Then, in the mirror behind my reflection, I see him.
Marco stands in the doorway, still as stone.
The laughter dies in my throat.
Marco’s reflection moves behind mine in the mirror. A week of careful distance collapses into this single moment—him in the doorway, me dressed like some fever dream of the ocean.
“A moment, if you’re finished, Matilda?”
His voice is polite. Professional. The same tone he’s used all week during training—dutiful but detached, pushing me just hard enough to keep me sharp but never with the brutal intensity from before. Never looking at me directly. Never touching me unless absolutely necessary.
I’ve spent the days training like a man possessed, throwing myself into every drill, every sparring match, every brutal exercise until my muscles screamed and my lungs burned. Anything to forget the heat of his body against mine, the way he whispered my name. Anything to forget how easily he discarded me afterward.
And now here he is, appearing when I least want to see him.
Matilda nods and disappears through a side door. A moment later, Marco steps into the room, but he’s not alone.
A finely dressed, middle-aged woman follows him inside. Purple velvet dress, floor-length. Hair pulled back in a harsh bun, powder caked thick across her face, stern expression carved into permanent lines around her mouth. Everything about her screams money and authority.
Standing just behind her, Marco raises both eyebrows at me and subtly tilts his head to one side.
I glare back at him. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Glancing between them, the tension in the room shifts into something I don’t understand. The woman’s eyes sweep over me in cool assessment.
“So,” she begins, “this is the one you think will go all the way this season?”
Marco nods without looking at me. “Robin. He’s a sure bet, ma’am. Strong, fast, smart, adaptable. He’s got natural instincts most of thesemen lack—knows how to read his opponent, how to wait for the right moment to strike. Plus, he’s got a look the crowds will love.”
The clinical way he describes me, like I’m a prize horse being presented for auction, makes my hands ball into fists. But there’s something else in his tone—a careful politeness that’s almost servile. That’s when it clicks.
She’s a sponsor. Potentially one forme. Perhaps she already sponsors Marco, and he’s trying to broker a deal.
The woman moves forward, studying my face, my body, the way the costume catches the light. She doesn’t touch me, and I’m grateful for that small mercy.
“Hmm. Well, you know I trust you, Marco.” She turns to me, her smile razor-sharp. “And you… I’ve got a lot riding on you. Don’t let me down.”
She sweeps out of the room without another word, leaving Marco and me alone among the mirrors and glitter.
“Get out.”
“I just—”
“Fuck off.”
“I—”
“I mean it, Marco! I don’t want to talk to you. I can’t right now.”
He stands there for a long moment, his face completely devoid of any emotion.
“I need to focus right now,” I tell him, “and the very last thing I need is you.”
Marco’s hands curl into fists at his sides, and something flickers across his face. Hurt? Anger? I don’t have time to think. I don’t have time to care. He nods very slowly, then eyes lock onto mine, and he says, “Don’t hesitate.”
Something pulls loose in my chest, like a thread threatening to unravel everything I’m holding together.
He turns and walks away, leaving me alone with my reflection and the lingering scent of him mixing with paint fumes and glitter.
Those are quite possibly the last two words he’ll ever say to me.
