Dylan sat on the step of the trailer, biting into a green apple, his eyes still fixed on the replay playing on the screen.

  Though the competition had ended hours ago, that figure on the black horse lingered in his mind like glowing embers that refused to fade.

  "What a beautiful rhythm..." He sounded as though he were savoring a perfect hunt. "Even I felt the fire."

  He remembered the first time he had seen Elian at an inter-state youth competition back in high school. Elian had been a slender boy then, skin bronzed by the sun, eyes blazing like flames that were impossible to forget. Dylan hadn't thought much of it at the time; he'd seen plenty of pretty young riders. But now... now Elian had grown tall and strong, every jump sharp and clean.

  That very figure now appeared again, down in the riders' quarters by the trailers.

  "Cute and sexy all at once." Dylan's lips curled like a fox spotting its prey.

  The sunset cast a slanting gold across the ground. Elian crouched by the trailer door, ticking off gear on a checklist while putting away pads and rails. Sweat still clung to his hair, fringe plastered to his forehead, yet his face looked relaxed, as if the entire event had been no more than a warm-up.

  Beside him, Zephyrus, the black horse with the temperament of a spoiled aristocrat, surprised him by stepping closer, pressing its head against his shoulder.

  Elian blinked, then let out a quiet laugh.

  "What's gotten into you?" He stroked Zephyrus's nose, his expression softening.

  So the proud, untamed stallion had a softer side after all. And Elian found himself remembering Vance Heaton's hand on his shoulder earlier, that brief but steady encouragement.

  The once-distant young master didn't seem quite so cold anymore.

  Elian glanced at the black horse, a smile tugging at his lips. "You're just like him, you know."

  The words had barely left his mouth when a familiar voice called from behind.

  "Lost to me, and you still have time to sweet-talk a horse?"

  Elian spun around. Dylan stood there in his crisp shirt and riding jacket, as usual leaving a button or two undone. His red hair blazed like fire in the sunset as he stood on the slope, eyes sharp, mouth curved in a half-smile.

  "None of your business." Elian pushed himself to his feet, stiff with awkwardness.

  "Isn't it?"

  Dylan closed the distance, step by step, until Elian's legs brushed the wooden edge of the trailer step and he had nowhere to go.

  "What are you..." Elian's pulse spiked.

  "Are you going to the gala tonight?"

  The evening banquet was standard after competitions, a mix of celebration and networking. Riders, sponsors, media, and industry figures mingled there, making it an important chance to secure future opportunities: new patrons, career breakthroughs, or simply greater recognition.

  "I almost forgot about that. I guess so... though it's been a long time since I went to anything like it."

  "Perfect. I saved a spot just for you." Dylan flashed a smile, all polished charm, and began to walk away. Before vanishing into the crowd, he looked back over his shoulder. "Don't keep me waiting."

  "I'm not one of your countless 'pretty companions.' Don't act like you would wait."

  Elian rolled his eyes, watching him go.

  A steady set of footsteps approached. Vance came up to the trailer, glanced at Elian, then cast a look toward the figure who had just left.

  "That was Dylan Fitzgerald?" He crossed his arms and tapped his fingers against his forearm in a slow, restless rhythm.

  "Ah—boss, what are you doing here?" Elian said.

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  "Did that British rider just speak to you?" Vance asked again, his tone even.

  For some reason Elian felt a prick of displeasure in Vance's voice.

  "Yeah. Dylan asked if I'd go to the gala..." Elian scratched the back of his head.

  When Elian used Dylan's first name instead of his surname, Vance's eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly.

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I said I probably would."

  "Then go. Networking is part of being a rider." Vance looked down at the saddle, unreadable. He paused, then added, "Just be careful around Dylan Fitzgerald."

  "Why?" Elian asked, puzzled.

  "He flirts with everyone, regardless of gender, and he has a way of convincing people into his bed." Vance said it plainly.

  "Wait, he wants to sleep with you?"

  The air went cold.

  Wait—shit! Wait—shit! What the hell did I just say?

  Elian thought, panicked.

  He'd only been thinking that Vance had once been a delicately handsome young master, so pretty it wouldn't be surprising if Dylan took a fancy to him.

  It was just a stray thought, and yet he'd blurted it out.

  Then he told himself Dylan was a few years younger and surely wouldn't dare mess with this young master.

  Elian forced an embarrassed laugh, not daring to look at Vance, and jumped back onto safer ground: "If he tries anything, I'll sock him. Anyway, he looks down on me; I'm not his type."

  Vance said nothing. He watched Elian as if testing whether he truly believed that, as if holding something unsaid in. His throat moved, but he let the moment pass in silence.

  "I'll bring Zephyrus up to the trailer. Boss, you should get some rest."

  Because as much as he'd love to deck Dylan, Elian was far more afraid of getting decked by Vance first. So he chose the safer route and slipping out of his boss's line of sight.

  Vance stood where he was and watched Elian walk away. The boy's steps were still light, carrying that young, bright energy, the same energy Vance once had when he could still ride.

  The banquet hall glittered at night, chandeliers scattering soft light across the crowd, beams crisscrossing like a flowing river of stars.

  Men and women in tailored suits and gowns chatted in small groups, while red wine and champagne circulated on silver trays. The long tables were adorned with fragrant hors d'oeuvres.

  Elian stood near the edge of the room in a crisp new suit. The collar felt a little tight, and he tugged awkwardly at the hem of his shirt. It had been a long time since he'd attended such an occasion. The chandeliers were blinding, the perfume in the air stung his nose, and the clamor of voices made his head throb faintly. Even so, he forced himself to stand tall, scanning the crowd for a familiar figure.

  His gaze swept across glasses and glittering lights until it landed on a corner of the hall—Vance Heaton. Dressed in a dark bespoke suit, he stood with an effortless composure that set him apart.

  He was speaking with a French lady in a silver-gray silk dress, her gestures elegant, her expression polished with worldly experience.

  From a distance, Elian watched. To him, Vance Heaton seemed to belong to another world—composed, refined, untouchable. And yet, he couldn't look away.

  "Now, who's the unfamiliar face?" A woman's voice drifted toward him.

  The tone was low, velvety, laced with allure. Elian turned instinctively. A mature woman in an elegant gown approached with a smile. Waves of dark hair framed her face, and her deep-set eyes shimmered with confidence and charm.

  "You're not—Camilla Granville?" Elian realized suddenly, startled.

  "Correct." She narrowed her eyes in amusement.

  Camilla Granville was an international equestrian rider, a former Olympian. She hadn't taken gold, but she still competed at the highest level, her strength undeniable.

  "What are you doing here?" Elian asked, surprised.

  "At my level, I wouldn't normally be competing in an event like this. But a lively banquet like this? I wouldn't miss it. Unlimited drinks, after all." Her tone turned playful.

  She was quick to talk, carrying an effortless elegance with a streak of mystery, and Elian found himself relaxing. Their conversation flowed easily, her laughter bright and infectious, and soon he was laughing along.

  As time passed, more women gathered around, intrigued by the young rider. Elian, with light humor slipped between their chatter, kept the group laughing and at ease.

  Vance's eyes eventually found him. He offered a subtle nod to his client, closing their exchange, and crossed the hall.

  He greeted Camilla politely, then said, "I see you've already met our newly signed rider—Elian Lien."

  Camilla blinked, then glanced between them with a sly smile. "So this is the one you mentioned? Younger than I expected."

  "Don't start." Vance said coolly.

  "I was only saying—" Her lips curved in mischief. "Vance, you've finally learned how to keep a pet?"

  "Camilla. He's not a pet." Vance's brow furrowed.

  "But he is adorable, like a kitten or a puppy." she teased.

  Heat rose to Elian's face. He parted his lips but found nothing to say.

  Noticing his discomfort, Camilla smiled. "We were just talking. Elian was hoping for my autograph."

  "Is that so?" Vance asked.

  "Of course. He told me he admires me, wants a signed photo." Camilla's voice brimmed with self-satisfaction, as if deliberately provoking.

  Elian nodded. She was one of America's best hopes for Olympic gold, and he'd followed her career on television for years.

  "But my photos aren't so easily given. Unless, perhaps, Vance Heaton himself asks me to hand one over?" Her tone lingered somewhere between jest and seriousness.

  "Well..." Elian hesitated, glancing at Vance. He wanted the autograph, but it didn't seem worth troubling Vance for it.

  "Do you really want it?"

  The question, unexpectedly, came from Vance.