I never wanted fame. Just the wind in my face, the thunder of hooves, the silence between breaths when the world narrows to the finish line. That was freedom. But Rana owns the tracks, the trainers, even the judges. And now, he thinks he owns me.

After winning the Monsoon Derby, I found a letter hidden in my saddlebag—my father’s last words, accusing Rana of murder. Before I could react, Mala pulled me into her clinic, blood on my temple from a 'training accident' that wasn’t an accident at all.

She stitched me up in silence, her hands steady, eyes full of questions she wouldn’t ask. Outside, Jyoti waited, leaning against her red scooter, lips painted like danger.

'You’re digging too deep, Suraj,' she said. 'They’ll break you.'

'I’m not afraid,' I lied.

She stepped closer, heat radiating between us. 'Then prove it. Come to the gala tonight. Rana will be there. So will the truth.'

But Mala touched my arm. 'Don’t go. It’s a trap.'

Two women. Two paths. One truth I might not survive.