Chapter 4
The USA Gymnastics Championships venue buzzed with energy at nine AM, but the family seating area felt like a circus I no longer wanted to perform in.
I stood twenty feet away, watching Dad plant a kiss on Madison's forehead like she was his precious princess. The whole display was nauseating.
"You've got this, sweetheart," he whispered, using that warm tone he used to reserve for me.
Miguel wrapped Madison in a bear hug, spinning her around. "Our little star is going to light up this place!"
Our little star. I watched their pathetic performance with clinical detachment. How quickly they'd replaced me with their shiny new toy.
Meanwhile, I was invisible. Dad glanced at me once—just once—with the look you'd give a stray dog. No kiss, no hug, nothing.
Perfect. I adjusted my team jacket. Let them show their true colors for everyone to see.
A reporter approached Dad with her camera crew. "Mr. Torres, how are you feeling about today?"
Dad's face lit up. "Madison represents the true spirit of the Torres family. I'm so proud of her dedication and pure heart."
The reporter pressed on. "And Gabriella?"
His expression cooled instantly. "Gabriella needs to prove herself worthy of our family name."
Worthy.
The word should have stung, but instead it just made me smile. After everything—all the training, all the sacrifice—he thought I needed to prove myself?
Fine. Today I'll show you exactly what worthy looks like. My hands stayed relaxed at my sides. And you'll realize you never deserved me in the first place.
An hour before competition, I was checking my equipment when something felt wrong. My magnesium powder—the chalky white substance that kept my palms from slipping during routines—had a different texture when I rubbed it between my fingers.
Son of a bitch. Someone had mixed in talcum powder, enough to make my hands slide off the equipment at the worst moment. In my previous life, this exact sabotage cost me a medal at Junior Nationals.
My heart rate stayed perfectly steady. No panic, no fear. Just cold, calculating satisfaction.
"Gabriella!" Ryan's voice made my skin crawl as he approached with that fake-concerned expression. "Are you ready for today? This is your big chance to prove yourself."
I looked up with a smile that could freeze hell. "Oh, I'm more than ready, Coach. Today will be... illuminating."
He nodded enthusiastically, missing the venom completely. "Madison's been so worried about you lately. She really wants you both to do well."
"I'm sure she does," I said sweetly.
The moment Ryan left, I spotted Madison's equipment bag thirty feet away. She was getting her ankles taped, completely absorbed in conversation.
Perfect.
I strolled over casually and swapped our chalk bags in one smooth motion. The poisoned powder meant to destroy my performance would now be Madison's downfall.
Let's see how you like your own medicine, Madison. I walked away with a spring in my step.
The competition floor felt like my natural habitat as I stepped up for the first event. The padded runway stretched before me like a promise, leading to the vault table—that leather-covered springboard that would launch me through space.
"Next up, Gabriella Torres," the announcer boomed.
I blocked out everything—the crowd, the judges, my former family. This was pure gymnastics, and I was about to remind everyone why I was the best.
I began my sprint, feet pounding against the blue carpet in perfect rhythm. Forty feet of acceleration, building power with each step. I hit the springboard with explosive force, my body rocketing skyward. In that moment of flight, I tucked into a tight ball and flipped backward twice, my knees pulled to my chest, before unfurling like a missile and driving my feet into the landing mat.
The impact rattled the thick blue surface, but my legs absorbed the shock perfectly. Not a single step backward.
The crowd erupted.
"Outstanding execution from Torres!" the commentator shouted. "That's Olympic-level gymnastics right there!"
I flashed my brightest smile at the cameras. How's that for proving myself worthy?
Madison's turn came next. I watched with clinical interest as she approached the runway, her hands already showing signs of the compromised grip I'd given her. She sprinted down with her usual technique, but when she hit the springboard and launched into her backward flip with a twist, everything went wrong.
Her palms couldn't grip properly as she pushed off the vault table. She stumbled backward on landing, nearly falling before catching herself with three desperate steps. The score flashed a full point lower than usual.
"Uncharacteristic mistake from Madison Reed," the announcer said, confusion clear in his voice.
From across the floor, Madison's eyes found mine. I gave her a little wave, my smile innocent as a cherub's.
By the time we reached the final event—performing across the spring-loaded floor mat—Madison was visibly struggling. Her hands kept sliding during grip changes, frustration written all over her face.
The floor exercise area stretched forty feet by forty feet, covered in carpet over springs that would amplify every tumbling pass. I'd owned this space my entire career, but for Madison, it was about to become personal hell.
"I can't..." I heard her whisper as she chalked up her palms. "My hands won't grip..."
She began her routine beautifully, but I could see doubt creeping in with every skill. Her confident expression had been replaced by something approaching panic.
The critical moment came during her third tumbling pass—a series of backward flips with twists that she'd performed thousands of times. As she launched into the air, rotating her body through space, her compromised grip affected her spatial awareness.
Madison landed short, her feet hitting the mat awkwardly. She stumbled forward, arms windmilling as she fought to stay in bounds. For a heart-stopping second, I thought she might fall completely. But she managed to steady herself, breathing hard and clearly shaken.
"Uncharacteristic struggle from Madison Reed," the announcer noted. "She's having real difficulty maintaining her usual precision today."
Madison finished her routine, but barely. Her final tumbling pass was conservative, and she took several steps on her last landing. The score reflected her struggles—two full points lower than usual.
As she walked past me afterward, Madison looked up at me with eyes full of frustration and dawning suspicion.
Good. Let her wonder. Let her worry.
Standing on the podium an hour later with gold around my neck, I caught sight of Dad in the audience. His face showed confusion mixed with what might have been the first hint of regret.
The reporter thrust a microphone at me. "Gabriella, you delivered a dominant performance while Madison struggled significantly. Any thoughts?"
I looked directly into the camera. "Some people think a name makes you worthy. Today proved that talent speaks louder than any family legacy."
Later, I found Dad in the parking lot, still looking shaken by Madison's poor performance.
"Maybe... maybe we need to reconsider some things," he muttered.
I stopped beside him, my voice deadly quiet. "You made your choice, Dad. This was just a preview."
As I walked away, satisfaction coursed through me. Madison was shaken but not broken—exactly where I wanted her. Still dangerous enough to make the upcoming Olympic Trials interesting.
But when I glanced back, something made my blood run cold. Madison was standing by the team bus, staring at me with eyes that held no trace of the innocent girl she'd pretended to be.
Those eyes promised war. And the real battle was still to come.