“I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Geneva,” he hisses low, his voice like acid in my ear. “All it takes is one conversation with your father to ruin your fucking life. You might think you’ve gothim wrapped around your finger with this good girl act, but it won’t last. I know the truth.”
I narrow my eyes, ignoring the way my stomach twists at the venom in his words. “And what truth is that, Antony? That somewhere over the years you’ve turned into a psychotic asshole? Or that you’ve always been one and just cleverly hid it?”
He laughs—low, dark, and sinister. The kind of laugh that makes my skin crawl.
“Oh, Ginny,” he purrs, his breath hot against my ear. “We both know the lies you’re spinning. So tell me—who are you whoring yourself out to?”
The words hit like a slap, and my breath catches in my throat. My blood boils, but before I can open my mouth, he keeps going.
“Because you’re not out with that new little friend of yours,” he sneers. “I made a visit to the coffee shop. All it took was a few compliments, a few well-placed touches, and one of those sad little baristas was spilling everything. I have your ‘friend’s’ work schedule. And guess what, Geneva? The dates don’t match. Yeah, you went out with her a couple of times, but where were you the rest of the nights? The ones where you so cleverly got your father to occupy my time so I couldn’t keep tabs on you?”
My heart slams against my ribs, but I force myself to keep my expression blank, not letting him know he’s affecting me. “You’re grasping, Antony. Paranoid much?”
“Oh, I’m not paranoid,” he says, and for the first time, I realize how eerily calm his voice is. “I know what I want. The Olympics. And you? You’re my ticket there.”
I swallow hard, but he’s not finished.
“And if your daddy has his way, I’ll be your boyfriend, too.” His lips curl into a cruel smirk. “And you’ll be my own little fuck toy to do with as I please.”
The floor feels shaky, as if it's about to open and swallow me whole. I force my legs to stay locked, my voice to remain steady.“I wonder what my dad would say if I told him you just said that?”
Antony’s smirk only deepens. “Go ahead. Tell him. Who do you think he’s going to believe?” He tilts his head, feigning innocence. “Me? His golden boy? The one who can do no wrong?” He leans in just enough that I can see the gleam in his dark eyes. “Or you? The daughter who’s given him nothing but grief?”
I stare at him, my breathing shallow, hands curling into fists at my sides. “Is that a threat, Antony?”
“No, Geneva.” His voice drops to a whisper, sending ice down my spine. “It’s a promise.”
And with that, he releases my wrist, brushing past me like nothing happened. I turn, watching as he strides straight for my father, his face breaking into an easy smile, his hand clapping against my dad’s back like they’re old war buddies. My father beams at him, laughing at something he says.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to shake the sinking feeling settling in my stomach.
This isn’t just about skating anymore.
This is war.And no way in hell is Antony going to be the victor.
I shift in the backseat, stretching my legs out as much as I can without aggravating my already throbbing ankle. The ice pack does little to dull the ache, and with every sharp turn my father takes, I have to bite my lip to keep from wincing.
Still, the pain in my ankle is nothing compared to the anger burning in my chest.
I narrow my eyes at the back of Antony’s head, my fists tightening. We were so close—just tenths of a point away from taking the top spot. And why? Because of a tiny wobble on my landing, a mistake I never make. A mistake that wouldn't have happened if Antony hadn't dug his nails into my arm right before the jump, hissing in my ear that I wasn’t smiling enough.
Likethatwas the problem.
Fucking asshole.
Yet here he sits, perfectly relaxed in the passenger seat, already dissecting my so-callederrorswith my father, like he wasn’t the reason we lost those points.
“We need to refine her landings,” Antony says, his voice smooth, calculated—fake. “She needs to stick them every time if we want to avoid point deductions like this in the future.”
My father nods, his focus on the road, but his mind already spinning with ways to push me harder. “I agree. We’ll adjust the training schedule, add more practice time. And Geneva, I think it’s best if you start limiting your time with your new friend.”
The sharp shift in topic sends a fresh wave of irritation through me.
I cross my arms, jaw tightening.Of courseAntony would jump on my father talking about my friend and use it to his advantage, planting the seed of doubt in my father’s mind. And it seems to have just fallen right in his lap.
“How’s your ankle, Geneva?” my dad asks suddenly, glancing at me in the rearview mirror as we stop at a red light.
“Peachy,” I say dryly.
