Beautiful Mess.

One week had passed since i kissed him.

A full week.

Seven mornings of pretending i didn't think about it.

Seven nights of cursing myself for doing it in the first place.

Lorenzo was… cold.

Of course he was.

He didn't say anything about it.

Not even a smug comment.

Not a side glance.

Not a tease.

He acted like it didn't happen, like i didn't press my lips against his just to shut him up, just to silence the nonsense spilling out of his damn mouth after our fourth argument in a row.

God, he talks too much.

And I, I was desperate for silence.

I'd rather have his confused eyes than his voice sometimes.

But now? Now it's been two weeks of back-and-forth, cat-and-dog, bite-and-scratch bickering.

He throws a sarcastic jab, I throw it back harder.

He walks past me with a scoff, I make sure my heels click louder just to piss him off.

It's exhausting.

But what's more exhausting is that i care. That i notice.

That my breath still catches when i walk into the room and he's already there.

And now i'm leaving.

Not permanently.

Just for a week.

I told them i won't be attending training.

I didn't ask, I informed.

Because i don't need permission to chase something i've been working for since i was sixteen.

Horse racing isn't a hobby.

It's the one place where i feel everything fall away—the expectations, the spotlight, the weight of my last name.

On the track, it's just me and the horse and this time, I had a reason.

I was going back to the States to claim my fifth championship.

Five.

It wasn't just a number.

It was my proof.

My armor.

That even if the world thought i was just another rich girl playing around in expensive sports, I could win.

I could earn it.

I could bleed for it.

-

The sun was merciless that morning.

The kind of dry heat that stuck to your throat and made even the wind feel heavy.

I stood in the prep tent, already in my black and silver riding gear, gloves on, helmet ready.

Midnight Jupiter was being brushed just a few feet away.

He looked beautiful, sleek, proud, dark like ink under the sun.

But his eyes…

He looked tired.

"Is he okay?" I asked the groomer.

The girl paused. "He's doing better. Still a little low-energy, but he's cleared for the race, Miss Gutierrez."

"Cleared isn't the same as ready," I murmured, almost to myself.

I walked over and placed a hand on Jupiter's neck.

His skin twitched beneath my glove, but he didn't pull away.

He trusted me and maybe that's what made the guilt worse.

He had just recovered from being sick.

Maybe i should've withdrawn.

Maybe i should've given him more time.

But we were here.

It's too late for maybes.

The crowd was thick.

The kind that buzzed even before the race began.

I could feel the pressure wrapping around my chest like an invisible corset.

Every breath felt calculated, controlled.

"Final call. Riders, mount your horses."

I exhaled slowly, mounted Jupiter, and rode toward the starting gate.

The track looked impossibly long, but i'd done this before.

Again and again.

I knew how to win.

I knew how to ride pain into performance.

The announcer's voice echoed through the speakers, naming each rider, each horse.

My name was last, as always. They saved the "Gutierrez" for impact.

As if my family name was part of the show.

I lifted my eyes toward the audience.

And like always, I searched for them.

My parents.

They never promised they'd come.

They never really did.

But there was always that childish part of me that hoped they would surprise me.

That they'd suddenly appear, waving from the VIP stands, proud and present.

But they weren't there.

Again.

No familiar coats.

No sharp profiles.

No subtle nods from the only people i still wished would look at me like i mattered beyond press releases and photoshoots.

I blinked back the stupid sting in my eyes.

And then—

I saw him.

Lorenzo.

Sitting casually in the third row of the VIP section, sunglasses perched on his head, looking bored, of all things.

What the hell is he doing here?

He wasn't supposed to be here.

He wasn't part of this.

This was my world, my turf, my last string of control.

He hadn't even texted me.

Before i could piece together why or how or what he meant by being here, the buzzer sounded.

The gates flew open.

And Jupiter ran.

At first, it felt okay.

Not perfect, but manageable.

Jupiter responded to my commands like always.

His legs stretched out, powerful and smooth.

We took the first turn just right, the second one tighter, but still in control.

But then—

I felt it.

A slight dip in his rhythm.

A hesitation on his left hind leg.

He wasn't galloping; he was pushing himself beyond what his body was ready for.

"Come on, baby," I whispered through clenched teeth, my voice swallowed by the wind. "Just one more lap. We can do this."

But he stumbled.

It was subtle.

A shift.

A delayed step.

I held tighter.

The final turn came too soon.

The angle too sharp.

And Jupiter, my Jupiter collapsed.

The world tilted.

My weight shifted forward.

My body flew.

My back hit the ground hard.

Air knocked from my lungs.

The sound of the crowd blurred into a dull, echoing gasp.

I didn't move.

Someone shouted. "She's down!"

I blinked up at the sky.

My chest rose shallowly, each breath a stab.

Jupiter was already standing, pacing, visibly shaken.

A staff member caught his reins, trying to soothe him.

Another voice called my name.

Loud.

Panicked.

Lorenzo.

I didn't look.

I rolled to my side, pain radiating from my ribs, and sat up with trembling arms.

Someone handed me a crimson flag.

I stared at it.

That stupid, cursed flag.

The symbol of surrender.

My grip tightened.

I didn't win.

I didn't even finish.

All that training.

All that pressure.

All the hours i sacrificed.

Gone.

And then, in one reckless, furious motion, I threw the flag to the ground.

Not just dropped.

Threw.

It landed near the judge's table with a hard, humiliating thud.

Gasps again.

Maybe judgment.

Maybe pity.

I don't care.

I stood and walked off the track, limping slightly.

The cameras followed, of course.

Every step of my shame, they captured it all.

But the worst part?

I wasn't thinking of the loss.

I wasn't thinking of the pain.

I was thinking of him.

What was Lorenzo doing here?

Why did he come?

And why did i care that he saw me lose?