On our seventh anniversary, I was running a fever of 102 degrees. I told Grant Mercer.   He checked my temperature, then opened the relationship-scoring app on his phone and added one point. "Proactively reported a physical anomaly. One point added."   Then he took a step back, put on a mask, and kept his distance from me. "The product demo starts at nine. Can you still make it? I need you to take the meeting minutes."   Seven years together. And on our anniversary, all I got was a sterile alert about extra credit. No gifts. No warmth. Nothing.   I did not cry. I did not make a scene. I only braced a hand against the table and forced myself to stand. "I can."   From 18 to 25, I had learned to live with every part of Grant.   He had turned our life into a shared spreadsheet. Even our relationship had to be measured through the scoring app he had built himself.   Every time we argued, Grant would pull up the comparison chart.   "Evelyn, your total score is lower than mine. That means you have more problems in this relationship than I do."   But last night, Grant had fallen asleep. I got up for a glass of water and saw his laptop screen still glowing.   On the screen was a wish board he had built for one person. At the very top, it read, "Everything I want to do with Clara is worth 100 points."   So his tenderness and patience had never been limited by data after all. He knew how to care about things that could not be measured. He just never cared about me that way.   In that case, I was done working for free in his life.

At the downhill final of the Summit Alpine Championship, a blizzard slammed into the Asterfell Range without warning.   The entire course vanished in white.   Every racer ahead of me was suddenly skiing blind.   I pressed one hand against the comm unit in my helmet. A second later, Ethan Cole's voice came through my earpiece, calm and steady.   "Don't panic. Falcon's Crest Jump is five hundred yards ahead. Stay low, hold your tuck, and let it run. You can gain three-tenths on the next racer. After the jump, carve right into the turn."   I forced myself to ignore the fear clawing up my throat and followed his instructions through the wall of snow.   Ethan was my race coach. He was also my fiancé. More than that, he was the person I trusted most in the world.   Three seconds later, his voice came through again. This time, all the composure was gone. His words were low, almost gentle.   "Sienna. The truth is, Falcon's Crest Jump needs a left carve."   My blood went cold.   "If Vivian doesn't win a title this year, her sponsor is going to drop her," he continued. "You're already a Triple Winter Crown Champion. Letting her have one Summit Alpine gold won't ruin you."   My fingers tightened around my poles.   "I had three layers of impact mats placed below the jump," Ethan said softly. "I would never let anything truly terrible happen to you. Be a good girl. Close your eyes. It won't hurt as much that way."   Then he cut the comms. He did not want to hear the sound of me crashing into those mats.   But Ethan had forgotten one thing. I had trained on this course for seven years.   I knew every slope, every dip, every turn, and every subtle shift in the snow beneath my skis. I knew this course well enough to ski it blind.