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“Livie, we’re looking out for you,” Claudia starts.

“Don’t give me that shit, Claudia. If anything, I’m the one keeping all of you in line. So, what, you get to be crazy and wild but poor little Livie can’t have one night of fun?” Livia’s chest heaves and color floods her cheeks. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t look and feel good going to this party.”

“Every tennis player that matters will be there, probably drunk, and I’d rather not have my baby sister sexually harassed. Is that enough of a reason?” Juliette snaps. Heat bubbles beneath her skin—anger, but more than that, fear. She can’t let something happen toLivia. She trusts Octavia and Claudia to protect themselves, but Livia is the softest of them. She is sweet and innocent.

Or so she thought.

Livia starts to reply when Octavia cuts her off quietly. “Who are you meeting there?”

Livia freezes. “No one,” she snaps, too quickly.

“Livia,” Claudia tries to say, but Livia shakes her head.

“No!” Her voice raises and shakes, so unlike her that Juliette is unsure whether she’s about to laugh or cry. “You all get to have your secrets and I don’t press you on it. I don’t tell anyone, I keep us all safe and our images crystal clear. So, for once, let me have my fucking secret.” Livia stamps her foot, which only makes her look even more like a petulant child.

Octavia stands, setting her straightener down. “Well, I think you look lovely.”

Juliette blinks. “Octavia,” she starts, but Octavia’s iron glare stops her.

“Thank you,” Livia says breathlessly, taking the red lipstick Octavia holds out. Then she storms from the room without another word.

Juliette blinks, frozen in betrayal.

“What the hell was that about?” Claudia demands.

Octavia meets their gazes in the mirror and shrugs. “She’s right. She’s an adult.”

“She shouldn’t be wearing that,” Claudia says, running her fingers over her hair and sweeping the thick mane off her neck.

“No, probably not, but it doesn’t matter now.” Octavia straightens her shoulders. “We have a better chance of keeping an eye on her if we don’t drive her away.” She shoots them a dark look, eyebrow raised.

Then, she sweeps to the closet and pulls out a pair of crisp white sneakers and a strand of pearls. “This will match your jumpsuit,” Octavia says, tossing them at Claudia. She can’t catch them in time, and they clatter to the floor, effectively ending the conversation.

Juliette presses her knuckles to her sternum, hoping it brings her some comfort like it seems to do for Luca.

It does not.

Her phone lights up on her lap, and she opens her messages to find a text from Antony with practice notes. She should ignore them until tomorrow, but she opens the document and finds it’s significantly longer than his usual notes. Under the first header, “To Work On,” Juliette scrolls through three pages of errors she made during her practice.

Slow on footwork.

Racket speed through the ball significantly slower.

Sluggish on decision-making.

Inconsistent ball toss on serve.

As it continues, Juliette’s throat closes. She knew she was distracted at practice that morning, but not this badly. She hasn’t had such a scathing review of her game since she was twelve and tried to play with a sprained ankle. Now she has no excuse for practicing so horribly.

She knows why she was tired, slow, preoccupied.

At the end of the document, Juliette’s heart stops.

Without getting to a quarterfinal, you’ll drop out of the Top Ten to number twelve.

Juliette slides her phone into her purse, but her father’s words are seared into her skull. They weigh heavily in her chest, a physical manifestation of how out of control she feels and how much it has ruined her game. He knows Juliette better than anyone else, and he has always wanted what was best for her. He wants her to reach her goal of being number one. The further she falls, the harder it’ll be to win tournaments and claw her way back to the top.

So maybe it is time she listens to him.