Val's pov
There were three rules in the Deluca household:
1. The house must always be clean.
2. Emotions are to be kept private.
3. Distractions are punishable.
I broke all three before 7:00 a.m.
The cereal box was crooked on the table. That was the first offense. Emma—my five-year-old sister—had spilled milk on the counter and left it. Second offense. And when I walked into the kitchen rubbing sleep from my eyes and yawning instead of looking "presentable," I got a cold glance over the top of a Financial Times and silence so sharp it felt like a punishment all on its own.
"Rough night?" my father finally said, turning a page.
He didn't ask out of concern. He never did.
"Fine," I muttered, grabbing toast and popping it into my mouth as I poured coffee that I was not technically allowed to drink.
He set the paper down slowly. "We do not eat like that in this house."
We also don't speak like human beings in this house, apparently.
I chewed slowly, keeping my face blank. Neutral. The perfect daughter. The doll.
Emma shuffled into the room still in her pajamas, dragging one of my old skating medals on a ribbon behind her like it was a leash for an invisible pet.
"Val," she mumbled, eyes still heavy. "Can you braid my hair before school?"
I crouched beside her instantly. "Of course. Go brush it out, okay?"
"You're going to be late to training," my father said coolly, checking his Rolex.
"I have time."
"Coach will not be impressed by tardiness."
"I said I have time."
That earned me a glance. A warning.
"Emma is not your responsibility," he said flatly. "Your routines are."
"She's not a routine, Dad. She's my sister."
"She is a distraction."
That word hit harder than it should have. But he said it all the time. About Emma. About boys. About fun. About anything that wasn't ice, medals, or legacy.
I clenched my jaw and turned away before I could say something that would get me grounded or worse—sent to one of those "intensive retreats" for focus enhancement. I'd been threatened with that before.
He stood and adjusted the cuffs of his starched suit. "I expect to see a 0.5 improvement on your spin sequence by Saturday's practice. Or you'll be off the competition circuit until further notice."
My throat tightened. "You said—"
"I meant what I said. And you know the consequences for falling short."
Emma was staring at him now, small fists curled. "She's not a robot."
"She is an athlete," he said, already halfway to the door. "And athletes win, or they're replaced."
The door slammed behind him.
Silence.
I knelt down again and gathered Emma in my arms, kissing the top of her hair. She smelled like strawberry shampoo and quiet defiance.
"I wish we could run away," she whispered.
"Yeah," I breathed. "Me too."
But instead, I grabbed my skates.
Because in this house, dreams are nice.
But results are what keep the lights on.