The thunderous applause of the crowd vibrated through the grand wooden beams of the VIP pavilion, but the atmosphere inside our private box was distinctly less celebratory.
Down on the emerald turf of the arena, the scoreboard flashed the final, immutable times for the Young Riders Championship. Tristan’s name sat firmly in the number two slot. He had missed the gold by a heartbreaking 0.04 seconds—a literal blink of an eye.
When he finally walked into the pavilion a few minutes later, still dressed in his pristine white riding breeches and tailored navy coat, his shoulders were slumped. His handsome face was a picture of pure, unfiltered sulking.
"Don't even say it," Tristan groaned, tossing his riding crop onto the velvet sofa and burying his face in his hands. "A fraction of a second
