The sun rose pale and thin over the training field, painting the fences silver.
I was already there before dawn, tightening Celeste's girth, my gloves stiff with yesterday's dust.
The tournament in the States was three weeks away.
Every stride, every breath mattered.
No one else was awake yet.
I preferred it that way.
The world was quieter before expectations woke up.
I mounted and pressed my heel lightly; Celeste leapt forward into a smooth canter.
The rhythm was clean, three beats, breath, pivot, repeat.
I counted under my breath like prayer: one, two, turn.
The field blurred into muscle memory, my body aligning with hers until thought disappeared.
Here, I wasn't a daughter or a wife or a last name.
I was only in motion and control.
When I dismounted, sweat slid down my spine.
The still air around me trembled with the leftover echo of hooves.
I removed my helmet, letting the wind cool my forehead. Peace, rare and fragile, finally settled in—
—and then I heard the car doors.
Two of them.
Voices I knew too well: polished, clipped, carrying the weight of money and pride.
My parents.
I turned slowly, already feeling the familiar heaviness in my chest.
My mother walked first, all pearls and precision.
My father followed, his stride measured, eyes scanning the arena like he owned it, which, technically, he did.
"Aurora," my mother said, as if she were addressing a staff member. "You've been practicing?"
"Yes," I answered simply, removing my gloves. "Every day."
"As you should," my father said. "The competition in the U.S. is critical. We can't afford another slip."
"I didn't slip," I said evenly. "I placed second."
"Which is another way of saying you lost," he replied.
The words landed like stones, small, familiar, dull.
I bent to pick up a brush, running it down Celeste's neck just to keep my hands busy. "It's a sport, Father, not a business contract."
He ignored that. "The sponsors will be there. The press. We've arranged an interview with the Manila Herald after you win."
"After?" I repeated. "Confident."
"Necessary," he corrected. "The Zobel name must remain on top."
My mother's voice followed, sweet but cutting. "Darling, you have everything a girl could want. A perfect marriage, the best horses, the best training. The least you can do is make it worth something."
I smiled faintly without humor. "You mean make you proud."
"Exactly," she said, missing or ignoring, the sarcasm.
Celeste shifted uneasily beside me, sensing the tension.
I stroked her neck again, eyes fixed on the horizon. "You know, sometimes I wonder who actually rides when I compete, me or the family name on the banner."
My father's jaw tightened. "You represent us. That's what matters."
"What matters," I said quietly, "is that you've turned everything I love into an obligation."
"Don't start, Aurora," my mother warned, voice sharp now. "You're too old to be dramatic."
"I'm twenty-six, not twelve," I replied. "And I'm not being dramatic. I'm being honest."
Silence stretched between us, long enough for the wind to fill it.
Finally my father spoke again, tone low and cold. "Win, Aurora. Don't make us regret everything we've invested in you."
He turned away first.
My mother gave me one last polished smile, the kind that looked like approval from afar but felt like a threat up close. "Remember, darling, grace above all. Even in victory."
When their car pulled away, the air felt heavier than before.
I exhaled, slow and deliberate, letting the sound of their departure fade.
Then I looked at Celeste and whispered, "Looks like it's just us again."
She snorted softly, and I almost smiled.
Because here, at least, I could breathe.
And if winning was the only language they understood, then fine, I'd give them victory.
Not for them, but to remind myself that even in their world of control, I could still choose how to obey.