, letting him come to me. My father handed him over like a welcome basket without asking me. "You gave her my horse?" "He's not your horse. He belongs to the ranch." He finally slows at the top of the stairs. Turns to face me. "About Maxine — I need you to be nice to her. Please." Please. My father doesn't say please. He says do it and you do it. The fact that he added that word means this matters to him. Not me — the situation. The new wife watching how his daughter behaves. "I don't need another scene like the one with Lydia," he adds. Three years ago, I made his girlfriend cry at a dinner party. She packed her bags the next morning. My father didn't speak to me for two weeks. Not as punishment — he genuinely forgot I existed. Two weeks of being invisible to the only person whose attention I've spent my whole life earning. I can't go through that again. I'd rather swallow glass than spend another two weeks pretending I don't exist in my own house. "Fine," I say, and I hate how small my voice sounds. "Good girl." He turns back to the stairs. Already gone. Two words and I'm his again. Twenty years old with an Olympic medal and I still roll over for a pat on the head. So now I'm standing at the arena fence at seven in the morning with my coffee going cold, watching Maxine Walsh warm up on my horse, after sleeping in my room, wearing boots she left in my wash stall. And I'm trying not to lose my mind. She's good. She's annoyingly, effortlessly, infuriatingly good. I want to throw my coffee across the arena. Her seat is natural — not trained, not drilled, just there. The horse reads her before she finishes asking. She's sloppy in places, but the raw talent underneath is obvious. I trained for fifteen years to make my body do what hers does without thinking. "She's something, isn't she?" Ashton leans against the fence beside me. He's the only person I let into my space. The one who brought me a cupcake when my father forgot my birthday, the one who noticed my back was getting worse before I told anyone. "She drops her left hand every time," I say. "Sure. But watch her passage." I don't want to watch her passage. "I've been thinking…" Ashton says, and I already don't like his tone. "A friendly match. You and Maxine. Short program, scored on basics. Good way to see where she's at." I look at him. "You're joking." "Why would I be joking?" "Because I don't compete with amateurs. It's embarrassing." "It's training, Zara. Not the Olympics." "I've been to the Olympics." "Which is why it shouldn't bother you." He grins. That easy, warm grin that usually makes me feel like the world isn't completely terrible. Right now it makes me want to throw my coffee at him. Maxine trots over to the fence, barely out of breath, cheeks flushed, looking annoyingly alive. "Was that okay?" she asks Ashton. Then she glances at me. "Hi." I don't answer. Don't say hi to me like we're friends. You're sleeping in my room and riding my horse and I'm supposed to smile about it. "Perfect timing," Ashton says, grinning at her. "I was just telling Zara — friendly match. Short program. What do you think?" Her eyes light up. She looks at me like I'm a birthday present. "Seriously? Oh my god, yes. I would love that." "I didn't agree to this," I say. "Scared?" Maxine tilts her head. Always smiling. I set my coffee down so hard it splashes. "Excuse me?" "If I had a bronze medal and someone asked me to compete against a nobody, I'd probably say no too. Safer that way." She's goading me. And it's working because the idea of backing down from this girl who's been here five minutes makes me want to scream. "Fine." I set my coffee on the fence post. "Twenty minutes. I'll get my horse." When I ride into the arena on Monarcha, Maxine is already in position on the school horse. She's sitting taller now. Focused. The fidgeting is gone. Good. At least make it interesting. Ashton calls the program. We ride side by side — working trot, collected trot, extended. I keep my eyes forward but I can feel her next to me. At the first halt, Maxine catches my eye. "Your horse is gorgeous." "I know." "What's his name?" "Monarcha." "What does it mean?" "It means focus on your own ride." She snorts — a weird, ugly laugh that catches her off guard. Something twitches at the corner of my lips and I kill it before it gets anywhere. We move into canter work. My half-passes are clean, my transitions sharp. Maxine's timing is off on the flying changes — but on the final centerline she adjusts her seat and the horse collects like he's been doing this for years. The piaffe is rough, but it's there. She found a piaffe on a school horse in a training match. I've seen girls train for years without finding that. She just — did it. Like it was nothing. Ashton claps once. "Beautiful! Both of you. I'd call that a tie." It wasn't a tie. I was better. My technique was cleaner, my transitions tighter. A tie means he's being generous to her, which means he's being unfair to me. "Let's get a second opinion." Ashton waves toward the arena entrance and my blood goes cold. My father is standing at the gate. Arms folded. I have no idea how long he's been watching. "Ben, what do you think? Who took it?" My father looks at Maxine. Then at me. Then back at Maxine. "The new girl has something," he says. "Real instinct. Reminds me of how I used to ride before my injury." He compared her to himself. He never compares me to himself. I'm his project, his investment, his product. She gets to be his reflection. "Zara, your centerline was a half-second late on the final transition. Watch that." A correction. He gave me a correction while he gave her a compliment. Twenty years of training and the best he can do is tell me what I did wrong while telling a stranger she reminds him of himself. Maxine is looking at me. I can feel it — her eyes on the side of my face, watching me absorb this. She sees it. She sees exactly what just happened and I want to disappear into the ground. I gather my reins. Straighten my spine. Force my voice flat. "Good match. I need to take Monarcha out — he gets restless if he doesn't trail ride after arena work." I turn my horse toward the exit before I do something stupid — like drag this girl off her saddle in front of the one person whose please is still ringing in my ears. "Wait for me!" Maxine's voice rings across the arena. I don't turn around. I press Monarcha into a trot and head for the tree line. She follows me. Of course she does.

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