Chapter One
Presley
"Let me see that walk again, Harper—but this time, imagine the judges already love you."
I watched twelve-year-old Harper Lindsey's reflection in the mirror lining Crown & Grace's west wall, noting how her shoulders relaxed at my words. Three months ago, this girl couldn't hold eye contact for more than two seconds. Now she moved across my studio floor with genuine self-assurance that made my work feel like more than just coaching pageant techniques.
Harper paused, turned. "Like this?"
"Exactly like that." I adjusted her chin angle with gentle fingers. "Now show me the smile we've been practicing. The one that says you're not competing against anyone but yourself."
Her face transformed—not the pageant-perfect smile her mother probably expected, but something genuine that reached her blue eyes.
I stepped back, arms crossed. "Junior Star Texas won't know what hit them."
"You really think so?"
"Harper." I pulled her interview prep folder from my desk drawer. "Your answers are strong, your walk is beautiful, and that piano piece you've been practicing? It's going to wreck them. In the best possible way."
She grinned, gathering her things. Then her expression shifted, became uncertain. "Miss Presley? Is Addie okay?"
My stomach tightened. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"
"She just seemed really quiet at our last group practice. I know she's competing in Teen Star Texas next weekend, but..." Harper bit her lip. "She doesn't seem excited about it. She's usually so happy, but lately she just looks... sad."
The observation hit harder because it confirmed what I'd been trying not to acknowledge for weeks.
"Addison's working very hard on her routine," I said carefully. "Sometimes competition prep gets stressful."
"I guess." Harper didn't look convinced. "I just hope Addie's okay."
After Harper's mother Lisa arrived and I spent a few minutes reassuring her that yes, Harper was absolutely ready, I locked the studio door and stood there for a moment, Harper's words echoing in my head.
She was right. Addie wasn't okay.
My star student—seventeen, brilliant, usually so vibrant—had been slowly dimming for the past two months. Ever since Vanessa had taken over choreographing her dance routine. What should have been an exciting collaboration between mother and daughter had become something else entirely.
I'd witnessed glimpses of it myself during our sessions. The way Addie flinched when her phone buzzed with texts from her mother. The exhaustion in her eyes when she mentioned late-night rehearsals. The anxiety that crept into her voice when she talked about getting the steps "perfect enough" for Vanessa's standards. Last week, she'd apologized three times in ten minutes for minor mistakes I hadn't even noticed, her shoulders hunched like she was bracing for criticism.
"Mom says I need to work harder," she'd murmured when I'd gently asked if everything was okay. "She's putting so much time into this routine. I can't let her down."
But watching her run through the choreography, I'd seen no joy in her movements. Just technical precision executed by a girl who looked like she was carrying the weight of impossible expectations.
Addie was disappearing into her mother's vision of who she should be, and I felt helpless to stop it. I couldn't interfere between mother and daughter—that crossed professional lines. But watching one of my students lose herself trying to meet impossible standards was breaking my heart.
I'd built Crown & Grace on the principle that pageants should build self-esteem, not destroy it. That girls should discover their authentic selves, not become performers in someone else's show. But what could I do when the pressure was coming from inside Addie's own home?
Something needed to change. I just didn't know what.
I checked the time—six o'clock on a Monday evening in late May, the Texas sun still blazing through my windows overlooking the town square. I loved this street-level corner location in the historic brick building on Main Street—part of a charming row of businesses that gave Valor Springs its small-town character. I'd worked hard to build Crown & Grace into something special—seventeen active clients from eight-year-old Gabriela Torres to Addison, a waiting list, and a reputation for developing strong young women instead of pageant robots.
I was adjusting the throw pillows on my consultation sofa, still thinking about Addie, when I noticed the white envelope someone had slid under the door.
Probably just a flyer. Maybe the florist downstairs wanted to coordinate sidewalk displays for the upcoming festival.
I opened it.
Letters cut from magazines, glued to plain paper:STOP COACHING. THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING.
