Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Galinda Upland was eight years old when her father told her she was going to be a champion.

Not just good. Not just promising. A champion. And champions didn’t cry.

They moved to the Emerald City in a heatwave—one of those shimmering Gillikin summers where the pavement glowed and strangers were too exhausted to offer polite smiles. Galinda missed the forested stillness of her old town, the cool shadowy glens behind the courts where she used to train. But her father said that wasn’t where real players were made. Real players came from steel. From sweat. From sacrifice.

And Galinda wanted to be real.

Their apartment was smaller than she expected—just two rooms, one for sleeping and one for everything else. But it was close to the tennis academy. Close to greatness, her father said. He pointed at the courts like they were a temple. “You’re going to carve your name into those walls.”

She believed him. She had to.

⸻

At nine, she practiced until her knuckles bled.

At ten, she won her first tournament and cried when the crowd applauded—only for her father to hiss in her ear, “Do it like that again and they’ll see you’re weak.”

At eleven, she flinched every time a door slammed.

He was her coach. Her guardian. Her world. And everything in that world was measured in forehands and backhands and how much pain she could take without breaking form.

⸻

Galinda learned early to mask the bruises. Her ponytail always perfectly placed to hide the discoloration where he’d gripped too tight. The sleeves of her training jacket a little too long for summer. No one asked. Not really. They saw a rising star. A pretty girl with clean lines and clean strokes and an iron will.

They didn’t see the way her eyes went flat when he approached. How she jumped when the whistle blew.

Sports in Oz adored a prodigy. Especially one with golden hair and Gillikin manners.

⸻

By twelve, Galinda could place a serve like a scalpel. Her hands trembled only once—when she missed a return in a match and saw her father rise from the stands.

He said nothing until they got home.

Then he took her racket, bent it against the doorframe, and made her pick up the shards.

“You think the girls in Munchkinland are going easy on their footwork?” he spat. “You think Elphaba Thropp, that brute with the green skin, is skipping drills because her wrist hurts? You want to lose to her?”

Galinda shook her head. Her heart was thudding so hard she thought she might throw up.

“Then you don’t get to rest”.

Chapter Text

Galinda’s days began before dawn. Her father had rigged a flashlight above her headboard that clicked on at 5:00 a.m., followed by a knock so sharp it sounded like a warning.

“You’re late,” he’d say, even if she was already tying her shoes.

The courts were still slick with dew when they arrived, but he insisted on volleys before sunrise. “If you can see the ball in fog, you can see it anytime,” he said, hurling serves at her with a ruthless rhythm.

Sometimes he missed on purpose—slamming balls past her ear or into her ribs. “The world won’t care if you’re scared, Galinda. Learn to move or learn to lose.”

She learned to move.

~

Her father, Highmuster, had her officially registered as homeschooling, but what that really meant was that he would print off worksheets in the library when he remembered and, if she had enough energy after training, she would try to struggle through them. She had had patchy school attendance before their move to the Emerald City, but at least she had learned to read, and the basics of mathematics.

~

It was at the Emerald City Juniors Regional when she first saw her. A tall, whip-thin girl with black braids and a sour expression, warming up at Court Six with a swing so powerful it looked almost angry.

“Elphaba Thropp,” her father muttered, squinting at the program. “Governor’s daughter. Filthy topspin, hideous form. Morrible’s girl.”

Galinda watched her more closely, couldn’t look away. Elphaba hit every ball like it had insulted her. But she didn’t miss.

Her father had explained that Madame Morrible was the best coach in Oz. The next step in her champion trajectory. He had been writing her letters and calling her to request for Galinda to train with her, even part time, since their move to the city. He was growing increasingly frustrated at the lack of response. Galinda was feeling that increased frustration acutely.

At the end of play that day, when most spectators had gone home and Elphaba and the rest of the Emerald Academy players were packing up their gear he grabbed her arm and dragged her down courtside. Galinda wanted to fold into herself as his loud voice rung out claiming the attention of all present.

“Madame Morrible. Allow me to present your newest student, and future Grand Slam Champion, Galinda Arduenna.

Madame Morrible barely contained her sneer as she somehow looked both up at them from the court and down on them in general. “Mr Arduenna, I believe I told you the first time you called, my roster is full for this year. Perhaps you’d like to apply again next year, the paperwork will be available in September”.
Highmuster acted like he hadn’t heard her. “My girl is great. The real deal. She can beat any of your players, right here, right now!” Morrible tried and failed to look disinterested, the girl did have a certain….marketable look. If she was half-decent it could be good for the junior team funding, for the sport’s profile in general. “Anyone you say?” , She said lifting an eyebrow? “Anyone. Your best player. We’re not scared” (Galinda was, in fact, very scared, she hoped no one could tell).
“Very well then”, Morrible clapped twice harshly and Galinda barely managed to conceal her startle. “Thropp! Get back on court. You! Lend the girl your racquet!”

Galinda took off her neatly patched warm up jacket, took hold of the proffered racquet and willed her hands to stop shaking as she walked to the baseline. This was her first real test. She had to win.

Elphaba’s equipment was shiny new and top quality. Galinda’s shoes were a size and a half too small. She took her in straight sets. No one watching could call it luck.

Morrible offered her a place right then and there. Said she could start training the following week. “We’ll see you tomorrow” her father had said, after confirming that her coaching and academy fees would be covered with a government development grant.

Galinda didn't know how they were going to cover food and lodging and all of their other costs with a grant that only covered her training, but she knew better than to question her father.

Elphaba barely spoke to her for months after that.

Chapter Text

They didn’t speak for weeks. Galinda watched from afar, analyzing the other girl’s swing, her footwork, how she grunted on contact like she was daring the court to challenge her.

Their first real encounter was when Morrible ordered a round of drills between her and “one of the academy’s top girls.” Elphaba was chosen.

“She’ll wipe the floor with you,” her father sneered that morning, tossing her a racket. “Go prove me wrong.”

The hit was stiff, awkward. Galinda played clean, Elphaba played wild. Galinda’s slices kissed the lines. Elphaba’s topspin shots tore through the air.

When Morrible called time, Elphaba stalked over, sweat dripping down her jawline.

“You’re precise,” she said bluntly.

“You’re… very aggressive,” Galinda replied, unsure if it was a compliment.

“It’s tennis,” Elphaba said, shrugging. “You either hit like you mean it, or you go home.”

Galinda went home and vomited from nerves.

Her father didn’t speak to her for two days. Then he handed her a new racket and said, “She is better than you. So fix it.”

⸻

Nessarose Thropp used the court next to theirs, always with a slight delay between serves. Wheelchair tennis had a rhythm all its own—two bounces allowed, precision required. Nessa was elegant. Focused. Her shots made no noise except the pop of contact and the low hum of her wheels.

Galinda liked her. She wasn’t sure why.

Once, during a water break, Nessa gestured toward Elphaba. “She scares the hell out of most people,” she said dryly.

Galinda blinked. “Not you?”

Nessa’s laugh was soft. “I’m her sister. I was born immune.”

Galinda smiled, just a little.

Then she saw her father watching from across the courts and quickly looked away.

⸻

That night, after a scrimmage where she’d dropped a third-set tiebreaker, her father didn’t wait until they got home. He pulled her aside behind the empty bleachers and slammed her tennis bag down.

“What is wrong with you? That Thropp girl will eat you alive.”

“I—I’m trying—”

“Trying? Trying is what losers say when they’ve already decided not to win.”

She flinched. Her ankle throbbed from a missed step, but she didn’t mention it. She’d learned early not to mention pain.

When she got home, she iced her wrist in silence, brushing her hair to cover the bruise behind her ear.

⸻

A week later, Elphaba stopped her near the locker rooms.

“You move like you’re afraid of the ball.”

Galinda stiffened. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” Elphaba said, looking her over. “But you hit like someone who doesn’t want to be.”

Galinda didn’t answer.

Elphaba tilted her head. “Do you like tennis?”

The question landed like a stone in her chest. No one had ever asked. She didn’t know the answer. All she knew was that she had to play.

“I’m good at it,” Galinda said carefully.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Before Galinda could reply, her father’s whistle pierced the air.

She turned to go.

Elphaba didn’t stop her. But she didn’t look away, either.

~

At the courts, she was gracious, radiant, always smiling. She signed autographs for younger players with a practiced sparkle in her voice. Everyone called her “The Golden Girl from Gillikin.” But if they’d looked a little closer, they might’ve seen the way her fingers twitched between sets, the way her shoulders flinched when a ball machine misfired near her head.

~

Elphaba started calling her Princess.

It began after a tense practice match arranged by Morrible. Galinda lost in straight sets, too flustered by Elphaba’s power and precision. Her father refused to speak to her on the way home.

The next day, Elphaba passed her in the hallway with a smirk.

“Chin up, Princess. Even diamonds crack under pressure.”

Galinda flushed. “Not if they’re real.”

“Then maybe you’re glass.”

It should have stung. Instead, it lit a fire.

⸻

The next week, Galinda studied footage of Elphaba’s footwork. She ran drills until her lungs burned. She begged her father for access to the ball machine after hours, claiming she needed more reps. He agreed—then cut her paltry meals to “performance portions” and made her weigh in every morning.

“You’re bloated,” he said one morning, examining her from head to toe. “It shows on court.”

Galinda wanted to disappear.

She didn’t eat dinner that night. He praised her discipline.

~

A month or so later she stopped seeing Nessa on court. A quiet rumor passed among the players—something about Nessa’s condition flaring up, about an injury or a protest. Morrible didn’t comment. Neither did Elphaba.

Galinda missed her.

Nessa had once shared a bottle of water with her during a heat advisory, despite Galinda’s father snarling that she “didn’t need charity.”

“She’s not getting it,” Nessa had said coolly. “She’s sharing it. You’re allowed to be huuman, Galinda.”

But Galinda didn’t feel human anymore. She felt carved—like every soft part of her had been hollowed out to make room for strategy, posture, and compliance.

Elphaba only made it worse.

Every time they were assigned as practice partners, it was like a silent war. Elphaba’s shots were deliberately fast, her comments sharp-edged.

Galinda responded with poise. Precision. Perfect, practiced control.

She never gave Elphaba the satisfaction of seeing her unravel.

But inside, she was unraveling.

One night, after a tournament loss where her serve had faltered in the final game, her father waited until she’d washed the sweat off her face in the locker room. When she stepped outside, he grabbed her by the upper arm and yanked her toward the parking lot.

“No more mistakes,” he said between his teeth. “You understand? You’re not here to embarrass me.”

She tried to twist free. “You’re hurting me—”

“You’ll know when I mean to hurt you,” he said, and shoved her against a car door.

A pair of eyes caught hers from across the lot.

Elphaba. Standing beneath a streetlamp. Still. Expression unreadable.

Galinda blinked. Looked away.

By the time she looked back, Elphaba was gone.

⸻

Later that night, her father stood over her with a training schedule for the next two months. No breaks. No distractions. “You’re going to beat Thropp,” he said, tapping the paper. “You’ll wipe that smug face off the court.”

Galinda looked down at the schedule. At the crammed hours. At the sharp, slanted handwriting that had once written family recipes.

Something in her chest cracked.

She didn’t cry.

She trained

Chapter Text

The Emerald City Winter Open was the kind of tournament that made or broke careers.

Top-ranked juniors from every province came, bringing their sponsors and scouts and the quiet panic that clung to rising talent. Morrible called it “a proving ground.” Galinda’s father called it “non-negotiable.”
Galinda nodded even though her stomach ached. She’d thrown up twice that week from nerves—or maybe hunger. She couldn’t tell anymore. But her serve had improved.

⸻

Elphaba was seeded third. Galinda, second.

It was inevitable they’d meet in the semis.

The academy buzzed with anticipation. Coaches watched Galinda with quiet reverence—she was graceful, controlled, impossible to read. They called her “ice-cold.” She wore the title like armor.

But Elphaba was different. Aggressive. Unapologetically fierce. Her presence on court had become its own spectacle.

Reporters angled for photos when the bracket confirmed their match. “The Governor’s Outcast vs. The Golden Girl.” Even Morrible seemed pleased.

Galinda felt like her lungs had been packed with cotton.
The night before the match, her father woke her at midnight.

“Get up.”

She blinked in the dark. “It’s—”

“You want to sleep or you want to win?”

The courts were closed, so he took her to a dimly lit rooftop parking garage. Set down cones. Pulled out his old ball machine.

“You’re not sharp enough,” he growled, feeding balls into the machine by hand. “Your backhand’s lazy. Your mind’s soft. That green brat will eat you alive.”

She hit ball after ball until her wrist throbbed and her shoes slipped in her own sweat.

“Again.”

Her vision blurred.

“Again.”

When she finally collapsed to her knees, he knelt beside her and slapped her across the face.

Not hard enough to bruise. Just hard enough to remind her who she was.

“You want to lose to that monster?” he whispered.

Galinda didn’t answer.

“You’re my daughter. You don’t lose.”

⸻

She didn’t sleep the rest of that night. She showered in silence, iced her wrist, and braided her hair with shaking fingers.

By the time she walked onto Court One, she looked flawless.

Elphaba was already there, bouncing on her toes. Focused. Calm.

Galinda nodded stiffly. “Don’t hold back.”

Elphaba smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Princess.”

The match was brutal.
Galinda played like a machine. She hit her corners, snapped her wrists, punished any short ball. She held serve through the first set—won it 6–4. Her father stood at the back of the stands, arms crossed, lips pursed.

Elphaba didn’t falter. She grunted louder in the second, moved faster, sent a backhand screaming past Galinda’s shoulder that made the crowd gasp.

Galinda didn’t blink.

She pushed back harder.

Then came the third set.

At 3–2, Galinda felt her wrist give. A white-hot bolt of pain shot up her arm. She staggered, just slightly, and Elphaba saw it.

“You okay?” she asked, low and breathless.

Galinda straightened. “Serve.”

The pain dulled, then roared. Her father’s voice rang in her skull. You’re my daughter. You don’t lose.

She pushed through two more games on sheer instinct.

5–4. Match point.

Elphaba served wide, Galinda returned deep—then Elphaba fired a forehand so sharp it kissed the baseline.

Galinda dove. Her racket twisted in her palm. She fell, hard.

The ball sailed past.

⸻

The crowd exploded. Elphaba didn’t celebrate—just stood frozen, watching Galinda lie still on the court.

When she finally sat up, the pain in her wrist was unbearable. The trainer ran over.

Her father was gone.

⸻

Back in the locker room, she stared at the tiled floor as her wrist was wrapped.

“You should see a specialist,” the trainer said. “You might’ve torn something.”

Galinda nodded, numb.

Elphaba appeared in the doorway a few minutes later. “They’re calling it the match of the year.”

Galinda didn’t look up.

“You pushed through a busted wrist and still almost had me,” Elphaba said. “That’s either brave or suicidal.”

Still no response.

Then, softer: “Who hit you?”

Galinda’s breath caught. Her eyes snapped up.

Elphaba was staring at her neck. A faint outline of a bruise peeked from the edge of her collar.

“Did he do that?” she asked.

Galinda swallowed. Her mouth tasted like blood and secrets. “Leave it alone.”

Elphaba didn’t move. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not.” She stood. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I’m starting to,” Elphaba said quietly. “And I don’t like what I see.”

⸻

Galinda shoved past her, tears stinging the corners of her vision. She didn’t cry.

Not until she got home. Not until the door locked behind her and her father’s silence turned cold.

He said nothing all night. Just left her training binder on the table, open to a new schedule.

The next tournament was in two weeks.

No rest.

No questions.

Just win.

Chapter Text

The specialist confirmed it: a stress fracture in her dominant wrist. Likely from overuse, compounded by an impact injury. Six to eight weeks in a brace. No court time.

When Galinda told her father, he looked at her like she’d confessed to a crime.

“We can’t afford downtime.”

She blinked. “I can’t play.”

“Then you practice left-handed. Footwork drills. Shadow swing.”

She stared at him. “The doctor said rest.”

“And I say you’re not done.”

⸻

He canceled the private sessions at the academy but kept her training. Footwork in the hallway, stair sprints at the park, grocery bags lifted like weights.

Their apartment, already cramped, started to feel like a cage. The fridge stayed half-empty. The rent notices on the door went from white to yellow to red.

“We’ll catch up after nationals,” her father muttered, scribbling in a notebook. “Once you’re back on court. One win, and we’re solvent.”

Galinda didn’t know what solvent meant. But she understood the dark under his eyes. The smell of beer on his breath that started before noon.

She avoided the academy proper.

It wasn’t just the wrist. It was the looks—the pity, the curiosity. The whispers. The questions no one asked directly. The fault lines in her ‘Golden Girl’ act closer to the surface for the moment.

She missed Nessa, who hadn’t returned. She missed the steady squeak of wheels along the baseline. Missed her stillness.

She hated that she missed Elphaba.

~

One afternoon, Elphaba showed up at the park beside the academy.

Galinda was running drills—ankle weights strapped on, sweat soaking her collar despite the long sleeves. Her wrist, hidden beneath the brace and fabric, ached with every jarring step.

Elphaba didn’t announce herself. Just leaned against the far railing, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Galinda didn’t acknowledge her. She kept her head down and ran the next pattern perfectly.

After several minutes, Elphaba spoke. “That doesn’t look like recovery.”

Galinda slowed to a jog, then stopped. “I didn’t realize you were a doctor.”

“I’m not. But I know what overcompensation looks like. You’re pushing through it.”

“So?”

“So… why?”

Galinda picked up her water bottle. The seal cracked loudly in the silence. “What do you want, Elphaba?”

“To know why you’re training with a fractured wrist and ankle weights in ninety-degree weather.”

Galinda turned toward her, carefully blank. “Because that’s what it takes.”

Elphaba didn’t respond at first. Her gaze sharpened, searching Galinda’s face. “How bad is it?”

Galinda’s fingers tightened around the bottle.

Elphaba’s voice softened. “You can say it. I won’t—”

“I’m fine,” Galinda snapped, too quickly.

A pause.

“You’re not,” Elphaba said.

Galinda stepped back. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I’ve watched you train. I’ve seen the bruises you cover. The way you flinch when a ball hits the net. I know what that means.”

“No, you think you know.” Galinda’s eyes glittered. “You don’t know what I’ve earned, what I’ve given up. What I’ve built.”

Elphaba didn’t move.

Galinda looked away, voice tight. “You see a spoiled rich girl from Gillikin. That’s the story everyone likes. Stick to it.”

Elphaba blinked, thrown for half a second.

“I came to drop off Nessa’s racquet,” she said after a beat.

Galinda’s throat tightened. “Oh.”

“She said it wasn’t worth her body anymore.”

Something flickered across Galinda’s face—grief, maybe. Or jealousy.

“I have to finish drills,” she said, already turning away.

“Galinda—”

“I’m fine,” she said again, more quietly this time. “Don’t worry about me.”

Elphaba didn’t follow. Just watched as Galinda began her footwork again—shoulders high, movements sharp, breath controlled.

The lie echoed in the air long after she was gone.

Chapter Text

She wasn’t ready.

Galinda knew it. Her wrist was still weak, her shoulder stiff, her balance shaky from weeks of running on half-empty. But her father had already registered her for the Emerald City Invitational.

“The scouts will be there,” he said, pulling a cigarette from the drawer they were supposed to be too poor to open. “You win, and we get back on track. You lose—”
He didn’t finish.

But the apartment said enough.

The electricity had been cut for a day last week. The water ran cold more often than not. Dinner had turned into plain rice and expired energy bars. Her father’s breath had started to reek again—beer in the morning, vodka by night.

“We’re not poor,” he barked when she once asked if she should skip the tournament to rest. “We’re invested. Everything is going into you.”

Everything.

⸻

The tournament was a furnace of pressure. Small, but packed with juniors clawing toward national rankings. Galinda hadn’t been seen on court in nearly two months, and the whispers were already forming: injury? collapse? burnout?

She arrived early, jacket zipped to her throat despite the heat. Her father gave her a protein bar he’d stolen from the academy gym fridge and told her to look sharp.

The brace was hidden. The pain wasn’t.

Her first opponent was fast and hungry, but sloppy. Galinda won in two tight sets, her form shaky but familiar—muscle memory masking pain. Her father nodded once at the win.

“Better.”

But not good.

⸻

Between matches, a voice called her name.

She turned to find Madame Morrible in a pale linen coat, clutching a clipboard. Her smile was bloodless.

“My dear. How brave of you to compete so soon after injury. We at the junior development board were… concerned.”

Galinda straightened. “I’m cleared to play.”

“Yes. Well. The board is very invested in your progress, you know. Particularly given your performance last season. The regional sponsors remember you.”

Galinda waited, throat dry.

Morrible’s smile sharpened. “We can’t have our rising star crumbling now, can we?”

Galinda hesitated. “No, ma’am.”

The clipboard shifted. A small envelope passed into her hand. Unmarked.

“For the wrist,” Morrible murmured. “A cortico-infusion blend. Off-registry, but effective. It will allow you to… perform. Quietly.”

Galinda stared at the envelope.

“I don’t need—”

“You do,” Morrible said crisply. “Just as you need a future.”

Galinda said nothing.

“Nationals are three weeks away,” Morrible added, stepping back. “I trust you’ll be there. Shining.”

Then she turned and disappeared into the cluster of officials.

Galinda slipped the envelope into her bag with shaking fingers.

⸻

That night, her father celebrated her win with a six-pack and a lecture.

“You owe her,” he muttered, nodding at the envelope. “She could’ve given it to someone else. You’re lucky she thinks you’re still worth it.”

Galinda didn’t feel lucky.

She watched the condensation gather on the can in his hand and imagined it dripping into her open brace, dissolving whatever tendon still held her together.

⸻

She didn’t take the injection. Not yet.

She still thought maybe she could earn her way back—prove something without shortcuts.

She wrapped her wrist, gritted her teeth, and trained harder.

She got up before dawn and ran stadium stairs until her lungs burned.

She poured water in the shampoo to make it last.

She told herself pain was a sign of progress.

⸻

She didn’t reply to the message someone, Elphaba?, had texted her.

Heard you’re playing again. Don’t die trying.

Galinda deleted it, thankful she had turned off read receipts when that part of her phone still worked.

~

The power went out again on a Tuesday.

No warning. No apologies. Just darkness, and then silence, broken only by her father cursing as he kicked the breaker box.

Galinda stood in the kitchen, still in her practice clothes, wrist wrapped and throbbing, the cold air of the open freezer vanishing fast. The last of the chicken they’d scraped together was already defrosting. Dinner tomorrow was going to be boiled rice and hope.

“We’ll pay it Friday,” her father muttered, pacing in tight circles. “Once the refund from the equipment return clears. Or maybe I’ll sell the damn blender.”

She didn’t ask which equipment. She didn’t ask where the blender came from. She just nodded, her head, already heavy from training and hunger and the invisible weight she could never quite name.

⸻

The next morning, she woke up to find her tennis shoes missing.

He’d pawned them.

“They were worn through,” he said flatly, handing her an older pair with cracked soles. “You needed a lighter pair anyway. Quicker on court.”

She didn’t argue. She just put them on and kept her eyes down. Later, she’d soak her socks in cold water to soothe the new blisters blooming at her heels.

⸻

The academy gym was off-limits now—her father claimed it was politics, someone on the board had it out for them—but Galinda suspected they were behind on fees. So she trained in the schoolyard before dawn. Ran drills on cracked pavement. Practiced serves against the brick wall behind the laundromat.

~

Her body was fraying.

She didn’t notice it all at once. Just little things: the sting in her shoulder that lingered longer than it should. The way her wrist clicked when she opened jars. The migraines that left her seeing stars after sprints.

She started skipping breakfast to stretch her protein powder further.

She started hiding her bruises with more than just makeup—compression sleeves, sweatbands, medical tape under her collar.

She started checking every window to make sure no one could see them arguing. Just in case.

⸻

Elphaba passed her once outside the court gates.

Didn’t speak.

Just looked at her—really looked—and then walked away.

Galinda told herself it was a victory. That the silence meant she was holding it together well enough to fool everyone.

But when she went home that night, her father was drunk again, slouched on the couch with Morrible’s empty envelope beside him.

“Why aren’t you using it?” he slurred.

She didn’t answer.

He stood too fast. “Do you want to throw this away? All of this?”

She braced herself—but he didn’t strike her. Not this time.

Just spat at her feet and stumbled into the kitchen, muttering about wasted talent and stupid girls who didn’t understand sacrifice.

She cleaned it up. Quietly.

⸻

The next morning, she took the cortisone.

She didn’t cry when she did it.

Just breathed in.

And hoped it would be enough to keep the spiral from swallowing her whole.

Chapter Text

Elphaba pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the rear window, fingers curled around the edge of her seat as the car hummed along the parkway. Her father was already talking about the night’s guest list—another fundraiser, another stack of polished hands to shake—but Elphaba wasn’t listening.

There she was again.

The girl.

Running along the shoulder of the service road like it was a goddamn track lane.

Blonde ponytail bobbing, arms pumping, legs moving with the kind of stubborn rhythm that suggested she was running from something—or toward something. Always around the same time. Always alone.

Elphaba frowned. What was she doing here?

She wore the kind of face people remembered—pretty in the deliberate, cruel way that made Elphaba’s stomach twist. Even drenched in sweat, she looked like a photograph. She shouldn’t be here. Not beside a cracked road with freight trucks roaring past. Not in shoes that looked a little too worn. Not running home.

Not someone like her.

“Is that the Arduenna girl?” her father asked idly, glancing up from his stack of papers.

“I don’t know,” Elphaba lied. But she did know. Everyone at the academy knew Galinda Arduenna. The golden girl from nowhere. The one who’d appeared again after injury with new gear and a press release. The one who’d suddenly been handed a private meeting with Oscar Diggs after Morrible “just happened” to mention her name. Just the other day at lunch that vapid girl, Shenshen had been praising Galinda’s footwork like it was some kind of miracle.

It burned.

“What’s she doing running like that?” her father added, amused.

“Probably for attention,” Elphaba muttered.

But she wasn’t sure.

It didn’t make sense. Girls like Galinda had drivers. Nutritionists. They didn’t run along cracked shoulders with gravel stinging their ankles. They didn’t have to.

And yet there she was, again. Elphaba stared after her until the car curved out of view, her thoughts already spiraling.

What the hell was she playing at?

~

The thing about hate, Elphaba was discovering, was that it made you notice things. Tiny things. Insignificant details that lodged like grit beneath her skin.

The way Galinda taped her wrist before matches—too tight, like she didn’t care if she lost circulation.
The way she sat alone during breaks, reading the same ratty notebook instead of scrolling or chatting.
The way her smile, when it came, never quite reached her eyes.

And the shoes. That was the first crack.

They were clean, yes. But not new. Not like everyone else’s. Elphaba noticed the soft wear in the toe, the way Galinda’s laces were always tied just a little too short, as though she was working with whatever was left.

She didn’t say anything. But she watched. And Galinda noticed.

In the locker room, Galinda had started facing the wall when she changed. She kept her head down when Elphaba passed. Elphaba pretended not to look, but she could feel the tension in the air like an electric charge. She was used to being the one people watched. But now she was the one watching.

~

Nationals was hosted in the capital—stadium lights, full stands, media coverage. Galinda won her first match easily. Too easily, Elphaba thought. Bageled her opponent. Galinda had been faster. Sharper. Her serves had a new violence behind them.

And Oscar Diggs was there.

Elphaba saw him before Galinda did—seated courtside in an absurdly expensive suit, sipping sparkling water like he owned the arena. Which, to be fair, he probably did. His eyes followed Galinda the entire time. Not her game. Her.

When she walked off the court, a staffer handed her a sleek black garment bag and a note. Elphaba caught the flicker of hesitation on Galinda’s face as she opened it.

New gear. Branded with the Diggs crest. Technically within regulations—but sleeveless, high-cut, midriff-baring. More skin than uniform.

Galinda didn’t complain.

She wore it the next day.

And she won again.

But Elphaba saw her pull the hem down between sets, saw the slight tremor in her hand as she adjusted her grip. She wasn’t comfortable. She was playing a part.

And for the first time, Elphaba wondered if Galinda’s whole world was built like that—tight-laced and smiling, hiding something raw underneath.

It didn’t make her like her.

But it did make her curious.

Chapter Text

The fabric clung to her in all the wrong places.

She hadn’t realized, at first, how much of her skin would catch the light. The cameras. The eyes.

Oscar’s gaze felt like a brand. He was in the same seat every day—legs crossed, one arm draped casually over the back of the chair beside him like he expected someone to join him. Watching her, always watching her, with that smug half-smile. Like he was already counting the profit margin on her image. Like he owned her.

She tried to focus on the ball, on her serve, on the careful mechanics her father had drilled into her for years. But she could feel them—Oscar, the officials, the press, the fans. Every toss of her braid seemed to draw more attention. Every bead of sweat.

She won.

Easily.

But when the crowd roared and the cameras zoomed in, she didn’t smile. She couldn’t. Her face felt hollow.

⸻

Elphaba didn’t clap.

She sat stiffly in the bleachers, arms crossed, watching Galinda with something sharp and unsettled festering in her chest. It wasn’t just jealousy anymore—it was discomfort. Disgust. The way Diggs leaned forward in his seat. The way the crowd responded—not to the power of Galinda’s game, but to the presentation of her. The skin. The brand. The illusion.

And Galinda was letting it happen.

No—forcing herself to let it happen.

Elphaba could see it now. The little tics. The tension in her shoulders. The way she kept tugging at the hem of the top, even mid-game, even when it nearly cost her a point. She wasn’t playing in that uniform.

She was surviving in it.

________

The locker room emptied slowly.

Galinda waited. Pretended to be deep in her post-match cooldown routine. Pretended not to notice the reporters outside asking if she’d do a photo call. Pretended not to hear the snide comment Pfannee said about how “fame suited her.”

Eventually, she was alone.

She sat on the bench and stared at her reflection in the mirrored wall. The outfit gleamed under the fluorescent lights, taut over her frame like plastic wrap. Her skin still carried the heat of the game, and the eyes.

She reached for the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling once, then again. When the fabric finally gave way, she exhaled shakily. Peeled the top down slowly. Her whole body shivered—not from cold, but from exposure.

She was still trembling when she curled the kit into a neat, lifeless pile and shoved it into her duffel.

Her phone buzzed with a text.

DAD: “You got lazy in the second set. Don’t let this go to your head.”

She turned the phone face-down and didn’t reply.

________

The trophy was lighter than it looked. Polished. Hollow.

She carried it home in the crook of her arm like a bundle of shame.

The front door creaked the same way it always did, the hinge still half-broken from the time her father slammed it open after a loss. When she won… well.

He was on the couch, as usual. Shirtless, one sock off, the other barely hanging on. Tennis footage flickered across the TV in grainy slow motion—her footage. Over and over and over. A serve she’d missed. A rally she should’ve cut short.

He didn’t look up.

“Could’ve ended it sooner. You let her control the pace in set two.”

“Hi,” Galinda said quietly.

“I saw.” He nodded toward the trophy, toward the branded gear. “You looked like a goddamn cheerleader.”

She flinched.

“It’s regulation,” she said, carefully.

“Yeah? Still looked like a tease.”

The sting rose like a tide behind her ribs. She didn’t answer.

Instead, she set the trophy down on the cracked kitchen counter, opened the envelope from the tournament, and began counting the winnings. Quietly. She set aside what they needed—rent, water, food, hydro that kept cutting out—and tucked it into the chipped ceramic mug they used for “important things.”

Then she took the rest—what little was left—and handed it to him.

He snatched it from her fingers, “you think you’re in charge?” he snarled.

“No—Dad, I just—” But the words slipped. She was already bracing for it.

The slap didn’t come immediately.

First came the bottle. Tipped up. Gulped. Then the ashtray. Clattering to the floor. Then his eyes—red-rimmed, cruel, burning with all the things he didn’t know how to say without his fists.

She turned before he could do anything more and went to the bedroom. Locked the door. Sat with her back pressed hard against it, breath shaking.

She still hadn’t changed out of her winning kit. It felt like someone else’s skin.

She peeled it off slowly, wincing as the elastic scraped over the bruise on her hip from diving for a ball.

Then she pulled on an old hoodie and curled up on the floor, arms around her knees.

The trophy glinted faintly in the light through the streaked window. She couldn’t look at it.

Chapter Text

The next tournament came too fast, the bruises still bloomed purple beneath her warm-ups, and the gear from last time still sat balled up at the bottom of her bag like a curse she couldn’t throw out.

But Oscar had called.

Not her—he never called her. He called Morrible, who relayed his message with a clipped, satisfied smile:
“The media team wants something bolder. ‘Fresh. Provocative. Good for youth engagement.’ You’ll wear what they give you. It’s still technically legal.”

Galinda nodded.

She didn’t argue. Not with Morrible. Not with Oscar. Not with the father passed out drunk on the couch back home with her prize money tucked into the waistband of his boxers.

The new kit arrived in a sleek black case, complete with accessories. A cropped, high-necked top with mesh panels. A skirt barely longer than a belt. Neon-accented shoes and glossy branded visors. It screamed ‘Look at Me!”. It made her skin crawl.

She tried it on in the bathroom, heart thudding. The mirror was too harsh. Every inch of her felt exposed, sculpted for someone else’s consumption.

When she stepped onto the court that afternoon, the crowd roared.

Cameras clicked. Social media feeds lit up. Her name trended.

Oscar was there again—this time with a young assistant and a handful of journalists. He didn’t watch the match. He watched her. The way she bent her knees before serving. The way she adjusted her skirt. The sweat on her collarbone. The way the visor cast a shadow across her cheekbones.

She won again. In three sets. Her footwork was sloppy—her head, distracted—but she pulled it off. She always did, the alternative didn’t bear consideration.

After the match, the press swarmed. Reporters asked about her new look, her routine, her “iconic silhouette.” One asked if she had any dating prospects.

No one asked about the match itself.

⸻

From the bench, Elphaba watched with a knot in her throat.

She wasn’t sure what she felt anymore. She’d studied Galinda like an opponent, resented her, even despised her. But now?

She watched the way Galinda smiled through the noise, how her knuckles whitened around the water bottle, how her visor never lifted far enough for anyone to see her eyes.

She looked like a doll on strings.

And Elphaba hated everyone—Oscar, Morrible, the tournament directors…but not Galinda. Not anymore.

Not when she could see how far someone had to fall to become what the sponsors wanted.

______

The lights had been turned off hours ago. The stands were empty, the media vans long gone. Even the janitorial crew had cleared the locker rooms. But Galinda lingered—alone in the stairwell behind the athlete exit, tucked into the shadows where the cameras couldn’t follow and the walls still echoed faintly with the day’s noise.

She pressed her forehead against the cold concrete and let out a breath so shaky it fractured.

Her skirt still clung damply to her skin. Her shoes pinched. Her mouth ached from smiling. Every inch of her felt scrubbed raw—not from playing, but from being seen.

Not really ‘seen’. Just… watched.

“God,” she whispered, voice cracking, “I hate this.”

She rubbed at her wrist, the tight tape digging in like a cuff. Her throat burned.

“I hate the cameras. I hate the f-fabric. I hate the way he looks at me. I hate it.” She gulped air like it might stop the trembling.

Her fingers twisted into her hair, murmuring to herself. “I’m trying, okay? I’m trying to make it work. I paid the rent, I bought the groceries, I got the goddamn lights turned back on, and he still…he still..”

The sob clawed out of her before she could silence it. Sharp. Childish. Humiliating. Forbidden.

She slapped her hand over her mouth too late.

______

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

She’d been cutting through the side hallway on her way to meet her driver, head down, earbuds in, rage in her gut—when she heard the voice. Soft. Strangled. Broken.

She stopped.

Listened.

Didn’t breathe.

She recognized the voice, even strained through tears. It twisted something in her-something ugly and reluctant and… tender. She stepped closer. Quietly. Carefully.

And for the first time in her life, she didn’t see Galinda Arduenna, the golden girl, the Diggs darling.

She saw a girl unraveling. A girl pressed against the wall like she was trying to disappear into it. A girl who looked terrified of being real. She clear her throat.

Galinda spun around, face drained of color.

She hadn’t heard her approach. Her tear-slick eyes widened in horror, and her whole body went taut with mortification.

“Don’t! Don’t you dare—”

“I wasn’t—”

“You can’t tell anyone,” Galinda choked. “No one. Do you understand me?”

“I’m not going to…” “Leave me alone.” Her voice was sharp, panicked. “You don’t get to see this.”

Elphaba took a step back, hands raised. “I just heard you crying. I thought…”

“I wasn’t crying!”

She was. Still was. But she scrubbed furiously at her face like she could erase the evidence.

______

A slow, slurred clap echoed from behind the corner.

“Well isn’t this just darling.”

Galinda froze.

Her father stepped forward, the smell of stale liquor clinging to his clothes like rot. His eyes flicked from Elphaba to Galinda and back, lip curling.

“You want to explain what the hell you’re doing spilling your guts to the competition?!”

“It wasn’t like that—” Galinda started.

“You think this is a joke? You think sponsors pay for sob stories?” His voice dropped into a hiss. “You want them thinking you’re weak? You want her”—he jabbed a finger at Elphaba—“to get the upper hand because you can’t keep your mouth shut?”

Galinda shook her head, shame blooming hot across her face.

Her father turned to Elphaba, sneering. “You enjoy that little show? Gonna cash it in for some favours with Morrible?” “Gonna tell Daddy?”

Elphaba said nothing. Her fists clenched at her sides.

Galinda couldn’t look at either of them. She turned and ran—still in the uniform, still in the visor, still carrying the weight of a thousand eyes she couldn’t unfeel.

Chapter Text

Elphaba couldn’t sleep.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Galinda’s face, red, wet, and furious at being seen. Not just seen crying, but seen at all. The way she’d flinched when Elphaba spoke. The way she recoiled as if compassion itself was a threat.

And then him. The father. The way he spoke to her- about her. Like she wasn’t even a person, just an asset with a leaking seal.

Elphaba turned over in her bed, eyes fixed in the shadowed cornices of the elaborate ceiling. She should’ve said something. To Galinda. To the father. Anything.

But what could she have said? I see you? That wasn’t what Galinda wanted. Not then. Maybe not ever.

Still, it haunted her, that noise Galinda had made when she broke. That half-choked sound of someone who’d been holding everything together with KT and willpower. It hadn’t sounded like weakness.

It had sounded like collapse.

⸻

Galinda scrubbed at the sink until her knuckles ached, though the bowl was already clean. Her father’s half-finished drink sat behind her on the table. He hadn’t said a word since they got home.

But the silence was worse than the yelling.

She’d broken a rule tonight. Let herself crack-in front of someone. In front of Elphaba of all people. Rival. Threat. Girl who already seemed to think she was a fraud.

Galinda had peeled off the uniform the second she got in, yanking it down like it was burning her skin. She didn’t hang it up. She stepped into the shower fully clothed, letting the hot water hammer over her face until her throat stopped seizing.

But nothing washed it off. Not the memory. Not the fear. Not the eyes.

Her father hadn’t hit her tonight. He didn’t need to.

The way he looked at her, disappointed, calculating, like a gambler who’d bet too high on a flawed horse, was worse. He hadn’t drunk the rest of the money. Not yet. He was waiting. Waiting for her to win again.

She stared at herself in the mirror.

She looked like a girl everyone thought they knew.

⸻

The next morning, Elphaba found herself watching the locker room door even though she told herself she wouldn’t.

When Galinda walked in—dark glasses, expression neutral, no makeup—Elphaba looked away. She didn’t speak. But she watched.

Galinda didn’t glance at her. Not once.

She went to her usual corner. Quiet. Precise. A little too stiff. Wrapping her wrist slowly, evenly. Nothing to see here. Nothing broken. Nothing real.

Elphaba felt that same twist in her stomach again.

Not anger this time.

Not envy.

Just… recognition.

Chapter Text

The schedule had changed.

Instead of singles, the coaches had arranged a doubles match. A showpiece for sponsors and media. “Build chemistry,” they said. “Make it marketable.” Morrible was overseeing their court. Of course she was.

She stood like a statue behind the baseline, arms folded, visor tilted just enough to cast her eyes in shadow. Her whistle stayed untouched around her neck. She didn’t need to raise her voice. Her displeasure could be felt like a chill.

Galinda and Elphaba stood on opposite sides of the same net. Partners. For now.

It was a disaster waiting to happen.

⸻

Galinda could feel the way Morrible was watching her. Not her game, her. The lines of her body in the new uniform, the way her ponytail swung when she moved, the flush that rose after a rally.

“Arduenna,” Morrible snapped, “you’re light on your left foot again. I’ve told you three times. You want a rolled ankle on camera?”

Galinda swallowed and nodded, shifting weight without reply.

“Louder.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she managed.

“Fix it.”

It was the same voice her father used when he rewound her footage back home. Same clipped disgust. Same assumption that her body wasn’t trying hard enough.

And it got in her head.

Every serve wobbled. Every return came a half-second too slow. She kept glancing at Morrible’s face, looking for even a flicker of approval—and finding only cold, simmering disappointment.

____

Elphaba saw it.

Morrible wasn’t coaching—she was testing. And Galinda was failing.

But what bothered Elphaba more—what twisted like iron in her gut—was that Galinda was the only one being corrected.

Elphaba’s form was sharp. Her footwork cleaner. She hit the cleanest ace of the morning. Morrible barely looked at her.

No notes. No feedback. No praise.

Nothing.

Just the occasional, passive comment to Galinda:
“Try to match your partner’s tempo.”
“Don’t let Thropp carry the set alone.”
“Look like you belong out here.”

It wasn’t just condescension. It was control. And it wasn’t meant for Elphaba.

Because Morrible knew who paid her.

Because Morrible knew the Governor was her father.

Because Galinda’s body, Galinda’s look—that’s what sold headlines.

And Elphaba hated it.

She didn’t want the attention Galinda got. But she wanted the validation. Wanted to matter beyond her last name. Wanted Morrible to look at her and care enough to critique her.

Instead, she got silence.

____

By the second day, her wrist was on fire.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t dare.

Morrible had stopped giving her directions now, just muttered sharp things to the assistant at her side. When Galinda missed a lob, she saw the head shake. The note scribbled. The way Morrible turned away.

She felt like she was shrinking inside her own skin.

Just like home.

_____

When Galinda missed the lob, Elphaba cursed under her breath. But something made her glance sideways instead of staying sharp.

And what she saw wasn’t arrogance. Wasn’t vanity.

It was collapse. Quiet. Compacted. Familiar.

Elphaba stepped toward the net, turned just slightly toward her. Her voice was low. Careful.

“Take a breath.”

Galinda didn’t meet her eyes.

But she nodded.

Just once.

_______

A week later it was still tense.

But it wasn’t silent anymore.

Training continued under Morrible’s watchful eye, but her corrections grew less frequent—not because they were flawless, but because she’d settled into her rhythm of subtle punishments. A grimace here, a narrowed glance there. Galinda had learned to read them like weather.

Still, something had shifted.

The second week, Elphaba surprised her.

“You’re dropping your shoulder again on crosscourt returns,” she muttered one morning, not unkindly.

Galinda blinked. “What?”

“You’re hesitating,” Elphaba added. “Barely half a second, but it throws off your momentum. Try keeping the racket higher before the swing.”

It wasn’t scathing. It wasn’t a trap.

It was… useful.

Galinda adjusted. And the next rally, she landed the shot.

“Elphaba—”

“I know,” Elphaba cut her off, but her lip twitched. Almost a smile.

_____

She’d expected Galinda to brush her off.

She didn’t.

In fact, she started noticing Elphaba’s weaknesses too.

“Your grip changes when you’re nervous,” Galinda told her flatly one afternoon. “You get tighter. It slows your reflexes.”

Elphaba turned to her, defensive. “I do not.”

“You do. I watched it during drills. And your returns drop shorter.”

Elphaba opened her mouth, then closed it.

Because Galinda was right.

And somehow that stung less than it should’ve.

_____

They weren’t friends.

But they were partners now.

She felt the shift in her body when Elphaba took the net. Trusted her swing. Adjusted her angles to accommodate Elphaba’s sharper baseline work. It became a rhythm. A pattern. Not easy. Not graceful. But functional.

And for Galinda, that was something new—someone who saw her flaws but didn’t exploit them. Someone who corrected her without cruelty.

She wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

So she just kept showing up.

And one day, when Elphaba’s toss went wide and Morrible muttered something acidic to the assistant, Galinda murmured, “Your elbow was too low on that one. Want to try again?”

Elphaba looked at her for a long beat.

Then tossed the ball again.

______

Galinda’s footwork had improved again. Her shots were cleaner. Her silences weren’t brittle anymore—they were focused.

And she didn’t whine.

That surprised Elphaba more than anything. For someone who looked like the girls who used to shove her in the corridors of her prep school, Galinda didn’t complain. She just took it. Quietly. Grimly. Like she was used to enduring things.

That… complicated everything.

Because now Elphaba was starting to respect her.

Maybe not like her. Not yet.

But she respected her game. Her work ethic. Her bruises.

And she was starting to wonder—who was this girl beneath the Diggs-branded skirts and too-wide smiles?

Who was she really?

Chapter Text

It wasn’t like Elphaba was watching Galinda.

She just… noticed things. Now.

The way her braid looked tighter on the days she didn’t speak. The way she always used the water fountain even when the rest of them had bottled electrolyte drinks from the sponsors. The way she peeled the wrapper off the same brand of protein bar every day like she was trying to make it last longer.

This one looked older than usual. Crushed a little. She didn’t even eat it right away—just kept it on the bench like maybe looking at it would be enough.

It irritated Elphaba. The obviousness of it. The fact that no one else noticed.

So when their short break hit, she plopped down beside Galinda, unscrewed her flask, and held it out without looking at her.

“Drink.”

Galinda blinked. “What?”

“It’s ginger electrolyte with salt. Better than fountain sludge.”

Galinda hesitated, then took it.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, surprised.

Elphaba dug into her lunch container and pulled out a still-warm half of her sandwich. “Here.”

“I’m…”

“Don’t argue. I don’t want it.”

Galinda stared at it for a second, then took it. Ate slowly, like she didn’t trust it to stay in her hands.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the break.

But when Galinda finished, she folded the paper carefully and set it down like it meant something.

⸻

That afternoon, they were told to report to the stadium tunnel for “press stills and promotional media.” Oscar Diggs would be overseeing the shoot. The assistant said it like it was a privilege.

Elphaba rolled her eyes. Galinda went quiet.

The setup was slick, too slick. Bright lighting, branded towels, sleek racquets, a fresh box of Diggs-sponsored apparel that still reeked of plastic and perfume. Galinda was handed a new kit—bare shoulders, low neckline, tiny. A matching visor and lip gloss included in a little silver pouch.

Her throat tightened.

Elphaba’s outfit was more functional. Still branded, still a bit fitted—but nothing close to what they gave Galinda.

And Oscar was already there when they arrived. Sitting on a director’s chair like this was a casting call, not a training event.

His eyes followed Galinda from the second she walked in.

“Smile for me, sweetheart,” he called as she adjusted her visor. “Give me that sparkle you had in the finals.”

Galinda stiffened, forcing a practiced half-grin. She looked straight through him.

“Chin up, yes, good,” he said, then whispered something to the photographer and laughed.

Galinda’s hands clenched at her sides. Her legs were too stiff, her poses rigid. She looked like she wanted to vanish.

Elphaba saw it.

Saw the way her shoulders were drawn too tight. The way she flinched when Oscar stood up and walked over to “adjust” the collar of her top.

His fingers lingered.

“Elphaba, why don’t you join her?” the photographer prompted. “Closer. Arms around the shoulders. It’s a doubles campaign.”

Galinda’s eyes flicked to Elphaba, just for a split second. Wide. Panicked.

Elphaba moved.

Crossed the court. Stepped between them.

“Her shoulder’s still strained,” she said flatly. “Physio says no contact for now.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow, irritated. “No one told me that.”

“I just did.”

He stared her down.

Elphaba stared back.

Eventually, he smiled, tight and venomous. “Fine. Keep it clean. We can do solo stills later.”

He backed off.

Galinda didn’t speak.

But when they stood beside each other for the next round of shots, her elbow brushed Elphaba’s. Light. Not by accident.

Chapter Text

Galinda showered twice that night.

The first was to scrub off the residue of the photoshoot—the powdery shimmer they’d dusted over her collarbone, the sticky gloss, the imprint of Oscar’s fingers. She’d felt it there all through practice, like oil that wouldn’t rinse.

The second was after the memory hit.

She sat down in the water for that one.

⸻

She was thirteen the first time her father touched her shoulder like that—not to correct her swing.

Just a nudge. Just a pat.

Too long.

She didn’t understand it then. Not exactly. But she’d started flinching around him after that. And he’d noticed.

He started “helping” more often. Standing closer. Hands on hips. Arms around her from behind under the pretense of demonstrating a two-handed backhand. His breath always smelled like beer. His voice like praise dipped in something rotten.

“You’re shaping up,” he’d said one day. “Almost pretty enough to make this worth it.”

Her stomach had dropped.

But she never told anyone. Because who would believe her? Everyone thought he was her coach. Her father. Her hero.

And by then, she’d already learned that her body didn’t belong to her anyway.

_____

Elphaba was watching Galinda again.

Not in a hostile way-though she told herself it was just strategy, just understanding a teammate’s limits, but in a concerned way she didn’t quite know how to name.

She’d seen the protein bars. The way Galinda trained through injuries. The way she sipped water mechanically but never seemed to actually eat.

The way she curled away from Oscar’s touch like it had burned her…

It didn’t sit right.

“Do you… not like food?” Elphaba asked bluntly one afternoon after Galinda declined a post-practice meal again.

Galinda blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, do you avoid it? You’re clearly under-fueled. And your joints aren’t recovering. You train like a machine, but you eat like you have a paper cut.”

Galinda stared at her, blank. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

“I’m not judging,” Elphaba added, quickly. “I’m just—wondering if someone should be helping you. A dietician or….”

“I don’t have an eating disorder,” Galindo said stiffly. Too quickly.

“I didn’t say…”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, turning away. “Just drop it.”

But her fingers trembled as she picked up her water bottle. And Elphaba didn’t miss it.

_____

Galinda couldn’t sleep.

Not because of Elphaba’s question. Not really.

But because Elphaba had noticed.

Because someone was starting to see her again. Really see her.

And she didn’t know whether to be afraid… or relieved.

_____

Elphaba found Galinda alone behind the equipment shed the next day, stretching out her wrist in small, painful-looking circles.

Elphaba lingered awkwardly.

“Your tape’s too tight again,” she said.

“I know.”

Silence.

Galinda didn’t look at her, just kept rolling her joint, her fingers steady despite the trembling beneath them.

“I didn’t mean to accuse you yesterday,” Elphaba said. “About the food.”

Galinda gave a humorless half-smile. “You didn’t. You diagnosed me.”

Elphaba winced. “Yeah. I do that. When I’m… concerned.”

Galinda glanced up at that. “Why would you be concerned about me?”

“You’re my doubles partner,” Elphaba said, a little too quickly. Then softer: “And I’ve seen how you’re treated. How he looks at you. You were scared yesterday.”

Galinda froze. Her eyes flared wide.

“I wasn’t…”

“It’s okay,” Elphaba said. “I’m not going to—do anything. I just…” She looked away, struggling. “You don’t deserve it. Any of it.”

Galinda’s throat bobbed. She turned back to her stretches. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m some kind of victim,” she snapped. “I’m not your cause. I’m not your wounded project. I can handle myself.”

“I never said…”

“You didn’t have to.” Her voice wavered. “Just drop it, Elphaba. Please.”

And this time, Elphaba did.

But her eyes lingered.

And they weren’t judgmental. They weren’t pitying.

They were worried.

Chapter Text

He was already waiting when she got home.

The kitchen light buzzed. A stack of takeout containers sat untouched on the counter. The Diggs-branded photos had been printed—printed!, and laid out across the table like evidence.

He didn’t look up when she entered.

“Jesus,” he muttered, thumbing one. “You look like a corpse in this one.”

Galinda stopped in the doorway, stomach tight.

“Slumped posture, no fire, like you’re miserable. You think they want that on a billboard?”

She said nothing.

“And this one…” he slapped down a different photo. “Congratulations. You look like a whore.”

Galinda flinched. You know I don’t get to pick…”

“You wore that thing. You let them style you like that. You let them look at you like that. You think I don’t know what they’re picturing? You think I don’t know what Oscar is picturing?”

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

“You’ve been in my house this whole time, under my roof, and now every goddamn man in the country’s got a free look at what’s mine.”

That word, mine, hung in the air like poison.

Then he stood.

Took a step closer. His face twisted.

“And you’re not even good at it. Look at this one. Your chin’s wrong. Your arms are too stiff. You look fat. You think you can sell a brand with that?”

She finally found her voice. “I didn’t ask for the shoot.”

“You smiled, didn’t you? You stood there and let them take it.”

“I didn’t want to…”

“Then why didn’t you say no? If it’s not a no, it’s a yes.”

She thought,
Because I couldn’t. Because I needed the money. Because you would’ve…..

“I’m trying,” she whispered instead.

“Try harder.”

He turned away.

And she was left standing in the doorway, shaking, arms wrapped around herself, trying to remember how to breathe.

_____

She wasn’t sure when she last ate. When there was last food to eat.

Not properly.

There had been no dinner after the photoshoot- not after her father laid out her supposed failings like trophies on the table. No lunch the next day either. She’d spent it cleaning the kitchen while he drank and muttered about how she “didn’t even look like an athlete anymore.” He’d taken the last of her prize money for “utilities.” She didn’t ask where it went.

By the morning of practice, she’d managed a sip of water and half of a stale cracker she’d found in her gear bag.

It sat in her stomach like gravel.

Her head was buzzing before warmups ended. Her hands had gone numb during serving drills. She ignored it. She always ignored it. Her body wasn’t hers-it was a tool. Tools didn’t get to stop being used just because they were rusting.

They were halfway through doubles drills when she lost her footing.

One minute she was tracking the ball, the next her vision narrowed into a tunnel of white noise. Her knees buckled.

The court tilted.

She stumbled sideways and dropped hard onto her hands, gasping.

_____

It happened too fast to stop.

One second Elphaba was watching Galinda prepare for a return, her stance a little shaky, her eyes a bit glassy, and the next she was on the ground, hands splayed, the ball sailing past unnoticed.

Morrible blew her whistle. Late.

“Arduenna! What the hell was that?”

Elphaba was already at her side, crouching.

Galinda’s breath came fast and shallow, her skin gone pale under the sweat. Her lips were dry. Her arms trembled like she couldn’t hold herself up.

Elphaba touched her shoulder.

Galinda flinched hard.

“I’m fine,” she rasped.

“No,” Elphaba said. “You’re not.”

“She’s probably just dehydrated,” Morrible barked from across the court. “Get her on her feet. We don’t have time for dramatics.”

Galinda tried to stand. Failed.

Elphaba caught her. Held her upright.

She was frighteningly light.

“I’m taking her to the trainer,” Elphaba said.

“You’ll do no such thing…”

“She’s not well.” Elphaba’s voice sharpened. “If you want her conscious for the next media cycle, let go.”

Morrible didn’t argue after that.

_____

The area around the plinth was cool and quiet.

Galinda sat on the padded table, her head between her knees, her pulse thundering in her ears. Elphaba crouched beside her, holding a bottle of juice she hadn’t opened yet.

“Drink,” Elphaba said.

“I can’t.”

“You can. You have to.”

Galinda shook her head weakly. “If I drink it, I’ll throw up.”

“Then sip it. Slowly.”

She took a sip.

And another.

Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Elphaba didn’t push, just stayed there, solid, steady, present. Not speaking unless she had to.

After a long moment, Galinda whispered, “Please don’t tell them.”

“Tell who?”

“Anyone.”

Elphaba looked at her, really looked, and said softly, “I think someone should know.”

“No.”

“Galinda…”

“I said no.” Her voice cracked. “If they find out, it gets worse.”

It was the first time she’d said anything about what waited for her off the court.

And Elphaba heard it.

Understood it. Sort of.

“Okay,” she said at last. “Then I won’t tell. But I’m not pretending I didn’t see it.”

Galinda didn’t respond.

But she finished the juice.

Slowly.

_____

He didn’t speak when she came in.

Just turned the volume up on the voicemail.

She heard her name. The trainer’s voice.
“She stumbled mid-rally—could be heat exhaustion or conditioning issues…”

She paused in the doorway, bag still slung over her shoulder. Her legs felt like rubber. She hadn’t eaten much since the med tent- just enough to stay vertical.

He waited until the message ended.

Then he stood.

“Do you have any idea what you looked like out there?”

Galinda kept her eyes on the floor, unaware he had been at the academy that morning. “I was dizzy.”

“You looked weak. You let them carry you off like some fainting girl in a soap opera.”

She winced.

“I told you,” he snapped, pacing now, bottle in hand. “I told you not to let them see it. Not to let him see it. You think Diggs is gonna keep putting money behind someone who faints on court? You think I’m gonna keep betting on someone who can’t stay upright for five damn sets?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she whispered.

He whirled.

“That’s even worse!”

She flinched.

“You embarrassed me. You embarrassed yourself. You think you can get by on pity? You think they’re gonna let you play pretty little victim and still sign endorsement deals? You’re not that good, Galinda. Don’t fool yourself.”

She closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

He drained his drink. Didn’t look at her again.

_____

Galinda showed up to training pale, silent, and moving like her skin didn’t fit right.

She didn’t meet anyone’s gaze, not even Elphaba’s.

Morrible said nothing. But her narrowed eyes said plenty.

Elphaba approached quietly during a water break and held out half a sandwich wrapped in parchment. The same one she’d packed for herself.

“Eat,” she said.

Galinda hesitated. Her hands hovered over it.

“I’m not asking,” Elphaba added, trying to keep it light.

Galinda took it.

They sat in silence on the bench as Galinda nibbled small bites, like each one had to be earned.

After a while, Elphaba broke the quiet.

“My dad doesn’t hit me,” she said. “But he doesn’t see me either. Not really. He talks about me like a platform. A way to look good. Like if I win, it’s his victory.”

Galinda was very still.

Then: “Mine sees me. Just not the way I want to be seen.”

They didn’t say anything after that.

But Elphaba passed her a protein bar before they went back on court.

And this time, Galinda didn’t argue.

Chapter Text

The car smelled like old cigarettes and mildew.

It belonged to one of her father’s bar friends, and he’d only agreed to loan it out with a muttered “you better win.” The seatbelt didn’t lock properly. The passenger-side window was stuck halfway down. Every time the wind picked up, the entire frame rattled.

They’d left before dawn, eating gas station peanuts and splitting a flat bottle of sodapop. The trip took seven hours. Galinda could’ve flown with the team but her dad was afraid of flying, and there was no way he’d let her go to a big tournament like this without him.

The tournament city glimmered ahead, full of shiny sponsorship banners and corporate hospitality lounges and air-conditioned suites for players and staff.

Galinda’s father pulled into a mostly-empty parking lot behind a community centre.

“Here,” he grunted. “We wait.”

“I need to…”

“There’s public showers at the rec center. Go clean up before someone sees you like this.”

She obeyed. Like always.

⸻

She arrived at the competition complex with damp hair and frizzy ends from scrubbing in a cracked-tile locker room. She stuffed her day bag into a cubby, heart pounding the whole time. She’d slept in the car. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Her uniform still smelled faintly of mildew from where it had sat in her duffel all night.

But she was on time.

Morrible barely glanced at her.

“You’re with the second qualifying block. Try not to make the sponsors regret your last photoshoot.”

Galinda nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

No one knew. No one could know.

If she qualified, her father would use the match winnings to pay for a motel for them. One with one door. One bed.

If she lost…

She didn’t think about that.

_____

She saw Galinda arrive through the tinted windows of the charter bus that had shuttled the other players from the five-star hotel.

Galinda looked like hell. Pale. Worn out. Clothes rumpled, shoes scuffed. Her hair wasn’t curled. Her visor was a little crooked.

Typical, Elphaba thought. Too good to travel or stay with the team. Too special to be seen with us. But part of her did wonder how Galinda had gotten here otherwise

Elphaba had protested but been flown in with her father’s staff instead of taking the team flight. Tho she’d wanted to. She’d eaten mushroom sliders from real plates while Galinda, unknown to her, had crouched in a rest-stop stall, wiping her hands on the inside of her sleeves. But all Elphaba saw was distance. Disdain. The same curated aloofness Galinda always wore like a second skin. Untouchable.

She turned away, irritated. Why couldn’t she stop noticing that girl.

_____

Galinda won her qualifying match.

Barely.

By the end, her legs were numb and her vision kept fuzzing at the corners. But she won.

She shook hands. She smiled for the clipboard volunteer. She nodded when Morrible said “adequate.”

Then she ducked into the locker room, locked the stall, and vomited up what little water she’d managed to drink that day.

_____

Elphaba won her qualifier easily. She saw Galinda coming out of the locker room, didn’t congratulate her.

She told herself it was because she didn’t care. Because Galinda didn’t deserve it.

But something gnawed at her.

The way Galinda’s hand trembled when she picked up her racquet. The way her eyes kept darting—m, not with pride, but with fear.

It didn’t look like a girl riding a win.

It looked like a girl trying to survive one.

_____

The motel smelled like bleach and loneliness.

The walls were thin. The flickering sign outside buzzed through the window all night. The room had one bed, one lamp, one television that her father kept on low to fill the silence with old sports reels. The sheets scratched like cheap sandpaper.

He locked the door behind them. Twice.

Galinda stood by the sink with her bag still on her shoulder, watching the light catch in the stained bathroom mirror. Her stomach curled. She already knew what tonight would be.

“I’m not paying for a bed so you can just sleep in it,” he said, tossing his jacket onto the chair. “You want to be an athlete? Then train like one.”

She stood there while he rifled through her clothes and tossed them into the drawer. When she didn’t move fast enough, he raised his voice. By then, she was already undressed.

He made her stand in the bathroom. Facing the mirror.

“You want to be famous?” he asked from the bed, voice thick with drink. “Then learn how to look at yourself.”

The lights stayed on.

She wasn’t allowed to look away. He didn’t either.

_____

The squat position started after the first hour. A typical punishment.

“Hold it,” he barked.

She did. Until her thighs burned.

“Too soft. You want to win, don’t you?”

She nodded. Even when the pain became blinding. Even when her knees shook.

“You’ve got the body of a brat, not a champion.”

That’s what he always said. When he was angry. When he was drinking. When she looked too tired, too thin, too stiff.

He said she had to earn her name. Her place. Her skin.

So she stood. And squatted. And stood again.

Alternating half-hours until her breath hitched and her calves seized and her lips turned blue.

_____

She didn’t cry.

She hadn’t in a long time.

Not even when the cold made her teeth chatter. Not even when her legs gave out and she hit the tile with a gasp.

“You break that easily?” he sneered. “What a waste.”

She stayed on the floor after that. She wasn’t allowed to lie down. But she could curl. So she did.

The mirror still showed her face.

And she made herself look.

Because if she didn’t, he’d start over.

_____

She couldn’t sit on the bench during warmups.

Every time she tried, her breath caught and her muscles screamed. So she stood, or knelt by her bag, pretending to stretch. Her hamstrings were locked. Her thighs burned. Her lower back ached so deeply she could barely twist.

Her eyes were glassy. Her grip off. Her shots were sluggish.

The second-round match ended in straight sets.

She double-faulted the last point.

She didn’t cry. Not on the court.

But she knew what came next.

The prize money would barely cover gas and the last two nights in the motel. Not enough for the loan. Not enough for him.

_____

They drove back to the motel in silence.

He didn’t yell, not yet.

He saved that for the room.

“You stupid little brat,” he spat, slamming the door behind them. “You looked like a goddamn tourist out there. Flinching. Limping like a show pony.”

“I was sore,” Galinda whispered.

“You were lazy. You made me look like a fool.”

The belt came off with a flick and a snap.

She didn’t scream. Not even when he hit her across the shoulders, or when the buckle caught her ribs.

But someone heard the thuds. The shouting.

Someone in the room next door called the front desk.

And someone at the desk called the police.

Chapter Text

16

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Galinda’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The social worker had kind eyes. A floral mug. A clipboard she didn’t hide.

“You’re safe now,” she said gently. “No one here wants to punish you. But we do need to know what happened.”

Galinda stared at the table.

“My dad was yelling at the TV,” she said dully. “The neighbors overreacted.”

“And the bruises?” the woman asked.

“Practice. I fell.”

The woman paused. “Your teammate says no one remembers seeing you fall that hard.”

“I landed on a ball,” Galinda said quickly. “I twisted. It looks worse than it was.”

“You sure about that, hon?”

Galinda nodded.

And that was that.

Someone gave her a granola bar and an apple juice. She dozed in a plastic chair in the waiting room while she waited for her Dad to be cleared to pick her up.

_____

Elphaba watched Galinda more closely now that they were back home.

Not out of rivalry. Not out of interest. Out of something else. Something heavier.

Galinda moved like someone counting every step. Like she couldn’t afford to waste even the smallest motion. Her smiles were scarce, her words clipped. She started skipping lunch again. Her water bottle stayed full too long.

And sometimes—on the days she left practice fast, head down, shoes unlaced—Elphaba saw a man waiting near the back fence.

Not her father.

Older. Taller. Oil-stained car and a stare that didn’t flinch.

Galinda never looked at him directly. Just walked to the car. Got in.

Left.

She returned the next day with shadows under her eyes and a new bruise near her elbow. One no one else asked about.

But Elphaba did.

“Who was that?” she asked, after drills.

Galinda didn’t flinch. Didn’t lie.

“Someone I owe.”

That was all.

And it chilled Elphaba more than any injury.

______

Her father said they were lucky the man was “reasonable.”

He hadn’t yelled at them when they missed the payment deadline. Just looked at her.

And smiled.

So now she paid in installments. In silence.

He picked her up on the outskirts of the car park, far enough that no coach or player would notice. They never went far. Just far enough.

He gave her money in an envelope. Always just enough.

She never counted it in front of him.

He called her “princess” sometimes. Laughed when she didn’t respond. Told her she was pretty when she flinched.

Her father never asked how she got the money.

Only if she had it.

_____

Elphaba caught her leaning on the sink one afternoon after practice, pale and unfocused, rubbing at a smudge near her collarbone like she could scrub the skin off.

“Galinda,” Elphaba said quietly, “you don’t have to do this.”

Galinda froze.

“What exactly is it that you think I’m doing?”

“I don’t know,” Elphaba admitted. “But it’s killing me to watch you.”

Galinda met her gaze then. Not defiant. Not ashamed.

Just tired.

“Then don’t watch,” she said softly.

And walked away.

Chapter Text

Two Years Later

The junior titles were behind them.

The travel, the qualifiers, the national press—all of it had built to this.

Officially named to the national team.

The year before an Ozlympic year.

And suddenly, everything felt real.

They were no longer up-and-comers. No longer juniors. They were contenders.

International tour placements. Ozlympic trial exhibitions. Sponsorship press kits. New gear. New expectations.

And, finally, international travel.

_____

The first time she got on a plane, Galinda almost cried.

Not from fear. From freedom.

Her father hadn’t come to the airport. Morrible had barely spoken to him—just sent itinerary details with a signature page and a vague note about “sponsorship oversight.”

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t fly.

She was alone.

She didn’t know what to do with the space that gave her. Or the silence. Or the lack of instructions.

No one told her what to wear on the plane. No one told her when to eat. She read a novel on her phone and let herself fall asleep against the window like a normal girl.

When they landed, she stepped into the summer twilight and let herself breathe.

And then they handed out room keys.

______

It wasn’t a surprise—they’d been playing doubles together for ages now. The chemistry worked, even when the rest of their lives didn’t. But still, something in Elphaba’s chest jolted when she saw the keycard envelope: Room 207 — Thropp & Arduenna.

Galinda didn’t say anything when she opened it. Just tucked it into her bag and nodded. Her expression unreadable.

But later, when they got to the room and Elphaba opened the blinds, Galinda drifted to the window like it pulled her.

She stood there quietly.

“I’ve never been this far from home,” she said. “Not without him.”

Elphaba sat on the second bed. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Then she smiled.

A real one. Small. Almost shy.

“But I think I might be.”

_____

They trained. Hard. Jet lag be damned.

But after practice, there was no lock on the bathroom door.

No one made Galinda stand in front of the mirror.

No one screamed if she sat down to rest.

Elphaba offered her half a protein bar and didn’t push when she declined.

They played cards. Read. Wound down.

And when the lights went out, Galinda lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and thought,
This could be what normal feels like.

_____

The prize money didn’t technically pay out until the end of the tournament.

But reaching the round of 16 meant it was a certain amount of it was guaranteed.

That changed things.

A little.

It meant she could afford to eat at the athlete’s buffet without counting bills in her head. Meant she didn’t have to stretch the complimentary breakfast bar for two meals. Meant she could pick up a few protein packets from the vending machine without pretending she wasn’t hungry.

And it meant she could say no when Oscar Diggs invited her to dinner.

Except it wasn’t an invitation. Not really.

_____

Oscar’s assistant caught her just after the team meal, whispering like it was a favor.

“Mr. Diggs would love to catch up. Just dinner. It’ll be good press. Wear the slate-blue dress from the promo shoot.”

She had to say yes.

They met at a rooftop restaurant that overlooked the skyline. He ordered oysters. She nursed a mineral water and smiled when the waiter came. The air was too cold for the neckline she wore, but she didn’t complain.

Oscar talked. About her brand, about international opportunities, about what a shame it was that she didn’t “lean in” more.

The threat was ambient. The message implied.

“You know,” he said smoothly, “girls like you don’t stay on top forever. The ones who adapt, they last. You’re adaptable, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

She said what she had to. She did what she had to.

When she got back to the hotel, Elphaba was already asleep.

Galinda peeled off the dress in the dark and stood under the shower for fifteen minutes just to warm up again.

Chapter Text

Elphaba didn’t notice it right away.

But around the time they made the round of 16, Galinda’s habits changed.

She stopped declining snacks. Ate full meals at breakfast. Took second helpings of pasta after training. Her energy rebounded. Her focus sharpened. Her endurance returned.

At first, Elphaba thought it was relief. They were winning. Traveling. Free.

But one night, she glanced at Galinda loading her plate and asked, without thinking: “New meal plan?”

Galinda froze for half a second. Then shrugged. “Just… hungrier, I guess.”

It didn’t sit right.

Because Galinda had looked starved. Tried to disguise it as careful. Restrained. She had always looked like every bite was a calculation.
Elphaba remembered her declining everything during the first rounds.

Back when nothing was guaranteed. Why would a girl with a major corporate sponsorship be eating like she was counting change?

_____

Her father arrived halfway through a warmup session, flanked by two staffers and wearing a crisp new sports coat he didn’t need. He waved to the cameras, shook hands with the press liaisons, and offered Morrible a tight-lipped smile that barely touched his eyes.

Governor Thropp didn’t come to many tournaments. When he did, it meant something.

Elphaba didn’t expect him to watch practice, and he didn’t. He lingered near the hospitality suite while she and Galinda ran drills under the fading orange light of the evening. Galinda was unusually quiet. She’d been quiet all day. Her smile in the press huddle had looked brittle. Her post-match energy muted.

Elphaba chalked it up to nerves.

She didn’t know yet that everything was about to change.

_____

Later, while Galinda was in the ice bath and Elphaba ducked into the coach’s wing to grab her racket bag, she overheard it.

She didn’t mean to.

She never would’ve wanted to.

But she paused outside the administrative office—just to retie her shoelace—and that’s when she heard her father’s voice.

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure you knew what you were doing at first,” he was saying. “That kind of family background… you don’t want it blowing up on you mid-season.”

He was laughing.

Elphaba froze.

Morrible’s voice followed. Dismissive. Breezy. “Her father’s a drunk, yes. But he’s afraid of planes. It’ll keep him conveniently contained.”

The sound of ice clinking in glasses. A casual sip.

“Frankly, it’s lucky he hasn’t shown up on site here. If the press ever caught wind of the state he lives in…”

“Would it matter?” her father interrupted. “The federation has good spin. And she is good.”

“She’s more than good,” Morrible said. “She’s photogenic. Audiences like her. She sells tickets, clicks, branded headbands. Half the sponsors want to dress her. That’s useful. Especially paired with your daughter, who, no offense, doesn’t exactly scream ‘fashion darling.’”

Another dry laugh.

Elphaba’s stomach turned.

“I’m not asking if she looks good in press photos,” her father said. “I’m asking if she’s still worth it. Because this federation has poured a lot of money into her scholarships over the years. That’s not chump change.”

“She’s worth it,” Morrible said simply. “As long as she keeps winning. As long as she stays quiet.”

“Meaning?”

“She doesn’t ask questions. She shows up. She wears what she’s told. She doesn’t break contracts. No leaks, no scandals. So far, she’s been very… cooperative.”

There was a pause.

“She is safe though right? Strictly business? I don’t want any scandals”. her father asked.

Morrible’s voice was unreadable. Girls like her don’t have many cards to play.”

There was silence.

Then another clink of glass.

“Anyway,” Morrible continued cheerfully, “as long as she and Elphaba keep climbing the ranks, it’s a win for everyone. Strong doubles team. Media narrative. Public loves a golden girl next to a rebel.”

Elphaba’s heart thundered.

They weren’t talking about strategy.

They weren’t talking about tennis.

They were talking about control.

She left before she could hear more.

Her ears buzzed. Her breath came fast. The world tilted slightly as she walked back down the hall, her racket bag forgotten.

She thought about the protein bars and meals Galinda always declined.

The way she’d whispered “someone I owe” after a stranger picked her up from practice.

The way her face had gone completely still when Elphaba asked if she was okay after the Diggs dinner.

None of this was random.

None of it was new.

_____

Galinda was back in the room when she returned. Damp hair. Wrapped in a towel. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, rubbing ointment into her wrist.

She looked up as Elphaba entered. “Hey. You okay?”

Elphaba stared at her.

And for the first time, she really saw her.

The quiet exhaustion. The discipline mistaken for vanity. The hunger mistaken for control. The silence mistaken for poise.

Galinda tilted her head, puzzled. “What?”

Elphaba swallowed.

I heard them. I know.

But the words wouldn’t come out.

So instead, she sat on the other bed. Opened her locker bag. Pretended to scroll through match footage.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just… tired.”

Galinda nodded like she understood.

And maybe…maybe…she did.

Chapter Text

They didn’t plan to become friends.

It started with toothpaste.

Galinda forgot hers and asked from under a fluffy face cloth if she could borrow Elphaba’s. Elphaba, already brushing, wordlessly handed it over with one eyebrow raised.

Then there was the night they both couldn’t sleep and ended up playing twenty questions from their beds, half-whispering until nearly 2 a.m. Elphaba found out Galinda hated milk, loved thunderstorms, and had read every single Witchlight Mysteries book at least twice—even the bad ones. Galinda learned that Elphaba had perfect pitch, a deep love of maps, and the world’s most irritating internal need to correct other people’s grammar.

Somewhere in between toothpaste and thunderstorm confessions, it stopped feeling like sharing a room and started feeling like choosing to.

_____

They had the evening off.

Morrible was at a federation dinner. No one expected them to attend. For once, there were no cameras. No press. Just a quiet stretch of time.

They wandered the cobbled streets like tourists—Elphaba with her hands in her pockets, Galinda wrapped in a soft gray scarf she’d picked up from a market stall.

“You’re a pro at haggling,” Elphaba said.

“I don’t haggle. I persuade.”

“Same thing.”

“No, persuasion is elegant. Haggling is something loud men do over fish.”

Elphaba snorted.

They bought roasted chestnuts from a street cart and sat by the lake, boots pressed to the cold stone.

Galinda popped one in her mouth, made a face, and fanned her tongue. “Too hot! Why do I never learn?”

“Slow learner,” Elphaba offered dryly.

“Rude,” Galinda said, nudging her knee.

They watched the lights reflect on the water.

Elphaba broke the quiet. “You seem… different. Lately.”

Galinda blinked. “Bad different?”

“No. Good. Lighter. I mean, you’re still annoying.”

Galinda laughed, too loud, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oz, don’t say things like that. I might believe you.”

They sat in silence a moment longer, the kind that didn’t ask for anything.

Galinda nudged a chestnut toward Elphaba. “You ever think about quitting?”

Elphaba took it. “Sometimes.”

“Me too.”

They didn’t say why.

They didn’t have to.

_____

Galinda was lying on her bed with a slice of actual pizza, humming to herself and scrolling through dumb videos with crumbs on her hoodie.

“You know what’s sad?” she said between bites. “This is maybe the best week of my life.”

Elphaba glanced up from her book. “You’ve eaten three meals a day, no one’s yelled at you, and you haven’t run ten miles in freezing rain. So yeah. I can see it.”

Galinda laughed again-really laughed.

“You’re not so bad, Thropp.”

“Careful,” Elphaba warned. “That sounded dangerously like affection.”

Galinda mock-gasped. “Shut up.”

They grinned at each other.

And for the first time in years, Galinda didn’t feel like she had to be someone else to be safe.

Just full. And warm. And here.

Chapter Text

The conversation came through the bathroom wall.

Elphaba hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. She’d just gone to wash her face, towel around her shoulders, toothbrush in hand. She didn’t realize Galinda had answered her nightly call until she heard the sharp click of her voice, too flattened, too polite, too fast.

“No, I told you I sent it already-yes, from the app-because that’s the only card they let me use here. No, I don’t know the exchange rate. Can we just, can we please not do this right now?”

Silence. Then a choked sound, equal parts fury and fatigue.

“I am focused! I’m always focused.”

Another pause. The tone dropped.

“No, I’m not mad. I’m sorry. I just… I don’t want to fight. Please. I’m tired.”

Elphaba backed out, quietly. Didn’t say anything when Galinda emerged ten minutes later, pink-cheeked and pretending nothing had happened.

But something stuck.

_____

It was warm for October. The other girls were planning an outing to a designer street lined with boutiques and cafés. Someone mentioned manicures. Someone, maybe Shenshen, squealed about vintage sunglasses.

They invited Galinda, assuming she’d come.

Of course she would. Wouldn’t she? Her overprotective Dad wasn’t here to say no for her.

But Galinda smiled tightly and declined.

“I have a physio session.”

She didn’t.

Elphaba found her later, reading on the terrace with a free apple from the lobby and a half-eaten granola bar. Feet curled under her. Eyes somewhere far away.

“You hate shopping that much?” Elphaba asked.

Galinda looked up. “No. I actually love it.”

“Then why not go?”

Galinda hesitated. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Or…” Elphaba said carefully, “you didn’t feel like spending the money?”

Galinda blinked.

Elphaba went on before she could walk away. “I’ve heard your calls. I’m not stupid. And I’m not trying to pry. I just, wondered.”

Galinda was quiet for a long moment.

Then, very softly, “It’s just me and my dad.”

Elphaba nodded. She already knew. But she let Galinda say it.

“And I had a scholarship,” Galinda continued. “Had it since I was little. It’s tied up in sponsorship now. I get some and the federation gets the rest. There were… times. Where money was tight. I got good at pretending it wasn’t.”

“Still are?” Elphaba asked, gentle.

Galinda smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Sometimes. It’s better now.”

“But not easy.”

“No.”

They sat in silence.

The other girls’ laughter floated up from the street below.

Galinda bit her lip. “You won’t tell anyone?”

“I won’t even ask again,” Elphaba said.

Galinda turned to her. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

And she meant it.

Chapter Text

It had been two weeks since Galinda’s big win, and Elphaba still couldn’t walk into a café without seeing her face.

There she was on cereal boxes, grinning beside a bowl of granola with a gold visor and a glittery racquet. There she was on posters in bus stations, holding up a bottle of vitamin water like it cured disappointment. There were dolls—dolls, for Oz’s sake—with Galinda’s smirk and swing, packaged in pastel boxes with her stats printed on the back like battle armor.

“Tennis Barbie,” Pfannee had sneered in the locker room last week. Right to her face.

Galinda had laughed. A perfect, poised, media-trained laugh.

But Elphaba had seen the stiff edge of her smile. The way her hands curled tighter around her towel afterward.

Now, she watched from across the lounge as another handler whispered in Galinda’s ear about a late-night commercial shoot.

Her golden girl glow had a weight to it.

And Elphaba—who’d once resented everything Galinda represented—now felt an urge to pull her away. From the noise. The posing. The hunger of it all.

She didn’t even know if Galinda realized what was being taken from her. Or if she did—how much it hurt.

_____

She’d won.

She, Galinda Arduenna, had won.

That should’ve been the end of the story. That’s what her father would say. That’s what Morrible had said—when she handed her a phone vibrating with five sponsorship offers in one hour. That’s what Oscar had murmured at the party in his too-tight voice: “You’ve arrived, sweetheart”, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and letting his hand linger a beat too long.

She’d won.

And for a few days, it had felt thrilling.

But then it didn’t.

She stared at herself now in the mirror of a makeup trailer, some tech’s hands still fussing with her hair. On the screen above her, a sizzle reel played on loop-her forehand. Her smile. Her perfectly cut skirt whipping in slow motion.

She was everywhere. Everyone wanted her. And yet…

“There are bridges you cross you didn’t know you crossed until you’ve crossed.”

She hadn’t known. Not really. How fast it would come. How overwhelming it would be to see her name in lights, her mistakes in headlines, her body on display for boards of men to debate. This was way more intense than the junior level.

“And if that joy, that thrill doesn’t thrill like you think it will…”

She was proud. So proud. She had done it. Fought for it. Bled for it.

But still.

There was a kind of… cost.

A couple of things got lost.

And she wasn’t sure she’d ever get them back.

_____

Elphaba found her on the back steps of the office, away from the cameras and lights. Galinda was still in full makeup, but her shoes were off and her legs were folded beneath her, bare feet pressed to the concrete.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Elphaba said.

Galinda didn’t jump. Just looked up with a crooked smile. “They’re setting up for the nighttime shoot. I had twenty minutes to be human.”

“Want to stretch it to forty?”

Galinda tilted her head. “Tempt me.”

“I found a vending machine that sells novelty hats and still has the good candy. If one of us holds down D9 we get unlimited twizzlers.

Galinda stood, wincing a little. “Elphaba Thropp. Sabotage and snacks? I’m surprised at you! ….lead the way!”

They ran down a quiet cobbled street with stolen twizzlers and two ridiculous souvenir hats. Elphaba’s said “SERVE ME.” Galinda’s had a fuzzy ball glued on top. They played pickle ball until midnight, eating vending machine marshmallows and making up fake interviews with campy accents.

Elphaba did her best impression of Oscar: “Galinda Arduenna is the future of the sport, the face of youth engagement, and the best walking billboard for legwear we’ve ever purchased.”

Galinda wheezed, half-collapsed on the couch. “You’re evil.”

“I prefer accurately cynical.”

That night when they finally separated and she went to bed Elphaba thought about Galinda. This version of Galinda was funny. Open. Herself.

And Elphaba would do whatever it took to help her keep that version.

Even if it meant shielding her from the very people who claimed to love her most.

Chapter Text

Coming home should have felt like breathing.

Instead, it felt like being suffocated.

The moment Galinda stepped off the transport, her father was waiting. Not smiling. Not open-armed. Just… waiting. In his usual windbreaker and wrinkled shirt, arms crossed like he was checking her posture from thirty paces away.

“You look thinner,” he said in lieu of hello.

She nodded. “Training’s intense.”

“Good. You should be lean. Media eats that up.”

_____

She tried to keep up. She really did.

There were sponsor appearances three mornings a week. One was for a line of electrolyte drinks she never used. Another for branded visors she found too tight. They made her do a shoot in heels to “appeal to aspirational young fans.”

She had to film a cereal commercial at 6 a.m. one day, and a clinic demo for junior players by 2 p.m. the same afternoon.

Practice with the team started again in full force. Morrible was already pushing hard. Ozlympic trials were months away, but the pressure had arrived early.

“Don’t let that Thropp girl distract you.”

“She’s not…”

“She’s not your friend. She’s your competition. If she’s smart, she knows it.” “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll know it too”.

_____

She tried to call Elphaba after the cereal shoot.

But her phone died.

Then her father said she needed to “concentrate.”

Then Morrible scheduled a branding lunch.

Then the day was gone.

_____

They passed each other on the courts a week later. Elphaba nodded. Galinda smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

They hadn’t talked properly since that night.

Not the way they had when they were away.

She wanted to. Lurline she wanted to. To kick off her shoes and lie across the hotel bed again, laugh about Elphaba’s terrible ping-pong reflexes, talk about nothing until it felt like something.

But here, at home, it was harder to be just Galinda.

Here, she had to be the golden girl. The asset. The one who made it.

That night, as she lay on her side of the too-small bed she still shared with her father, she scrolled through Elphaba’s last text:

> Want to go hit on Sunday? Just us. Quiet court. No handlers.

She hadn’t answered.

She wanted to.

But instead her Dad rolled over and she turned off the screen. She got up to wash her hands. She always washed them before bed. It gave her something to do. Gave her a few more minutes to be alone in her body before she had to pretend it didn’t belong to her.

“Another shoot?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Anyone touch you?”

Her fingers curled against the metal edge of the counter. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He said nothing for a while.

Then, from the other side of the room: “You looked stiff in the morning footage. You can’t tighten up when they ask for close-ups. Makes you look frigid.”

She didn’t flinch. She’d trained her face not to.
“Lie down” he said, patting the bed. “Need to go over some things. That Diggs contract—they’re pushing you too hard. They think they own you.”

He didn’t hear the irony.

_____

Elphaba was trying not to be angry.

Not with Galinda. With everything else.

The sponsors. Morrible. The other girls who sneered “Oscar’s Whore” under their breath, then smiled for cameras. The way Galinda smiled back, flawless and quiet, like none of it mattered.

But it did.

Elphaba had texted three times since the vending machine night. Called twice. Once just to say hi.

No answer.

She’d asked their trainer if Galinda was okay. He shrugged and said, “She’s busy. Big star now.”

Busy didn’t fully explain the dark circles under her eyes at Monday’s press circuit.

Busy didn’t explain why she hadn’t laughed—really laughed—since the airport ride home.

Busy didn’t explain why Galinda was moving like a shadow of herself.

_____

That night, Galinda sat on the edge of the bed, legs tucked tight, body wrapped in the loose hoodie she always kept at the bottom of her bag. Her father was already asleep, or pretending to be. The room smelled like stale air and menthol cream.

Her phone buzzed once.

Elphaba: Training’s optional tomorrow. Want to skip together? Go somewhere no one knows us?

Galinda stared at the screen.

Her thumb hovered over the reply field.

Then she turned the phone face-down and lay beside the man who still called himself her father.

Chapter Text

Elphaba had tried. She really had. But she was mad.

She knew she shouldn’t be, knew something was wrong, but the silence had stretched too far. She was tired of feeling like she was talking to a ghost. A ghost in glitter. Tired of being ignored.

Galinda skipped training again. Skipped their walk after. Skipped her texts. Left “read” receipts like little bruises on Elphaba’s phone screen.

So when she finally saw her, twisting her visor in her hands at the edge of the practice courts like she’d only just remembered she had a face, Elphaba snapped.

“Don’t bother pretending to care now.”

Galinda froze.

Elphaba kept going. “You want to be a brand more than a person? Fine. Go smile for cereal boxes.”

Galinda opened her mouth—then closed it.

She just turned.

And walked away.

_____

Nessarose had only arrived ten minutes prior. The plan was lunch. A rare sister visit. An escape from the press crush around Elphaba and Galinda’s rise. She didn’t expect to see a blonde girl in a Shiz Athletics hoodie crouched behind the indoor training facility, shoulders hunched and hands covering her face.

“Galinda?”

The girl didn’t respond. But she didn’t run, either.

Nessarose wheeled closer, quiet. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “I can go if…”

“She hates me,” Galinda choked. “I think she hates me.”

“She doesn’t.”

“She should.”

Nessa paused. “Why would you think that?”

Galinda shook her head. She couldn’t explain the kind of tired that lives in your skin. The kind of fear that ties your voice in knots. She couldn’t explain the ache of wanting to answer Elphaba’s calls and being told - commanded - not to.

“I keep trying,” she whispered. “I just can’t do all of it.”

Nessa sat with her until the shaking stopped. Then helped her up. Quiet. Steady. No pressure.

Later, she found Elphaba waiting outside the café they were meant to meet at.

“You were cruel,” she said without preamble.

Elphaba blinked. “What?”

“I saw her. She wasn’t being dramatic. She was breaking.”

Elphaba felt the breath leave her body. “Where?”

“Behind the training dome.”

Elphaba didn’t say anything for a long time.

Then: “I thought she was ignoring me.”

“Maybe she wasn’t,” Nessarose said simply. “Maybe she was just, surviving.”

_____

That night, Elphaba stared at her unsent message for twenty minutes.

Then she erased it and wrote something simpler.

Elphaba: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.

Chapter Text

It started with slurred shouting during the warm-up drills.

At first, people didn’t realize it was her father.

The stadium was packed with camera crews and local sponsors for an exhibition match ahead of the Ozlympic qualifiers, just a “friendly,” but everything in her life was being broadcast now. They called her the face of Oz’s rising generation. They printed her stats like gospel. They sold dolls in her image.

She heard him before she saw him.

“Use your goddamn backhand, Galinda! How many years have we—HEY! Are You spoiled or just deaf now?”

Her blood went cold. She looked up. He was leaning halfway over the railings above the lower section. Red-faced. Unshaven. Holding a convenience store beer in one hand and gesturing wildly with the other.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

He came to the edge of the players’ box. Unauthorized. Security didn’t stop him. He looked like someone’s washed-up uncle. He was yelling now. At her. At her coach. At the linesman who corrected a call in warm-up.

When a trainer brushed past her, he pointed and roared, “Get your hands off her!”

Then he tripped.

Hard.

Flat on the cement stairs. The beer can skittered and rolled.

And then-worse-he vomited.

The stadium went dead silent.

Then came the flash of a phone.

Then another.

And then her whole world went up in a flurry of clicks and videos and gasps.

_____

Elphaba saw the whole thing from across the court.

At first, she didn’t recognize the man. Just heard the shouting. The chaos.

Then she saw Galinda, stock still, face frozen, tears unshed and eyes wide.

And she knew.

She didn’t move. Didn’t call out. Didn’t know how to help.

They hadn’t spoken since the text.

Galinda never replied.

But now, watching the press mob like vultures around the drunken mess of a man who had just collapsed beside the court, Elphaba wanted nothing more than to cross the concrete and get her out.

_____

Galinda didn’t cry until later.

Until the cameras were gone and Morrible had delivered the damage-control speech and the PR rep had pressed a cold cloth into her hand and told her, “We’ll say it’s a distant uncle. Estranged. Temporary breakdown.”

But she knew the truth.

Everyone would.

The media had a field day.

“Tennis Barbie’s Tarnished Image.”
“Golden Girl, Gutter Roots.”
“She May Have the Stroke, But Does She Have the Stability?”

Someone had already turned the clip of her father vomiting into a GIF. She saw it once, by accident.

Her hands didn’t stop shaking for hours.

_____

Elphaba lingered by the locker room.

Waited.

But Galinda didn’t come out.

And Elphaba didn’t go in.

Because for all the fire inside her, for all the fury she felt on Galinda’s behalf, she didn’t know how to reach her through the silence they’d both let grow between them.

So she waited.

And watched the world turn Galinda into headlines.

And hoped—hoped—she’d still get the chance to tell her:

I’m here.

Chapter Text

The cameras didn’t stop after the court incident.

If anything, they multiplied.

They called it a “moment of concern” in early articles. But within two days, it became a “pattern of troubling behavior.” By the end of the week, it was a full-blown investigation.

Not into her father.

Into Galinda.

_____

They dug into old school records. Junior training documents. Past court cases. One outlet found a neighbor from their apartment who gave an eager interview in exchange for groceries and a ride to the pharmacy.

“I used to see her running. Barely past dawn. Little thing—skinny, quiet. Didn’t ride the bus. Wore old shoes. I just figured it was… discipline, or something.”

Another neighbor said she used to carry her tennis gear in a backpack held together with duct tape.

By the end of the week, the narrative had flipped.

Galinda Arduenna: The Golden Girl from Nothing.

The headline sat atop an image of her walking stiffly from the court, the edge of a bruise just barely visible on her calf. Underneath it read:

“Oz’s rising star was hiding a difficult past. But will it define her future?”

_____

Galinda didn’t get to read it on her own terms.

Morrible slammed the magazine down in front of her between press interviews and said, “Keep your posture up. If they’re going to crown you, at least look like you deserve it.”

_____

At first, she tried to take it in stride.

The questions.

The whispers.

The sympathy veiled as admiration.

The girls who used to try to suck up to her now whispered things just loud enough for her to hear:

“She’s basically feral.”
“No wonder she’s so intense. Did you hear her dad hit a ref?”
“How can she afford facials? Or are those just her natural mutant genes?”

They still called her “Tennis Barbie,” but now with an ironic twist. A dig.

“Better get your Cinderella dress ready,” Pfannee muttered, passing her in the locker room.

Galinda bit the inside of her cheek so hard it bled.

_____

And then came Oscar.

He called her in for a “brand integrity meeting.” His assistant told her it was private, “just a chance to clarify your narrative and position you for Ozlympic synergy.”

She sat across from him in a conference room lined with press mock-ups. Her face was everywhere.

The cereal box.

The billboard.

The doll with hair too yellow and skin too clean.

Oscar leaned back in his chair and smiled.

“You’ve been very brave,” he said, sipping a clear drink that didn’t smell like water. “All this… drama. You’ve handled it well.”

Galinda said nothing.

He stood. Walked around the table. Slowly.

“It’s all about story,” he said. “What do people love more than perfection? Transformation.”

She tensed.

He stopped just behind her. His fingers kneading her shoulder.

She didn’t breathe.

“Poor girl. No money. No mother. No guidance. Just a dream, a racquet, and a fairy godfather who believed in her. Sound familiar?”

Galinda’s stomach turned.

“I don’t need…”

He chuckled. “You do, sweetheart. Trust me. Rags to riches? It prints money. And if I happen to be standing beside you in the final frame… everyone wins.”

He let the silence stretch.

Then, too casually: “Your contract already allows me to approve final edits on all brand positioning, you know. But it’s better when we’re collaborative.”

Galinda stood.

“I have training.”

He let her go.

But the look in his eyes said she hadn’t.

Not really.

_____

That night, she sat in the locker room long after the others had left. Still in her kit. Still wearing the smile she’d pasted on all week.

Her phone buzzed.

Elphaba: You okay?

She stared at the message.

She wanted to answer.

Wanted to scream no, I am not okay, I am drowning in eyes and flashbulbs and dirt that used to belong to me alone. I am the face of a fairy tale I didn’t write, and the wolf is sitting at the publisher’s desk.

Instead, she typed:

Galinda: Just tired.

She put the phone down.

And cried for the second time that week.

Chapter Text

The beginning of the end was a Tuesday match at the South Emerald Complex.

Just a junior invitational. Nothing that mattered. But Galinda had to be there for press, for optics, for the brand that followed her like a shadow she didn’t cast.

She saw him in the crowd before warm-up even started.

Her father.

He’d shaved, but only halfway, jagged lines on his jaw like he got bored and gave up. His shirt was wrinkled, his jacket misbuttoned. And he had that look. The one that meant he’d already started drinking. The one that meant she was going to pay for something later.

The match was tight. A double fault from the other girl turned the third set in Galinda’s favor. The umpire called a let on a serve that Galinda was sure was in.

She didn’t argue.

Her father did.

He didn’t just shout.

He stormed the court.

“Are you blind?!” he bellowed. “You let that sissy kid take the game from her?! That was a clean ace!”

The umpire told him to return to the stands.

He didn’t.

He lunged.

Security moved too late.

The police came quickly.

By then, Galinda was hiding in the locker room-not because she was scared, but because she wasn’t. Because it was familiar. Because it was inevitable. Because this was what happened when the rage inside him boiled over and she wasn’t fast enough to stop it.

_____

He was banned.

From the complex.

From all affiliated tournaments.

It made national headlines.

“Golden Girl’s Father Causes On-Court Chaos”
“Arduenna Sr. Shocks fans in Outburst”
“Barbie with Baggage: Is Galinda Still a Role Model?”

Social media turned him into a meme.

They called him “Courtside Catastrophe.”
“Dadvantage.”
“The Real Tennis Terror.”

They called her “trauma-chic.”

And, worse, “the broken doll.”

_____

She was summoned to the police station the next day.

Because she was seventeen.

Still a minor.

And because this wasn’t the first incident. Not anymore.

There were records now. Reports. Witness statements. A trainer with photos of bruises he’d tried to believe were from diving drills. A nutritionist who admitted she once logged Galinda’s weight drop as “intentional deficit” but now wasn’t so sure.

The social worker was soft-spoken. Faint crow’s feet. A jaunty red cardigan.

She poured Galinda a cup of lukewarm tea and said, “We can help.”

Galinda looked at the cup but didn’t drink.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to go home.”

“Galinda…” Her voice lowered. “We’ve seen patterns like this. We know what it looks like.”

“No, you don’t.”

“If you’re in danger…”

“I said I’m fine.”

_____

That night, her father said nothing.

Until the lights were off.

Then, from his side of the bed, low, slurred, deadly:

“You embarrassed me.”

“I didn’t….!”

“You stood there and let them treat me like a clown.”

He hit her hard enough that her lip split open against her teeth.

Then again, lower. Twice in quick succession. Where it wouldn’t show on camera.

“Little ingrate,” he hissed. “I made you. I trained you. You think that Thropp girl made you special?”

She curled in on herself. Quiet. Silent.

That was the cost of saying nothing.

But the cost of telling the truth?

She couldn’t afford it.

_____

Three days later, she showed up at training in a long-sleeved pullover and lip gloss bright enough to hide the swelling. She smiled at the cameras. Did her drills. Nodded when Morrible said her footwork was “finally sharp again.”

Elphaba was on the opposite court.

Galinda didn’t look at her.

Because if she did…

If she let herself be seen…

She might shatter completely.

_____

Elphaba had seen Galinda pull off a hundred smiles that weren’t real.

Media-day smiles. Sponsor smiles. “Just tired” smiles.

But something had changed.

This wasn’t just poise or performance. This was hollow.

Galinda floated through drills like a body on rails. Flawless posture, robotic grace, but no spark. No mischief. No eye-rolls after drills. No whispered commentary. Not even to Elphaba.

And then there were the layers.

She never trained in tank tops anymore. Long sleeves only. Even on hot days. Even when everyone else shed their warm-ups. And the lipstick. Always bright lately,- deep pinks and corals, like she was trying to distract from something.

Then there was the limp.

Subtle. But there.

Barely there. A favoring of her left leg. A wince when she pivoted too fast.

No one else mentioned it.

But Elphaba watched.

And then, there was the tape.

During a doubles conditioning round, Galinda’s sleeve pushed up slightly at the wrist. Not much—but enough to reveal the edge of bruising, half-covered by kinesiology tape that made no medical sense.

Elphaba stared.

Galinda caught her looking.

And smiled.

A perfect, dazzling, dead smile.

Like she was daring her to say something.

_____

Elphaba couldn’t sit still.

She went for a run that turned into a sprint. Thought about the photos. The vomit. The memes. The fairy godfather narrative. The silence that followed.

She thought about the days without a reply.

The one-word answers.

The way Galinda had winced when a photographer bumped her shoulder during staging.

The tape.

The bruises.

The smile.

_____

She cornered one of the younger team assistants the next morning. Casual. Breezy.

“Hey! have you seen Galinda limping at all lately?”

The youth looked confused. “Galinda? No. I mean… she always looks perfect. Even when she’s hurting.”

“What do you mean?”

“She doesn’t talk about it. But sometimes I see her coming out of the physio tent? She walks like… like she’s trying not to scream.”

Elphaba’s stomach dropped.

_____

Elphaba sat on the balcony of her suite, staring down at her phone.

No texts.

No replies.

Just silence.

But now, she knew that silence had substance, and it wasn’t distance.

It was fear.

Elphaba didn’t know everything-not yet. But she was done pretending she didn’t see the shape of it. The bruises. The silence. The effort it took for someone like Galinda to keep pretending she was whole.

And she wouldn’t stay on the outside much longer.

She’d find a way in.

Even if Galinda didn’t ask her to.

Especially if she didn’t.

Chapter Text

Elphaba had invited her to their ‘country house’. Galinda couldn’t imagine having having one house, let alone enough to have to distinguish which was which. Her Dad had been surprisingly ok with her request, it was the Govenor’s house after all. A great honour. He made her promise not to embarrass him.

The estate looked like something from the cover of the magazines Galinda used to steal from waiting rooms just to stare at, imagine a different life.

Slate rooftops. Old stone archways. Window boxes with real flowers, perfectly overgrown. It wasn’t flashy like Oscar’s penthouse or the hotels she stayed in now for tournaments. It wasn’t money shouting.

It was money settled. Quiet. Certain. Clean.

When the car pulled up, she expected staff to swarm.

Instead, Nessarose opened the front door herself.

“Hey,” she said brightly, steering her chair out onto the drive. “You’re just in time. We saved you from having to eat Shell’s weird soup for lunch.”

From inside: “It was rustic!”

“El, grab her bag?”

“I have hands,” Galinda said softly. But Elphaba was already lifting it from the trunk with casual ease.

⸻

Inside, the estate was warm and airy. Polished wood floors. Long windows overlooking the green fields and an ivy-wrapped tennis court in the distance. The walls were covered in photographs—some formal portraits, others clearly candid: Nessa in a birthday crown. Shell asleep at the table. Elphaba grinning, caught mid-swing.

Everything smelled like lemons and fresh laundry.

And for the first time in years, Galinda didn’t feel watched.

⸻

Her name was Maudeline.

She didn’t introduce herself as “the help.” She introduced herself as “the second Thropp matriarch, don’t let the gray hair fool you.” She had been, and in some ways still was, the children’s nanny.

She put a hand on Galinda’s shoulder when she arrived and said, “You must be starving.”

Galinda wasn’t.

But she sat anyway. Ate soup that wasn’t rustic and drank tea that tasted like safety. When Maudeline pressed a second scone into her hand, she took it without a word.

No one commented on how much she ate.

No one commented on how thin she looked.

No one commented.

______

Later that afternoon, Shell convinced them all to come outside.

He brought out mismatched racquets, beat-up balls, and a cooler full of fizzy juice. They played two-on-two, Galinda and Nessa vs. ‘Shellphaba’, with Elphaba limping on purpose to even the odds.

It was messy. Ridiculous.

Nessa shrieked when she got hit in the foot.

Shell slipped trying to dive for a shot.

Elphaba laughed so hard she dropped her racquet.

Galinda won the point and looked up, flushed, breathless, smiling.

And then she froze.

Because the smile wasn’t fake.

And for the first time in months, her body didn’t hurt.

And no one had called her stupid, or lazy, or a whore, or told her she wasn’t good enough.

The sunlight filtered through the trees. Elphaba wiped her brow with her sleeve and grinned at her. “You okay?”

Galinda nodded. But she wasn’t.

Not really.

Because it was too good.

And it made everything else come back in sharper contrast.

_____

Maudeline gave her extra towels and the best guest room.

She didn’t say, “you don’t need that.”

She didn’t say, “be grateful.”

She just said, “Take your time, love,” and kissed the top of Galinda’s head like it was natural.

Galinda sat on the edge of the bed for a long time before washing up.

When she came out in her pajamas, Elphaba was curled in the armchair, book in lap.

“You look better,” she said quietly.

Galinda sat beside her.

“I feel worse.”

Elphaba looked over.

“I didn’t mean….”

“I know.” Galinda exhaled. “I just didn’t know how bad it was. Until now. Until this.”

Elphaba said nothing.

But she reached over and took her hand.

Galinda didn’t pull away.

Chapter Text

They found the building two days after she left it.

A peeling block of concrete in the South West Lower corner of the Emerald City. Window panes long cracked. Rust stains beneath the railings. The kind of place you’d only notice if someone told you that the girl on your cereal box used to sleep inside.

By the end of the week, the media had footage from the exterior. The door to her apartment unit. A broken street lamp just outside. Neighbors interviewed from crooked lawn chairs, some willing, some surprised. But the one that sold them all out-that man-was her father’s friend with the car.

He was half-drunk in the interview.

Grinning.

“Oh yeah, they stayed in my car once,” he said proudly. “Little thing’d wake up at dawn and run along the freeway. She had arms like wire. All bones. He always said she was gonna make him rich.”

The reporter’s eyes lit up.

And the story wrote itself.

⸻

It aired two nights later.

“Barefoot Barbie: The Darker Side of Oz.”
An hour-long special.

They showed school forms. Old photos. A street map tracing her route along the freeway service road. Footage of a child, blurry, running with a taped-up racquet bag, paired with a soft voiceover about “the costs of greatness.”

They used slow-motion replays of her matches-then cut to images of her limping.

The voiceover spoke solemnly: “While the nation cheered, she was washing up in a locker room sink, sleeping in a borrowed car, and training in bruises no one dared to question.”

They showed a photograph of her father yelling from the stands—grayed out, framed like a villain in a cautionary tale.

And worst of all?

They played the clip of the vomit. Again. With a slow pan. Like it was tragedy. Like it was art.

⸻

Morrible called before the credits had even rolled.

“This is a containment situation,” she said. “You’re not stepping foot in Emerald City until it dies down.”

Galinda didn’t argue.

Not once.

Morrible hung up after forwarding a curt email:
“You will remain at the Thropp family estate for continued training until further notice”.

⸻

She cried.

But not from shame.

From relief.

Because she hadn’t known what she was going to do. Not really. She couldn’t go back to that apartment. Not after the whole country had seen the apartment. The walls. Her father’s mess. Her life.

Now, at least, she didn’t have to.

_____

Shell had heard the headlines, but didn’t mention them.

Nessarose had watched the segment, quietly, furiously, and didn’t mention it either. She just asked if Galinda wanted tea, and offered a hand on her shoulder when Galinda nodded.

Maudeline put fresh sheets on the guest bed and made stew that simmered all afternoon.

And Elphaba?

Elphaba said nothing.

Just waited for Galinda to come sit beside her on the porch.

When she did, late in the evening, still pale and raw-eyed, Elphaba didn’t say I’m sorry, or even it’s going to be okay.

She just said:
“Let them say what they want. You’re safe here.”

Galinda looked at her.

Really looked.

And for once, she believed it.

_____

The first time Galinda spoke about it, she didn’t mean to.

It was after practice, just the two of them, drills on the grass court while Nessa and Shell prepped dinner inside. The sun was low, slanting golden across the ivy wall. Galinda’s cheeks were flushed, her strokes sharper than they had been in weeks. Focused. Alive.

And then Elphaba said, casually, “You’re moving better. Must be the sleep and regular meals.”

Galinda laughed, but there was a hollow edge to it.

“I’m not used to either.”

And then she stopped laughing.

Because it wasn’t funny.

_____

They sat on the court stairs afterward, sweating into their towels and sipping electrolyte slushies Shell had made in the kitchen blender.

Elphaba tried to be casual.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she said, “but… if you wanted to say something about the special. Or the guy who talked about you and the car.”

Galinda’s shoulders stiffened.

She didn’t look at Elphaba. Just picked at a fray in her wristband.

“It wasn’t every tournament,” she said. “Just the ones we couldn’t afford a motel for. We borrowed a friend’s car. It was… cramped.”

Elphaba said nothing. Just nodded once.

Galinda kept going, voice low. “It was hard sometimes. My dad didn’t like it when I lost. Or when I didn’t smile for photos. Or when I made him look bad. He was… demanding.”

She paused. “That’s not even a good word. He was… he is, angry a lot.”

Elphaba let her talk.

It came in fragments.

“I used to run to practice. Five miles along the freeway, each way. We didn’t have money for the bus.”

Elphaba blinked. “You ran five miles? Before training?”

Galinda shrugged. “And after. Sometimes I got there early. Sometimes I didn’t. But if I was late, he’d” She stopped herself. “It wasn’t worth being late.”

“And you still placed?”

“Most of the time.”

“After sleeping in a car?”

Galinda looked away. “I didn’t have a choice. That helps.”

Elphaba’s chest ached. But she couldn’t stop the questions now that they were coming.

“That man in the interview, the one who talked about lending you the car. Was he the one who picked you up sometimes from practice?”

Galinda gave the faintest nod.

“Was he… safe?”

Galinda didn’t answer.

Elphaba swallowed. Then, carefully: “He said… you were all bones. What did he mean by that?”

Silence.

Galinda’s hand went still.

And just like that, she shut down.

The light in her eyes dimmed. Her expression folded back into its blank, camera-ready smoothness.

“I’m going to shower,” she said.

She stood, turned, and walked toward the house without waiting for a reply.

⸻

Elphaba didn’t follow.

She sat there, fists curled on her knees, watching the last of the light fade from the court.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet.

Dinner was awkward. Galinda didn’t come down.

Maudeline packed her a plate and left it by her door.

Elphaba lay awake in the room next to hers, staring at the ceiling. The moonlight made a square on the floor.

Then thock.

Thock.

A pause.

Thock.

The sound was distant but rhythmic.

She slipped out of bed, padded barefoot to the hall window that overlooked the back of the property.

There, beneath the floodlight over the pool house, stood Galinda.

Still in leggings and a tank. Hair in a messy braid. Barefoot on the concrete.

She was hitting balls off the stone wall again and again and again, hard and fast, grunting softly with each stroke.

Releasing something.

Fighting something.

Elphaba stood there for a long time.

But she didn’t go down.

Didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t speak.

Because she understood enough now to know: this was Galinda’s language.

And maybe one day, she’d be allowed to speak back.

_____

She couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About the girl who ran ten miles a day with no breakfast. Who played through soreness from a car seat. Who learned to tape her own ankle with duct tape because the real stuff ran out.

Who trained in bruises and slept on concrete and smiled on cereal boxes.

And still stood beside her on the leaderboard.

Still beat her. Sometimes.

Elphaba had grown up with private coaches. Recovery baths. Travel stipends. Tailored nutrition.

And yet, Galinda kept up.

More than kept up.

What would she be, Elphaba thought bitterly, if she’d had what I had?

Better.

She was almost certain.

The thought burned.

But not with envy.

With awe.

Chapter Text

Galinda stood by the mailbox with a letter in her hand.

It was thick. Glossy. An invitation to the Golden Champions Gala, hosted by the National Federation and sponsored by Diggs Global Athletics.

She wasn’t given the option to decline.

There was a little note in the corner, You’ll be escorted by Mr. Diggs’. A limo will arrive at 4:00 p.m. sharp.

Her stomach twisted.

In the distance, she could hear Shell and Elphaba practicing serves.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Because she knew exactly what this was.

Not a celebration.

A summons.

_____

The dress arrived in a box the color of bone.

No card. No note. Just tissue paper folded with surgical precision and the scent of something expensive and synthetic. Galinda peeled it back with careful fingers, already knowing what she’d find.

Silk. Silver-white. Cut low across the back, high across the thigh, and slashed daringly across the bodice in a way no athlete would ever wear by choice. The sort of dress that turned a girl into a silhouette. A symbol. A story someone else was telling.

Oscar’s assistant texted her two minutes later.

“Try it on. We’ll send a stylist tomorrow. Mr. Diggs says it’ll photograph beautifully next to his tux.”

She stared at the message.

Then put the phone down.

And left the dress in the box for three hours before she could make herself unzip it.

_____

They called it a gala. A celebration of champions. A lighthearted pre-Ozlympic kick-off hosted by the federation and attended by “friends of the sport.”

But Galinda knew what it really was.

A showcase.

An unveiling.

Oscar’s moment to say this is mine, without saying it at all.

He’d been sponsoring her since she was fifteen. But now she was seventeen. Almost “legal enough.” The cameras would see him on her arm and smile. They’d see a wealthy benefactor and a grateful protégé. A fairy tale for the tabloids. A rags-to-riches trophy in heels.

She’d seen this story before.

She just never thought she’d be in it.

_____

Nessa found her in the bathroom the day before the event. Galinda had locked the door, but Nessa had the master key and zero patience for theatrics.

“Are you sick or hiding?” she asked flatly through the door.

“Neither.”

“Your food’s going cold.”

A pause.

Then: “I just need a minute.”

Nessa leaned against the door. “You’ve had twenty.”

Galinda emerged five minutes later with red-rimmed eyes and a towel clutched too tightly around her hands.

“Fine,” Nessa said. “But you’re not going alone tomorrow.”

Galinda flinched. “I’m not…”

“I know you’re not,” Nessa interrupted. “You’re going with him. That’s worse.”

Galinda opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Nessa softened. “We’ll be there. Shell and I. Elphaba too.”

Galinda’s eyes flicked away at the last name. “She’s barely spoken to me.”

Nessa raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t exactly made it easy.”

Galinda didn’t argue.

Because it was true.

_____

She watched Galinda from across the training court.

The dress box had arrived two days ago, and Galinda hadn’t smiled once since.

She was back to long sleeves. Back to closed-off. Back to brushing past Elphaba with a polite nod and nothing else.

It killed her.

She wanted to say I didn’t mean to scare you.
She wanted to say I shouldn’t have asked.
She wanted to say I’m still here.

But she didn’t know how.

So she watched.

And worried.

And when Nessa said, “She’s going to that damn gala with Diggs,” Elphaba’s blood turned to ice.

_____

Galinda sat at the vanity. The dress fit like a net, tight, glittering, beautiful, and suffocating.

The stylist arrived with a suitcase full of contour kits and curling irons. She’d never met him before. He barely spoke as he pinned her hair, shadowed her eyes, shaped her into something unreal.

When she looked in the mirror afterward, she barely recognized herself.

Oscar texted an hour later.

“Looking forward to showing you off.”

_____

The ballroom glittered like a fairytale someone else had dreamed.

Everything gleamed. The chandeliers were cut glass. The centerpieces were live orchids in bowls of crushed crystal. Every guest wore luxury like armour, tailored suits, silk gowns, jewelry that whispered wealth instead of screaming it.

Cameras flanked the doors. A red carpet coiled inside like a serpent’s tongue.

Galinda stood just off the main entrance in her silver dress and perfect makeup and heels that pinched her toes. Oscar hovered beside her like a shadow stitched to her back.

“You look radiant,” he murmured as the flashbulbs started. “Smile for your kingdom, Cinderella.”

She did.

_____

He introduced her to everyone.

The heads of federations. The heads of brands. People whose faces she recognized from press releases and endorsement contracts. He spoke for her, about her, as if she weren’t there.

“Galinda’s come so far. A real Oz success story.”
“Barely seventeen, and already a household name.”
“She’s got the drive of a champion and the face of a star.”

His hand never left her lower back.

When she excused herself to the powder room after dinner, he said, “Don’t be long,” with a smile that felt like a lock.

She returned ten minutes later.

He was waiting by the lift.

They weren’t going back to the ballroom.

Her stomach dropped.

“Oscar,” she said carefully, “I thought we were doing more photos.”

“Upstairs,” he said. “Quieter there.”

She followed.

She always followed.

_____

The next time anyone saw her, she was barefoot in the lobby restroom, crouched between the wall and the end stall, dress hiked up and eyes glazed with panic.

Elphaba found her first.

She’d been looking. Had seen Oscar return to the ballroom alone, smug and slightly disheveled, and hadn’t seen Galinda since.

The moment she pushed open the bathroom door and saw her, the air left her lungs.

“Galinda,” she whispered, falling to her knees beside her. “Hey. Hey, it’s me.”

Galinda didn’t speak.

Her eyes were too wide. Her arms were curled around her stomach. One strap of her dress had slipped down her shoulder.

“Elphie,” she finally whispered. “I think I want to go home.”

Elphaba swallowed the burn in her throat.

“Okay,” she said. “But not that home.”

She pulled off her jacket, draped it around Galinda’s shoulders, and helped her to her feet.

They slipped out a side exit.

No press.

No cameras.

Just Elphaba, arm around her waist, steering her toward the hotel suite reserved under the Thropp name.

_____

Galinda didn’t speak for a long time.

She curled on the bed in one of Elphaba’s oversized T-shirts, her mascara faint shadows beneath her eyes, her hair limp with sweat.

Elphaba sat on the floor nearby.

Not asking.

Just there.

At one point, Galinda said, “I didn’t say yes.”

Elphaba nodded. “I know.”

Galinda’s lip trembled. “I didn’t say no either.”

Elphaba’s voice cracked. “That doesn’t matter.”

Galinda closed her eyes.

And Elphaba sat beside her for the rest of the night.

Keeping watch.

Just in case the world tried to take anything else.

Chapter Text

The sun crept in slowly, like it was afraid to touch them.

Elphaba sat at the table in the corner of the hotel suite, staring at her untouched tea while Galinda dozed under the comforter. The T-shirt she wore had slipped off one shoulder again. Her arms were wrapped tight around her middle, as if to give herself comfort. Even in sleep, her jaw was clenched.

Elphaba hadn’t slept.

Not really.

She kept hearing Oscar’s voice in her head. The way he’d laughed at dinner. The smugness of his return. The absence that followed.

And then Galinda, curled in that bathroom stall like a snapped-off version of herself.

When Galinda stirred, Elphaba stood.

“Hey,” she said softly. “I made tea.”

Galinda sat up slowly. Her eyes were dull, her voice barely audible. “Thanks.”

She sipped. Wincing at the heat. She was always careful with pain that didn’t show.

Elphaba waited until the cup was almost empty.

Then, gently: “Do you want to call the police?”

Galinda froze.

And then—without warning—laughed.

Not a bitter chuckle.

Not a sarcastic scoff.

Laughed.

Sharp. Shaky. Too loud.

Elphaba blinked. “Galinda…”

“I’m sorry!” Galinda gasped between peals. “It’s not—I just— the police?”

Her laughter collapsed into coughing. Then into something that might’ve been tears, or hiccups, or just exhaustion.

“I don’t…It’s just funny. It’s so…useless.”

Elphaba crouched by the bed again, alarmed. “Hey. Breathe. You’re okay. You don’t have to do anything. It was just a question.”

Galinda nodded. Covered her mouth. Took a long breath.

“I’m okay, really” she said quietly.

And then, without looking up: “This isn’t even close to the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Elphaba’s chest went tight.

Galinda kept talking, voice soft and hollow.

“This isn’t even top five. It wasn’t even violent. Not really. I just had to… pretend I didn’t hear what he was saying. Pretend I liked the way he was looking at me. Pretend I wanted to go upstairs. Pretend the dress was my idea. Pretend, pretend, pretend.”

She stared at the window now, somewhere far away.

“I’ve had worse nights at home,” she said. “Way worse. At least Oscar bought me dinner.”

Elphaba flinched.

And Galinda laughed again, quiet this time. Dark.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“Don’t apologize.”

Galinda looked at her then.

Really looked.

“You still think this can be fixed?” she asked. “That if I do everything right, I get to be free? That someone’s going to sweep in and fix it all?”

“No,” Elphaba said honestly. “But I think you deserve better anyway.”

Galinda’s throat moved like she was swallowing something painful.

“This is just what it means,” she whispered. “Being Galinda Arduenna.”

And Elphaba reached for her hand.

Held it.

Didn’t try to fix it.

Just stayed.

Chapter Text

Galinda hadn’t wanted them to come.

She’d agreed, eventually, because it was the only way to get her father’s approval for her continued stay at the Manor. But every step toward that building made her insides tighten.

The paint was peeling in streaks. The buzzer was broken; you had to bang twice on the side rail for someone to hear. There was a rotted mattress propped in the stairwell, left from someone’s eviction.

Elphaba slowed outside the front door.

“This is it?” she asked quietly.

Galinda nodded, not meeting her eyes.

She’d never seen Elphaba look uncertain. Not like this. Not in years. But now she did. Standing in boots that had never known cracked concrete, holding herself stiff like even her posture didn’t want to belong here.

⸻

Inside, the smell hit first.

Mildew. Cheap old cooking grease. The cloying sharpness of stale beer.

Galinda didn’t look back as she unlocked the door to apartment 2B.

It creaked when it opened.

Governor Thropp stayed silent behind his daughter, but his nostrils flared the moment they stepped inside.

The living room occasionally doubled as her sleeping area, couch frame with burn holes in the armrest, sheets balled in a corner, a single pillow with the stuffing peeking out. The lightbulb flickered overhead. The wall behind the radiator was streaked with water damage.

Elphaba’s eyes moved over everything-the cracked tiles, the sink full of dishes, the blanket nailed over the missing pane in the window.

“This is where you live?” she asked, barely audible.

Galinda nodded.

Governor Thropp was already frowning.

And then, he appeared.

From the hallway. In a sleeveless undershirt and sagging stained sweatpants. Already flushed. Already smelling of whiskey.

Galinda’s father.

He sized them up. Eyes on Elphaba, then her father. A grin curling slow across his face.

“Governor,” he said, as though greeting a rival at a bar fight. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Governor Thropp didn’t flinch. “I came to negotiate your daughter’s training accommodations.”

“Oh, training, is it?” He barked a short, wet laugh. “You want to take her to that estate of yours? Let her roll around in rose beds and hope she forgets where she came from?”

Galinda’s face burned. She stared at a stain on the floor, willing herself to disappear.

Governor Thropp straightened. “She’s integral to the Olympic doubles plan. Elphaba needs her to train. The federation agrees.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “What’s in it for me?”

“You’ll have the prestige of fathering a champion.”

Another laugh.

“Bullshit.”

He reached behind the couch and grabbed a bottle. Uncapped it with a familiar flick. Poured a finger’s worth into a dented metal cup.

Then held it out.

“You beat me at something real, Governor,” he said. “And you can take her.”

Thropp raised an eyebrow.

“A drinking contest?” he asked, dry.

The man nodded, already sipping from his cup. “Unless that’s too much for a man in a suit.”

There was a pause.

And then Governor Thropp stepped forward, removed his coat, and rolled up his sleeves.

_____

Galinda didn’t watch.

She sat on the edge of the bed, holding her tennis bag in her lap, eyes blank.

Elphaba sat beside her, knees touching.

“He’s had a head start,” she whispered.

Galinda shrugged. “He always does.”

The room reeked of alcohol and sweat and something bitter that never quite left.

She hated this.

Not the drinking.

Not the smell.

The witnessing.

She hated that Elphaba was here. That her father’s slurring voice and vulgar stories and loose limbs were being seen by someone who knew how to pronounce the word “inheritance.”

_____

When the man finally passed out, face down in his own spilled cup, snoring like a saw, the room went silent.

No one moved.

Governor Thropp stood calmly, wiped his hands on a napkin, and gestured to Galinda’s bag.

“Let’s go.”

Elphaba stood.

Galinda didn’t.

Not at first.

She looked at her father.

And then at the place she’d called home for the last 5 years.

And then she stood.

And walked out the door without saying a word.

_____

They didn’t speak on the drive back. No one mentioned what had happened.

No one asked her if she was okay.

And Galinda didn’t cry.

But she sat with her tennis bag clutched to her chest like it was the only part of her still hers.

And when they reached the gates of the estate, and Maudeline opened the door with a quiet, “Welcome home,” Galinda stepped inside without hesitation.

She didn’t speak that night.

But she slept well.

For the first time in weeks.

_____

Galinda woke up warm.

That alone still startled her.

The mattress beneath her was thick and high, the sheets clean and soft, the duvet heavy with real down. The window by her bed looked out on a frost-tipped field ringed with trees. From it she could hear birdsong, actual birdsong, and the faint tap of Shell hitting balls off the garage wall again.

The Thropp estate in winter was like a page from a storybook: quiet fireplaces, woodsmoke, old rugs, and big worn couches. It wasn’t sterile luxury, it was lived-in wealth. History in every corner. The sort of place that didn’t need to prove itself.

Galinda still felt like a trespasser.

______

Maudeline treated her like one of her own.

Warm breakfast every morning. Hot water bottles placed between the sheets at night. Gentle questions. Zero pressure.

Shell made her laugh at least once a day. Nessarose teased her like a sister. Elphaba, though still a bit distant, was patient and steady, and sometimes offered her hot chocolate after training like it was no big deal.

They never asked questions.

They never pried.

She wanted to stay forever.

But every time her phone buzzed with her father’s name, the illusion cracked.

She still had to make the calls.

Three times a week. No matter what.

He didn’t yell anymore.

Not exactly.

Now he slithered.

“Nice digs you got, huh?” he’d sneer. “Bet you’re living like a princess up there. Pretty little Galinda. Wonder what the Governor gets in return.”

“Nothing,” she always said.

“Sure,” he drawled. “Sure. Just training, right? Bet he likes watching you bend over on that court.”

She used to hang up.

Now she just muted him.

Waited.

Sometimes cried afterward. Quietly. So no one would hear. Because the worst part wasn’t the filth he spewed.

It was that he wasn’t entirely wrong.

Just wrong about the man.

It wasn’t Governor Thropp. He barely looked at her. Barely looked at anyone. He was cold, distant, professionally polite. If he had a soft spot, it was only for his children.

But there was someone.

Oscar.

Once a month.

She took the train into the city and met him in the private lounge of a glassy tower filled with branding offices and sports lawyers. His assistant always left them alone. There was always a spread of food. She never ate it. She sat through it. Always. Went with him after.

Because if she didn’t, he might tell the federation to cut her.

And if the federation cut her…

She had nowhere left to go.

_____

Shell asked her if she wanted to play doubles against the staff.

Nessa called her “Bambi” after Galinda slipped in the snow and laughed until she cried.

Maudeline knitted her a pair of mittens that actually matched her eyes.

And Elphaba, one evening, brought her a cup of cider, handed her a book without saying a word, and sat in the window seat beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

No one wanted anything from her.

No one asked her to earn it.

It should have been paradise.

But all she could think was: if they knew…

If they knew about Oscar.

If they knew what she had traded, kept trading, to be here.

They’d never look at her the same.

_____

She brushed her hair in long, careful strokes that night. Stared at her reflection in the gold-framed mirror.

Pretty.

Composed.

Polished.

Fake.

She whispered to herself: “You are so dirty.”

And hated herself for believing it.

Chapter Text

The car picked her up just before noon.

It was always the same: black, silent, and waiting outside the Thropp estate with minimal warning. Maudeline would frown from the kitchen window. Elphaba would pretend not to watch from the upstairs hall. No one ever said a word.

Galinda got in.

She always did.

The driver didn’t speak. He never did.

The photoshoot was in a converted warehouse downtown this time, all exposed brick and long skylights. The stylist met her at the door, all click-clack heels and “darling, you’re late”, though Galinda was precisely on time.

The theme was power and vulnerability.

The costume: a tennis skirt shorter than regulation and a sweat-slicked tank with deliberate rips at the hem.

“Grit sells,” the creative director murmured.

The photographer said nothing but stared too long at her legs while adjusting the lighting. One assistant offered her a robe between takes. The photographer took it away five minutes later “for aesthetic continuity.”

She posed.

She smiled.

She obeyed.

She didn’t make a scene when the photographer called for a closed set to do some final shots. Didn’t make a scene after.

_____

Oscar met her upstairs.

Private office. Frosted glass. The hum of distant heaters and one too many closed doors.

“You were magnificent,” he said, pouring something into a glass she didn’t want.

She didn’t drink it.

“You’re the face of resilience. You know that? All those little girls want to be you.”

She said nothing.

“Which means you have to own it. Be comfortable in your skin. Be confident. Be gracious.”

When he stepped closer, she held her breath, unsure if she had enough distance left in her mind for today.

_____

She left without her coat.

Didn’t realize until she was already halfway down the block, feet soaked from slush, teeth chattering in the wind.

She walked, and walked, and walked.

Didn’t remember how far.

Didn’t remember when the tears started.

When the cold started to burn.

_____

She got back after dark.

Maudeline tried to ask where she’d gone. Galinda smiled too brightly and said she took the late train.

Shell made a joke about city pizza.

Elphaba didn’t say anything.

Until later.

Galinda passed her in the hallway. Their eyes met.

And Elphaba reached out, briefly, lightly.

Not to stop her.

Just to see her.

Galinda jerked away like she’d been slapped.

She didn’t mean to.

But she couldn’t help it.

And Elphaba watched her walk down the hall, silent.

⸻

That night, Galinda scrubbed her hands raw.

When Maudeline came to check on her, she pretended to be asleep.

She lay very still under the covers and whispered to herself: You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. The way she used to when she was very small, when gunfire echoed in the distance and the ceiling occasionally glowed orange from explosions.

But the words didn’t sound like hers anymore.

Chapter Text

It started with the bruise on her collarbone.

Just a faint smudge of purple, barely there, framed by the edge of a too-loose neckline one early morning in the kitchen.

Elphaba saw it when Galinda reached for a mug.

She didn’t mention it then.

But she noticed.

Later that day, it was the way Galinda moved on the court, flinching when Shell tossed her a towel, withdrawing her hand too quickly when Elphaba offered to help her up after a fall.

At dinner, she barely ate.

At night, Elphaba passed her room and heard water running for over an hour.

⸻

The next morning, Elphaba knocked on her door before breakfast.

Galinda opened it wearing long sleeves.

Her eyes were a little too bright.

Elphaba didn’t mince words.

“What happened at the shoot?”

Galinda froze.

“Nothing.”

“You didn’t come back until after dark.”

“I lost track of time.”

“You weren’t wearing your coat.”

“I forgot.”

“You were crying.”

“I wasn’t.”

Elphaba took a step closer. “Galinda…”

“Don’t!”

Her voice was sharp. Desperate.

She turned her back. Picked at the corner of her sleeve.

Elphaba stayed in the doorway. Quiet. Firm.

“Was it Oscar?”

Silence.

“Was it the photographer?”

Still no answer.

“Did someone touch you?”

Galinda turned, eyes wild.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” she hissed. “You want me to say it out loud? To confirm I’m the broken doll everyone thinks I am? That I let them treat me like that because it keeps the money coming and the sponsors happy?”

Elphaba didn’t flinch.

“I want you to be safe.”

Galinda laughed. Cold. Shaky.

“I’m not safe. I haven’t been safe since I was six. But I smile. I play. I sign the contracts. And that keeps the whole machine running.”

“Elphaba,” she added bitterly, “this is just part of the job.”

“It’s not,” Elphaba said, voice low.

“It is,” Galinda snapped. “For girls like me.”

⸻

Elphaba stepped back.

Let her breathe.

Let her close the door.

But the sound it made when it shut between them wasn’t final.

It was fragile.

Like it could still be opened.

_____

That night, Galinda didn’t come to dinner.

Elphaba knocked once.

There was no answer.

Later, she saw light under the door. She didn’t knock again.
But she sat in the hallway.

And waited.

Just in case Galinda needed someone to be there.

Even if she wasn’t ready to be seen.

_____

Elphaba heard the first sound around 11:00 p.m.

A soft thud. Then another.

Not frantic. Not loud. Just… relentless.

She was sitting cross-legged outside Galinda’s door, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, pretending not to wait.

Thud. Thud.

A pause.

Then again. And again.

The rhythm grew erratic. Weighted. Each impact punctuated by a low, strained breath.

She stood. Knocked once.

“Galinda?”

No answer.

She pressed her ear to the wood.

Then opened the door.

The room was dim. Only the desk lamp was on, casting long shadows across the wall.

_____

Galinda was in the middle of the floor, trembling, arms folded over her chest, bent at the hips as she pushed herself through another squat.

And another.

And another.

Her knees buckled. She forced herself upright again.

“Galinda,” Elphaba whispered.

Galinda didn’t look at her. “Just five more.”

“No.”

Elphaba crossed the room quickly, knelt beside her. Reached out but didn’t touch.

“Talk to me.”

Galinda’s legs gave out entirely. She collapsed forward, bracing herself with her hands, panting.

“I needed to do something,” she whispered. “I had to.”

“Why?”

Her voice cracked. “Because I deserve it.”

Elphaba’s throat tightened. “No, you don’t.”

Galinda shook her head, too exhausted to argue but too ashamed to stop.

Elphaba stood. “Come on. Bath. Now.”

Galinda flinched.

“I can’t.”

“You need warmth. And rest. And care.”

“I can’t get undressed.”

Elphaba paused.

Galinda’s voice was a whisper. “I just… I can’t let anyone see. Not again, not so soon.”

Elphaba nodded. “Underwear stays on. I’ll be right there.”

_____

The water was warm and full of lavender oil Maudeline had left on the shelf.

Elphaba helped her ease in, steadying her under the arms when Galinda’s legs trembled. She lowered herself with a faint hiss and a ragged breath, her knees pulling close to her chest.

She looked small. Raw.

But not ashamed.

Not here. Not anymore.

Elphaba knelt beside the tub, scooping water over her shoulders with a cloth.

Galinda closed her eyes.

“I used to do this,” she whispered. “After matches. When he wasn’t home yet. I’d run the water and pretend I was somewhere else.”

Elphaba said nothing.

Just kept bathing her, gently. Reverently.

Galinda leaned her cheek against the tile.

“You’re the first person who’s ever waited for me.”

Elphaba reached for her hand.

Galinda let her take it.

_____

Elphaba offered her clean sleep clothes loose and soft.

Galinda put them on slowly.

When Elphaba returned from washing out the bath, she found Galinda sitting on her bed, knees drawn up, looking out the window.

“I can go back to my room,” she murmured. “I don’t want to…”

“Stay,” Elphaba said.

Galinda blinked.

“Please.”

They got under the covers. No touching. Just proximity. Just quiet.

For a long while, neither spoke.

Then Galinda whispered, barely audible:

“Do you think I’m disgusting?”

Elphaba turned toward her in the dark.

“No,” she said softly. “I think you’re surviving.”

Galinda’s breath caught.

Then she reached out, just a brush of fingers against Elphaba’s sleeve.

Not needing anything.

Just making contact.

And Elphaba reached back.

And held on.

_____

Galinda drifted off with Elphaba’s breathing nearby, slow, steady, grounding.

The room was quiet except for the faint tick of the antique clock on the dresser and the wind outside brushing the windowpanes.

For the first two hours, she slept soundly.

Then the dreams began.

_____

At first, Elphaba thought Galinda was murmuring in her sleep. Words she couldn’t quite make out. Her brow was creased. Fingers twitching.

Then the murmurs turned to whimpers.

“No! Please, no…Franrik!”

Elphaba sat up instantly.

Galinda thrashed once, then again, legs kicking beneath the blankets, fists clenched, breath ragged.

“Galinda,” Elphaba said gently, placing a hand near her shoulder but not touching.

Galinda gasped like she’d been submerged in cold water.

“No! stop! I said stop!”

Elphaba reached for her. Held her arms still, not tight, just enough.

“I’m here. You’re safe.”

Galinda’s eyes flew open, but she didn’t see her.

Her breathing came in shudders.

Elphaba whispered, “It’s me. Elphaba. You’re at my estate. No one’s here but me.”

Galinda didn’t speak.

She just curled forward, shaking.

Elphaba hesitated.

Then slowly, deliberately, slid under the covers again.

Drew Galinda close.

Held her the way someone might hold something shattered.

Galinda resisted for a moment—tension in her limbs like she didn’t trust herself to rest—but Elphaba stayed steady.

And eventually, Galinda let go.

Her fists unclenched.

Her breathing evened.

Her body softened.

And for the first time since they’d met, she slept the rest of the night without interruption.

_____

Elphaba woke first.

Galinda was still wrapped close to her, cheek nestled against her shoulder, their legs tangled in the blankets.

She looked peaceful.

Younger.

Like the girl she might have been if the world had ever loved her gently.

Elphaba didn’t move.

Didn’t want to break the spell.

When Galinda stirred an hour later, blinking into the morning light, she looked confused for a heartbeat.

Then she realized where she was.

And who was holding her.

And she didn’t pull away.

______

They didn’t talk about it.

Not directly.

But that night, when Elphaba got into bed, Galinda followed.

Quiet. Natural.

And when Galinda woke the next morning, she couldn’t remember a single dream.

Not even a fragment. No pressure. No hands. No ghosts.

Just warmth.

And stillness.

And Elphaba.

She sat on the edge of the bed in her socks and whispered into the silence:

“What does it mean… that you make me feel safe?”

Elphaba, still under the blanket, watched her from the pillow.

Didn’t speak.

Just reached out a hand.

And Galinda took it.

_____

They didn’t talk about sharing the bed.

It just became a rhythm.

A quiet kind of belonging that formed between them without declaration. At night, Galinda would climb in with a whispered goodnight and settle close, not always touching, but never far. Some nights she’d curl in tight, face buried in Elphaba’s shoulder. Others, she’d drift to sleep facing away, but always within reach.

Elphaba never pulled her closer unless invited.

But Galinda always reached for her.

_____

One afternoon in early March, they skipped practice.

It was snowing lightly, the court too slick to play on. Shell and Nessarose were off on errands in town, Maudeline asleep in the den. The estate was hushed, wrapped in gray clouds and warm lamps.

Galinda wandered into Elphaba’s room with a book and didn’t leave.

She sat at the foot of the bed reading aloud in a posh, theatrical accent until Elphaba threatened to throw a pillow at her. Then she did it again, worse on purpose, and they ended up wrestling gently on the duvet, laughing.

At some point, Galinda flopped onto her back, breathless, hair fanned across the blanket.

“I don’t remember ever feeling like this,” she said, voice soft.

Elphaba rolled onto her side to face her. “Like what?”

“Unworried. Like I’m not… waiting.”

“For what?”

Galinda hesitated. Then shrugged.

“The next threat.”

Elphaba didn’t speak.

Just brushed a strand of hair off Galinda’s cheek, fingers lingering slightly.

“You don’t have to wait here,” she said quietly.

Galinda blinked.

“I know,” she whispered. “That’s the strange part.”

That night, Galinda curled up beside her before the lights were even off.

Elphaba wrapped an arm around her waist without hesitation.

And Galinda whispered:

“I don’t think I could’ve survived this year without you.”

“You did survive it,” Elphaba said.

Galinda shook her head. “Not really. I was sleepwalking. I think you were the first thing I ever reached for without being told.”

Elphaba pressed her forehead to Galinda’s temple.

“You’re allowed to reach.”

Galinda swallowed hard.

Then said the thing she’d never said to anyone.

“I want to stay. Not just until training’s over. I want to stay until… I know how to be okay.”

Elphaba’s hand found hers under the covers.

And held tight.

“You can,” she said.

And Galinda finally believed her.

Chapter Text

The office wasn’t Oscar’s usual.

Too small. Too public. Too bright.

But Morrible had insisted on neutral ground, and Oscar, though he didn’t show it, was irritated by the power play.

He sat across from her at a long conference table, his cuffs crisp, his smile thin.

“You’ve been dodging my calls,” he said.

Morrible didn’t look up from her tablet. “I’ve been protecting our investment.”

“Our investment is turning eighteen in eight months.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Which is exactly why you need to calm down.”

Oscar leaned back. “We made an agreement.”

“You made a performance,” Morrible corrected. “You promised the media a fairy godfather, not a fiancé.”

He laughed softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I promised them warmth and inspiration. But she’s not a child anymore. She’s marketable in new ways.”

“You mean lucrative in new ways.”

Oscar’s expression sharpened. “Do you know how much I’ve spent on her? Since she was fifteen? I kept your federation funded through every sponsorship lull, every PR disaster, every outburst from that embarrassment of a father.”

“She’s still a minor…”

“She’ll be eighteen soon. And when she is, we go public. A mentor turned partner story. Groomed by greatness. Inspirational.”

Morrible scowled. “It undermines the whole rescue narrative. It makes her look complicit.”

“She is complicit. She shows up when I ask. Wears what I send. Smiles through the shoots. If she didn’t like it, she’d have stopped by now.”

Morrible stiffened. “Don’t be disgusting.”

Oscar didn’t blink. “Don’t be naïve.”

A long silence settled between them.

Finally, Morrible said, “We can’t afford to lose public sympathy. You going public with her will reframe everything—make people ask questions we’ve kept buried.”

Oscar shrugged. “Then spin it differently. You’re good at that.”

“And if I refuse?”

He stood.

Buttoned his coat.

“If I don’t get what I want,” he said, “I pull funding. The federation loses its golden girl. You lose your Ozlympic comeback. And she goes from Tennis Barbie to cautionary tale.”

He leaned in slightly.

“And we both know she’s too fragile to survive that again.”

Then he left.

Morrible stared at the door for a long time.

And for the first time in years, she felt cornered.

_____

The message came to Galinda on official federation letterhead.

It was polite. Simple.

Subject: Required In-Person Review — Media Preparedness Protocol
Location: Emerald City Oz Tennis Federation Office
Time: 2:00 p.m., Thursday
Duration: Approx. 90 minutes
Note: You will be accompanied by a staff liaison upon arrival. Casual business attire appropriate. This is a routine media update ahead of upcoming Ozlympic promotional material. Thank you in advance for your cooperation.

It looked harmless.

Galinda stared at it twice before forwarding it to Elphaba with a stiff, humorless note:

“Guess I’m being re-trained on how to smile again.”

Elphaba didn’t joke back.

She just texted:
“Let me come with you.”

Galinda hesitated.

Then typed:
“It’s probably nothing. Just boring.”

She didn’t believe it.

Neither did Elphaba.

_____

The building was colder than she remembered.

Not in temperature, just in tone. The staff that used to offer her tea now looked through her. The walls were still hung with her image, smiling beside trophies and federation banners, but somehow it felt like she’d been photoshopped out of her own life.

A liaison met her at the desk and ushered her into a conference room.

Then left.

No one else came.

For ten minutes, she sat alone.

Then the door opened.

Oscar walked in.

Wearing a new suit.

Smiling like they were old friends.

“Surprise,” he said. “I thought we’d have a little one-on-one to talk about what comes next.”

_____

There was no media review.

No printed agenda.

No staff liaison.

Just Oscar.

And a chair pulled too close to hers. Their legs touching.

“You’ve been hard to reach,” he said.

“I’ve been training.”

“With Elphaba.”

Galinda said nothing.

Oscar smiled wider. “You know, when I first saw you, you were so raw. So timid. But I saw the potential. You remember that? How grateful you were?”

Her throat tightened. “What do you want?”

“To talk,” he said. “Off the record. As friends.”

She stood.

“I think we’re done.”

He stayed seated.

“I’d be careful about making me your enemy, sweetheart. You’ve benefited quite a bit from our partnership.”

Galinda’s hands trembled.

“I don’t owe you anything,” she said, voice low.

“You owe me everything,” he snapped, the mask slipping. “Your image. Your sponsors. Your safety net. And come your birthday, I’ll expect even more respect for that arrangement.”

She moved toward the door.

He stood just behind her.

She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t breathe, either.

“You’ll smile for the next gala,” he said, voice cool again. “You’ll walk beside me. You’ll remind people who made you.” You’ll show some gratitude.

She opened the door.

And left without looking back.

_____

She didn’t talk at dinner.

Didn’t even make it to dessert.

Elphaba followed her upstairs without being asked.

When Galinda sat on the bed, shoes still on, shoulders drawn up like armor, Elphaba sat across from her.

“Was it really just media training?”

Galinda didn’t answer.

But when Elphaba reached out, this time Galinda didn’t retreat.

She let herself be held.

And whispered:

“He doesn’t need to actually hurt me. Just remind me that he can.”

_____

Her father’s study smelled like leather, old paper, and the faint trace of pipe smoke that had never quite left the upholstery. The fire was lit low, casting a gentle, flickering glow across the edge of the governor’s desk. Outside, the frost was beginning to crust the windows again. It would snow by morning.

Elphaba stood in the doorway for a while before speaking.

Her father didn’t look up from his correspondence. “You’ve been pacing the hall for ten minutes.”

She stepped inside.

Shut the door.

“You have time for a question?”

“Is it a real question, or one dressed in hypotheticals?”

“Let’s say it’s… complex,” she said carefully, crossing the room.

He gestured for her to sit.

She didn’t.

“Let’s say there’s a girl,” Elphaba began. “Talented. Famous, even. Young, seventeen. With a promising career. Sponsorships. A rising profile.”

Governor Thropp looked amused. “Sounds familiar.”

“She’s also been mistreated. For years. Controlled. Exploited. And now the people who helped build her image are closing in, threatening to take more. And she’s scared. But trapped.”

Her father set his pen down.

“Elphaba,” he said mildly, “are we still pretending this is hypothetical?”

She met his gaze.

He waited.

Then nodded.

“Very well. Continue.”

“She can’t go to the press. She can’t go to the police. The people who hurt her have money, lawyers, contracts. All she has is… proximity. To someone with influence.”

“Ah.”

His hands folded together.

“And what does this influential someone want in return?”

Elphaba flinched. “Nothing.”

“Everyone wants something,” he said. “Even you.”

She didn’t answer.

He studied her in the firelight.

“Hypothetically,” he said, “what are you asking me to do?”

Elphaba straightened. “Is there a way to protect her? Quietly. Without dragging her through more exposure?”

He sighed softly.

“There are always ways. But not without cost.”

“What cost?”

“Leverage. Time. Favors. You’d be calling in things I’ve spent decades keeping clean.”

“So what?” Elphaba said, sharper than she meant to. “She’s worth it.”

“She may be,” he said calmly. “But are you?”

She stepped back like he’d slapped her.

He didn’t raise his voice. He never did.

“There is sympathy in the world, Elphaba. But it’s rarely free. And this girl you care so much for, what happens if she becomes a symbol? What happens if they decide to turn her into a scandal instead of a saint? Will she survive that? Would she want that? Would she want you after that”

“She’s already surviving a scandal,” Elphaba whispered. “She’s just doing it alone.”

Her father stood.

Walked past her.

Poured himself a drink.

“You’re asking me to tip a balance,” he said. “One I’ve kept intact for the good of this family.”

“And I’m asking you to break it,” Elphaba said, quiet but fierce.

He didn’t answer.

Not right away.

Just sipped once, eyes on the fire.

Then: “You have one favor. Choose how to use it.”

And with that, the meeting was over.

Chapter Text

The evening sky was darkening by the time they returned from practice. Shell had gone inside early, and Maudeline was already preparing supper. Galinda lingered in the greenhouse after the others left, just brushing the leaves of the lemon balm with her fingertips, eyes fixed on something far beyond the glass.

Elphaba found her there, hands in her pockets, silent.

They stood like that for a while.

Then Elphaba said, softly, “Can I ask you something?”

Galinda didn’t move. “You always can.”

“The night they called the police. The first time, I mean. When your father… when the hotel staff intervened.”

A pause.

Galinda’s shoulders tensed, but she didn’t walk away.

“What happened?”

_____

Galinda turned slowly, her expression unreadable.

There was no sarcasm in her voice. No practiced polish.

Just weariness.

“I told them he was yelling at the TV,” she said. “And that the bruises were from training.”

“Were they?”

Galinda met her gaze.

And then, without speaking, she stepped out of her jacket.

She lifted the hem of her shirt, just enough.

Faint, pale lines crisscrossed her lower back. Older than they should’ve been. Faded but unmistakable. Narrow, raised. The kind that took months to soften. The kind that came from force with precision. Fresher, redder marks overlaid some.

Elphaba said nothing.

Just breathed.

Galinda dropped her shirt and hugged her arms around her ribs, her attempt to self-soothe not lost on Elphaba.

“It wasn’t the first time,” she said. “Not even close. Wouldn’t be the last time either”

Elphaba’s voice was barely a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“Because I couldn’t.” Galinda’s voice cracked. “Because they’d take me off the team. Because if he didn’t coach me, I didn’t eat. Because the second you start needing protection, you’re not a champion anymore. You’re a liability.”

Elphaba stepped forward.

Slowly.

Gently.

And reached out.

Galinda didn’t flinch.

When Elphaba’s arms wrapped around her, she let herself melt into them—like something fragile and shivering finding a place to rest.

They stood in the fading greenhouse light, surrounded by the scent of soil and mint and spring blossoms.

“I didn’t know how to stop it,” Galinda whispered.

“You weren’t supposed to,” Elphaba murmured. “He was supposed to.”

Galinda closed her eyes.

“I’m so tired of being blamed for surviving.”

“You won’t be. Not with me.”

_____

They didn’t move from the greenhouse floor for a long time.

The air was cool and still, the scent of lemon balm and damp earth drifting softly between them. Galinda’s head rested against Elphaba’s shoulder, her knees drawn close to her chest. Neither girl said anything for a while.

Elphaba waited.

Not like someone expecting more, but like someone who could hold silence without needing to fill it.

Eventually, Galinda whispered, “I told you how he made me run to and from practice...”

Elphaba’s jaw clenched. She said nothing. Just listened.

“I used to tape my own feet when they bled through the shoes, when my nails came off if they were too small,” Galinda went on. “I thought it was normal. I thought… maybe this is what champions do.”

“And now?” Elphaba asked gently.

Galinda exhaled through her nose. “Now I know that wasn’t coaching. It was ownership.”

She paused.

Then, quieter: “I thought he hated me. I think he still does. Because I made him poor and tired and stuck in a life he didn’t want. And he made sure I knew it.” “Because I couldn’t save….”, but she swallowed the rest and didn’t finish the thought.

Elphaba took her hand. Held it like something sacred.

Galinda looked down at their fingers. “At night, I didn’t know if I was going to wake up with bruises or with someone watching me. He’d sit at the edge of the bed, talking about my form. My posture. My… other things.”

She didn’t finish that thought either.

She didn’t need to.

Elphaba squeezed her hand tighter. “You don’t have to say everything. I already believe you.”

That nearly broke her.

Galinda buried her face in Elphaba’s shoulder and cried, not loudly, not violently, just tears that came slow and exhausted, like they’d been waiting years for a safe place to fall.

_____

Later, as they lay side by side in bed, Galinda whispered, “Do you ever feel like your body doesn’t quite belong to you?”

Elphaba thought for a long time before answering.

“I think,” she said carefully, “your body is still yours. It always was. They just tried to steal the instructions.”

Galinda blinked up at the ceiling.

That didn’t fix anything.

But it was the first thing in a long time that made sense.

Chapter Text

The week before the next tournament, the energy at the Thropp estate shifted.

The court was cleared daily. Travel bags appeared in the front hall. Shell packed protein bars into Elphaba’s carry-on like it was a tactical mission.

Nessarose printed every document Galinda might forget—boarding pass, travel waiver, accommodation code, the color-coded itinerary Morrible’s office had sent.

Galinda hated it.

Not because of the packing.

Because the logo at the top of that itinerary was Diggs Global. It burned like a cattle brand.

_____

Elphaba pretended not to watch Galinda triple-check her bag for the fifth time.

Pretended not to notice how she flinched every time a notification buzzed on her phone.

But she noticed.

And when Galinda finally said, in a too-light voice, “Maybe I should change into something more photogenic for the airport,” Elphaba set her racquet down.

“You don’t have to impress anyone.”

Galinda gave her a look. “We both know that’s not true.”

Elphaba almost reached for her.

Almost said I’ll protect you from all of it.

But instead, she picked up the extra hoodie she’d been saving and handed it to her.

“Just wear this.”

_____

They were met by federation handlers in navy windbreakers and perfect teeth. Everything was branded: their gear, their water bottles, even the breakfast boxes. Cameras clicked the moment they stepped out of the car.

Elphaba immediately moved closer to Galinda.

Morrible swept in like a tornado wearing pressed wool. “Good, you’re early. Smile, both of you. Remember: this trip is about confidence. Global coverage, limited press time, and Diggs is sponsoring the gala dinner. You’ll be seated together.”

Galinda’s stomach dropped. “What gala?”

Morrible smiled thinly. “You’ll wear something that photographs well. We’re coordinating with Oscar’s people.”

Galinda said nothing.

She just pulled Elphaba’s hoodie tighter around herself

_____

The team was spread across business class.

Galinda and Elphaba sat together by quiet insistence. Morrible didn’t fight it, probably because she was busy pouring wine for herself and Oscar at the front of the cabin.

Oscar didn’t speak to Galinda until the meal service ended.

Then he rose, walked down the aisle, and knelt beside her seat like a suitor in a fairy tale.

“Elphaba,” he said smoothly. “Would you mind giving us a moment?”

“I would, actually.”

Galinda squeezed her hand under the blanket.

Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “It’s fine. I just wanted to wish you luck, sweetheart. Big stage. Big expectations.”

Galinda nodded stiffly. “Thank you.”

He touched the edge of her sleeve.

“New look?”

Her heart stopped.

She didn’t answer.

He smiled. “You’re still perfect. Just don’t disappoint me.”

Then he stood and walked away, as if he’d said nothing unusual.

_____

Elphaba tucked a blanket around both their laps.

Galinda didn’t speak for a long time.

When she finally did, her voice was quiet:

“This tournament could change everything.”

Elphaba nodded. “It will.”

“I just don’t know if I’ll survive the cost.”

Elphaba looked at her.

Then took her hand beneath the blanket.

“You don’t have to survive it alone.”

Chapter Text

The gala was held in a chandeliered ballroom with too-low ceilings.

It wasn’t small, not by square footage, but the walls were mirrored, the music dripped syrup-slow through unseen speakers, and every inch of the space felt like it was watching you back.

Galinda stood near the perimeter, her back to a pillar, pretending to read the drink menu. Her dress was ice-blue and fitted, the hem brushing her knees, the neckline high but sheer enough to please the cameras. Oscar had sent it, of course. Morrible approved it. The federation’s stylist insisted the color would make her eyes “pop.”

She felt like a centerpiece.

Like a trapped butterfly pinned under a layer of glass and polite conversation.

Elphaba saw Oscar enter before Galinda did.

He didn’t rush.

He didn’t need to.

He smarmed across the floor in his tailored suit like he’d already bought the room.

Two steps from Galinda, he smiled.

Elphaba stepped in from the side before he could open his mouth.

“Governor Thropp’s daughter,” she said, offering her hand. “I believe you’ve met my father.”

Oscar blinked.

Recovered quickly.

“Miss Thropp. Of course. Always a pleasure.”

“Not always,” Elphaba said coolly.

She didn’t explain what she meant.

He didn’t ask.

_____

Galinda wanted to disappear.

Elphaba’s presence was the only thing keeping her upright, but even that burned like friction, too much awareness. Too much of herself exposed.

Oscar turned to her, unbothered.

“You look radiant.”

Elphaba’s voice was like stone behind him. “She looks prepared. Which is more important.”

Oscar’s lips twitched.

“Come,” he said, gesturing toward the camera line. “Let’s take a few photos for the press.”

Galinda hesitated.
Elphaba stepped forward. “Coach requested her knee be rested tonight. We’ll be avoiding long periods standing.”

“She’ll be standing next to me,” Oscar said. “That’s worth the strain.”

“She’ll be playing doubles with me,” Elphaba snapped. “That’s worth the tournament.”

A pause.

A breath.

Oscar looked between them.

And smiled with all his teeth.

_____

He kept circling back.

Each time Elphaba intercepted.

She fetched drinks before he could.

Walked Galinda toward other athletes when he approached.

Joined conversations uninvited. Asked loud, strategic questions.

She offered her arm whenever Galinda shifted her weight, held her elbow when cameras drew close. It looked gallant. Protective.

It was tactical.

Oscar knew it.

And Galinda knew he knew.

By the end of the night, his eyes were sharp and cold.

“Your friend’s very attentive,” he murmured as Galinda passed the dessert table.

“She likes to win,” Galinda said.

“Winning comes in many forms.”

Galinda didn’t answer.

She simply walked away.

And Elphaba fell into step beside her without a word.

In the elevator, Galinda leaned against the mirrored wall, exhaling slowly.

Elphaba watched her.

“You okay?”

“No,” Galinda said. “But I’m not alone.”

Elphaba didn’t smile.

But she offered her hand.

Galinda took it.

And for the first time in hours, she let herself breathe.

Chapter Text

Morrible hadn’t slept well in days.

The press briefings had shifted tone.

What had started as praise for the federation’s golden girl and her stoic doubles partner had begun to rot around the edges—morphing from admiration into curiosity.

It wasn’t the performance.

It was the closeness.

The footage from the gala showed Elphaba intercepting Oscar like a bodyguard. Later angles showed Galinda curling toward her in the back of the hall, their hands brushing beneath the tablecloth.

One clip from practice the next morning went viral in twenty-four hours: Elphaba adjusting Galinda’s sleeve gently after a stumble, and Galinda looking up at her like she’d just been handed the sky.

The caption read:

“Tennis’s New Power Couple?”

_____

Morrible sat behind her desk, two browser tabs open side by side.

One was a string of headlines speculating about the pair:

“Thropp and Arduenna: Doubles Chemistry or Something More?”
“Ozlympic Sweethearts?”
“Protective Partner or Jealous Girlfriend?”

The other tab was Oscar’s latest email:

“If I find out your federation is encouraging this little fantasy to push me out of the picture, you’ll lose more than my funding.”

She steepled her fingers.

Two paths.

Both dangerous.

On the one hand, public queerness in sports was still treated like a volatile stock. Sure, Jilly Dean Queen survived it, but only after losing everything first.

On the other hand, using this story could kill Oscar’s narrative before he ever got to tell it. Leaving her free to direct the narrative as it suits the federation.

And wasn’t that what mattered?

Control.

She tapped her fingers on the desk.

Then reached for the intercom.

“Send in the girls.”

_____

Galinda sat stiffly, hair still damp from a post-practice shower, her natural curls trying to break free. Elphaba leaned back in her chair with a blank expression that only half hid her tension.

Morrible folded her hands on the table.

“You’ve seen the headlines.”

They didn’t answer.

“Let me be very clear,” she said. “I don’t care who holds hands with whom off the court. What I do care about is public perception. This federation cannot become a battleground for tabloid sentimentality or queer backlash.”

Galinda flinched slightly at the word queer.

Elphaba’s jaw tightened.

“We’re not…” Galinda started, then stopped.

“You’re not confirming anything,” Morrible said briskly. “Good. Don’t. It creates too much liability. But don’t deny it either. Let the public wonder.”

Elphaba narrowed her eyes. “You want us to perform ambiguity?”

Morrible smiled. “I want you to be interesting. And if it happens to keep a certain sponsor from pushing a predatory narrative onto our Ozlympic image, all the better.”

Galinda swallowed hard.

Morrible’s eyes pinned her. “I trust I don’t need to remind you what happens if he pulls his funding.”

“No,” Galinda said softly.

“Good. Then keep your heads down, your hands careful, and your matches clean.”

She dismissed them with a wave.

Elphaba didn’t stand.

“Are you using this to protect her?”

Morrible’s expression didn’t change.

“I’m doing what’s best for the sport.

_____

They didn’t speak in the hallway.

Not after Morrible’s clipped dismissal. Not in the elevator. Not even in the long walk back through the athlete wing of the hotel, past glossy federation posters and curated sponsorship signage that all suddenly felt like surveillance.

It wasn’t until the door closed behind them, Elphaba’s key card still warm from her hand, that Galinda exhaled.

And sat on the edge of the bed like the wind had been knocked out of her.

Elphaba stayed standing, back pressed to the door, arms folded tight across her chest.

“She’s not wrong,” Galinda said after a long silence.

Elphaba’s eyes flicked up. “About what?”

Galinda shrugged. “That letting them wonder is safer. It might be the only thing keeping him away.”

Elphaba moved slowly across the room.

Sat on the floor at Galinda’s feet.

Rested her chin on her knees.

“You didn’t deny it.”

“I couldn’t.”

Galinda’s voice was quiet. Steady, but not calm.

“Because part of me wanted them to think it.”

Elphaba looked up at her.

Their eyes met.

Galinda didn’t blush. Didn’t smile. Just looked exhausted. Haunted. Honest.

“When you stand next to me, I don’t feel disgusting,” she said.

Elphaba swallowed hard.

“And when you touch me,” Galinda continued, “I don’t brace for pain. Or shame. I just… breathe.”

Elphaba reached up, slow and deliberate, and laid her hand gently on Galinda’s knee.

“You never deserved to feel any of that,” she said.

“I know.” Galinda’s throat tightened. “But I still do.”

They sat like that for a while, touch light, silence heavy.

Then Galinda shifted, bent forward, and pressed her forehead to Elphaba’s.

“I don’t know what we are,” she whispered. “But I know I’m not pretending with you.”

“You don’t have to be.”

Galinda closed her eyes.

And Elphaba reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Not claiming.

Just caring.

And Galinda, tired, raw, and finally, completely real, let herself lean in.

Chapter Text

By the third day of press week, they were no longer athletes.

They were a narrative.

Two girls. Two racquets. One room key. The questions started as whispers. Then hashtags. Then journalists pretending to care about strategy only to ask, with a wink, “How’s the chemistry off the court?”

Galinda had been through this before, when the cereal box deal broke, when the documentary aired, when her father’s meltdown went viral.

But this was different.

This was her and Elphaba. It wasn’t her it was them.

And suddenly every look between them was analyzed like scripture.

_____

Elphaba hated it.

She hated the way camera flashes went off when she so much as touched Galinda’s wrist during warm-up.

Hated how she couldn’t walk through the hotel lobby without being followed.

She wasn’t used to this. She wasn’t the girl in front of the lens. She’d always been the one holding the light steady for someone else.

And now, they called her half of the story.

Every smile was dissected. Every moment with Galinda reduced to aesthetic. Was it real? Was it promotional? Was it leverage?

And worst of all, Elphaba wasn’t sure she knew anymore either.

Because the feelings were real.

But they didn’t belong to anyone else.

_____

Galinda smiled through interviews. Posed for the right shots. Wore the dress Morrible told her to wear for the press dinner.

But something inside her felt split open.

It wasn’t Elphaba’s presence that made it hard.

It was how easy it would be for someone to ruin it. History had taught her to be vigilant.

Then the call came.

She should’ve muted her phone.

But she answered it, crouched in the athlete lounge, still in her post-practice gear, exhausted and sore.

Her father’s voice was slurred before he even spoke.

“You made yourself a dyke in front of the entire world?”

Galinda froze.

“No one said that,” she whispered, looking around.

“I saw the footage. Everyone saw it. You holding her like you’re married. Letting her parade you around like some soft little thing. What, is that your type now? Girls with spines? Girls who don’t flinch when someone raises a hand?”

She didn’t respond.

She couldn’t.

“You’re embarrassing me,” he hissed. “You always were. Now everyone else gets to see it too. I don’t know what Digg’s has been doing wrong but when you’re back I’ll remind you what a real man is”.

She ended the call.

Blocked the number.

Then curled into herself behind the locker room bench and tried to break soundlessly.

_____

Elphaba found her twenty minutes later.

Didn’t ask.

Just sat down beside her on the concrete floor and passed her a cold water bottle.

Galinda didn’t speak.

But after a while, her hand crept toward Elphaba’s.

Fingers tangled. Held on.

And neither of them had to say it aloud:

The world was watching.

But so were they.

And that mattered more.

She tucked her head under Elphaba’s chin where it fit best, and breathed.

Chapter Text

The morning of the first match, the sky was washed-out and too bright.

Galinda sat in the locker room tightening the laces on her shoes for the third time, hands steady, stomach not.

Elphaba stood by the mirror retying her braid.

Neither spoke.

They didn’t have to.

The pressure spoke for them, low, insistent, humming behind every breath.

_____

Galinda was up first.

Center court.

The cameras tracked her entrance like she was royalty and a crime scene all at once.

She smiled. She waved.

Then she double-faulted her first serve.

It got better after that, but not by much. Her footwork was sharp but just a beat late. Her timing was off. Her wrist ached in the third set. She got clipped at the net more times than she could count.

But she got through.

Barely.

6–4, 3–6, 7–5.

She didn’t celebrate. Just nodded once at her opponent, bowed her head to the crowd, and left the court like a ghost of herself.

_____

The match before hers ran long, so Elphaba had to warm up twice.

When she finally walked onto the clay, the wind picked up.

She’d never liked wind.

And now she hated it.

The media box was packed. People she didn’t recognize whispering into mics. One of them wore a pin with Galinda’s face on it.

Her opponent was a right-hander with a slice serve Elphaba couldn’t read until the second set.

She lost the first 4–6.

Galinda watched from the tunnel.

She saw her. Knew she saw her.

And something steadied.

Elphaba won the next two sets clean: 6–3, 6–2.

No fist pump. No smile. Just survival.

But with the knowledge she wasn’t alone.

_____

It was scheduled late, under the lights. By then, the air had shifted. The crowd was louder. The whispers sharper.

But Galinda and Elphaba stood side by side behind the baseline and waited for the serve like it was the only place in the world they belonged.

And it was.

They moved in tandem. Covered each other’s weaknesses. Galinda’s lobs landed just beyond reach. Elphaba’s returns bit the clay with vicious precision.

6–1, 6–1. A bakery of sorts.

They walked off the court together. Shoulder to shoulder.

No press.

No cameras.

Just the echo of the court and the thud of their footsteps in the hallway.

Galinda leaned her head briefly against Elphaba’s shoulder, their hands brushing.

“You didn’t miss once in the third set,” Galinda whispered.

“You were flawless at net,” Elphaba said.

Galinda smiled.

Small.

Real.

And Elphaba reached over and wiped a smudge of clay off her cheek with the back of her hand.

They said nothing more.

But they didn’t have to.

_____

The second round came faster than expected.

No recovery window. No real pause.

Just two barely-slept nights and a morning that smelled like nerves and sweat and overripe fruit in the player dining hall.

Elphaba was up first this time.

The stadium court felt too wide, too bright.

There was no Galinda-shadow beside her, no rhythm to fall into. Just silence, save for the umpire’s voice and the thud of the ball and the way the crowd seemed to grow louder each time she faltered.

She wasn’t playing badly, she just wasn’t playing freely.

She hesitated too long on approach shots. Second-guessed her returns. And once, when she looked up into the media box and caught someone whispering behind a lens, she missed a ball completely.

It scraped the line behind her.

Game.

~

Galinda sat stone-faced in the players’ box, legs crossed, back ramrod straight, cap pulled low on her brow.

But her fingers twitched against her thigh.

She could see the tension in Elphaba’s shoulders. The stiffness in her serve. The subtle way her foot turned out on her pivot, a habit she only fell into when she was overthinking.

She wanted to run down there and tell her: Just breathe. Just play.

But she couldn’t.

And the helplessness gnawed at her.

~

Elphaba won in three. But it didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like surviving an autopsy.

When she met Galinda in the hallway afterward, she didn’t speak. Just dropped her racquet bag and let her forehead rest against Galinda’s collarbone.

Galinda held her without question.

And didn’t let go for a long time.

_____

Galinda had trained her whole life to perform through pain. But not this pain.

Not the kind where every glance felt like a dare and every whisper sounded like fraud.

She played well. Sharp, even. But not like herself. She hesitated just long enough at deuce to let a service break go. Rushed a drop shot in the second set because she thought she saw her father in the stands-even though she knew he wasn’t there.

She won. But barely.

And walked off court to thunderous applause she couldn’t quite feel.

_____

Together, however?
Together they were dangerous.

They moved like parts of the same machine: Galinda sharp at net, Elphaba slicing through the baseline defense, a synchronized rhythm of precision and pressure and trust.

Their opponents weren’t weak. But they were undone in straight sets. 6–2, 6–3. The crowd stood for that one.

And this time, Galinda felt it. Because Elphaba’s hand brushed her back as they bowed to the crowd, and when she turned, Elphaba gave her that look, that small, fierce, I see you look, and Galinda knew.

Whatever else was crumbling,

This?

Was not.

Chapter Text

By the third round, the fatigue was no longer something they could outrun.

It was in the tape around Galinda’s knees, wrists.

In the way Elphaba stared too long at the same page of the match schedule, as if she could edit it with her mind.

It was in the silence between them in the morning, the absence of jokes, the coffee cooling untouched on the breakfast table.

_____

Elphaba lost her first service game. Not because her opponent was better. Because she hesitated.

Again.

And again.

She hit three unforced errors in a row at the start of the second set. Her footwork was half a beat behind, just enough to scramble her timing, not enough for the coaches to intervene.

She pulled through.

6–3, 6–4.

But she walked off with her shoulders hunched like she’d failed.

~

Galinda cheered. She smiled. She waited in the tunnel with a bottle of water and a quick, dry hug. But it sat heavy in her chest. Because she could see it. The crack forming beneath Elphaba’s sharp edges. The subtle unraveling. She tried to say, “You’re still brilliant.” But Elphaba just nodded and stared straight ahead.

_____

Galinda was sharp that day. Not perfect, but sharp.

Her opponent was aggressive, good, but Galinda outlasted her in every rally, punishing with her baseline consistency, pinning every forehand exactly where it hurt most.

6–2, 6–4.

She walked off the court soaked in sweat and satisfied.

Until she saw the note.

_____

It wasn’t handed to her. It wasn’t official. It was tucked, just barely, under the strap of her bag where she would see it and no one else would. Folded neatly. Slid in like a secret. She didn’t read it right away. Her hands were shaking too much.

Later, in the locker room, she unfolded it slowly. No name. Just two sentences, in slanted handwriting:

I liked you better before you started hiding behind her. We both know you belong to me.

I’ll see you again soon, princess.

She folded it up again with surgical precision.
Threw it away.

Then washed her hands three times before leaving the room.

_____

She didn’t tell Elphaba. Not that night. Not yet.
But she played like someone who needed to hit something, every return low and vicious, her volleys crisp, her overheads brutal.

Elphaba matched her, for a while. But something was different. She missed an easy putaway at deuce. Didn’t call out a switch in time at net. Still, they won.

6–3, 6–2.

But for the first time, it felt like a fight.

_____

Galinda didn’t sleep.

She checked the locks twice. Then lay awake beside Elphaba, curled close, breath shallow. She didn’t say a word.
But she didn’t let go of Elphaba’s hand all night.

And Elphaba, though half-asleep, never asked why. She just held on tighter.

_____

The quarterfinals came with clouds.

Not rain. Just a dim, dense grayness that clung to the edges of the day, the kind of weather that made the world feel closer and heavier than it should.

Galinda had barely eaten. Elphaba hadn’t spoken all morning.

_____

Elphaba went out in three sets.

Hard-fought. Furious.

But her opponent was clean. Relentless. And Elphaba was tired. Worse than that, she was inside her own head.

She double-faulted at break point in the final game. The second serve clipped the net and landed in the alley like a sigh.

Match over.

No dramatics.

No tantrum.

Just the finality of the scoreline and the eerie silence that followed her walk off the court.

_____

Galinda waited outside the locker room for nearly an hour before Elphaba came out.

Their eyes met.

No words.

But Elphaba reached out, just once, and brushed Galinda’s wrist with the edge of her fingers.

Galinda caught the gesture like a lifeline.

_____

Galinda was sharper on court. Crueler. Elphaba’s loss burned behind her eyes, not as a distraction, but as fuel.
She hit lines she’d missed all week. Her returns screamed across the net. The crowd loved it.

She didn’t care.

6–2, 6–1.

Clinical.

When she bowed to the crowd, her hands trembled.

_____

After matches, players were rotated through the athlete recovery centre, private, hushed, dimly lit. It smelled of eucalyptus and sweat and a tired kind of victory.

Galinda was alone there for ten minutes, sipping electrolyte water and staring at the floor. When the door opened, she didn’t look up right away.

It wasn’t Elphaba.

It wasn’t anyone she recognized.

A man. Mid-forties. Too well-dressed for staff. Lanyard flipped backward. Clipboard in one hand. He smiled like he knew something.

“You’re not as impressive up close,” he said casually, taking a step into the room.

Galinda froze.

“Excuse me?”

He held up the clipboard. “Just here for a form. Tournament admin.” She stood. “Then show me your badge.” He smiled again.

Didn’t move.

“I always thought the camera made you look a little softer,” he said, gaze drifting too slow over her. “Turns out it wasn’t the lens. Galinda’s pulse slammed into her throat. He grabbed for her hand.

She snatched up her bag and moved toward the door, fast.

He didn’t follow.

Just watched her. And as she reached the handle, he said, low, flat:

“You can’t hide behind her forever.”

_____

Galinda didn’t tell anyone. Not yet.

Not even Elphaba.

~

Next were the flowers. A dozen white roses.
Delivered to their hotel room by a courier wearing the official tournament badge and a warm smile that meant nothing at all.

There was no card.

She stared at them too long before picking them up. Snapped the stems in half over the trash bin and threw them away without speaking.

_____

That night, Elphaba found her in the hotel gym at 1:20 a.m.

She wasn’t running.

She wasn’t lifting.

Just standing on the treadmill, not moving, hands curled tight around the rails, her eyes locked on the silent television screen like it might blink first.

Elphaba stood in the doorway for a long minute. Then said, “You haven’t slept.”
Galinda didn’t answer.

_____

Galinda’s breakfast went cold. She spent the team strategy meeting staring at her phone, even though it never buzzed.

Elphaba noticed the bruise on her wrist during warmup.

“Did you fall?”

Galinda blinked. “What?”

“Your wrist.”

“Oh. Yeah. Hit it on the locker yesterday.”

Elphaba didn’t believe her.

Didn’t push.

Yet.

_____

It came two hours before Galinda’s semifinal.

A single flash drive slipped under her door in a blank envelope.

Inside: images. Screenshots. All of them grainy. All of them time-stamped.

Her and Elphaba.

One outside their suite.
One on the practice court, standing too close. One in the lobby elevator, arms brushing.

At the bottom of the folder: a note.

You look so much happier before she started protecting you.
I miss the old you.

Don’t make me take her away.

She didn’t scream. She just backed away from the desk slowly and sank to the floor.

_____

Elphaba found her again without meaning to, cutting through the hallway to grab her racquet bag, and stopped short when she saw Galinda sitting on the floor outside their room, hands in her lap, pale and silent.

The door was open.

Inside, a small envelope lay discarded on the carpet.

“Galinda,” she said gently.

Nothing.

Elphaba crouched.

“Talk to me.”

Galinda shook her head.

Elphaba waited.

“I think someone’s watching us,” Galinda whispered. “I think… I don’t know what they want. But they know where we are. All the time.”

Elphaba’s throat went dry. “Who?”

“I don’t know. They haven’t touched me, not really,
But I think they will.”

“Define ‘not really’”, Elphaba said tersely.

_____

Galinda didn’t play.

The tournament gave her a few hours to reschedule.

She sat on the bed, shaking.

Elphaba paced.

Morrible knocked twice. Elphaba ignored her.

When it was quiet again, she sat beside Galinda and took her hand.

“You’re not alone,” she said. “Whatever this is, I’m not letting it get to you.”

Galinda looked at her.

“I’m afraid it already has.”

_____

The court felt too open.

It always did on semifinal days, packed bleachers, focused cameras, everything heightened.

But today, it felt exposed.

Like every inch of clay might give her away.

She taped her wrists twice. Double-knotted her shoes. Tied her hair back with a new elastic and told herself it was just another match.

It wasn’t.

Elphaba tried to offer a hug, but Galinda had pulled away with a forced smile and the excuse of a pre-match focus ritual that didn’t exist.

She didn’t want comfort.

She wanted to survive. Needed to harden herself to do so.

~

The match started tight.

She lost the first game. Served too soft. Let two second serves get attacked and clipped the net with a rushed backhand.

But she rallied.

Galinda knew how to build a wall and hit through it. She returned with bite, forced errors, pressed angles until her opponent cracked.

She won the first set 6–4.

The second was cleaner, 4–0 before nerves caught up to her again.

And that’s when she saw him.

Row 7 or so. Near the aisle. Alone. Too familiar. Too still. Same coat. Same eyes. Watching her like he already knew the outcome.

She double-faulted.

Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her wrists.

He didn’t move. Just lifted his phone.

And took a picture.

~

She nearly asked for a timeout. Nearly walked off.

But she didn’t.

She adjusted her grip.
Switched racquets.

And served four aces in a row.

6–4, 6–2.

Match, Galinda.

She bowed. Did not smile. Walked straight off the court with her hand curled into a fist inside her towel.

And never looked back.

~

Elphaba was waiting in the tunnel.

Galinda didn’t speak. Just grabbed her sleeve, tight, urgent.

Elphaba blinked. “Galinda?”

Galinda leaned in, breath shallow.

“He was here,” she whispered. “I saw him.”

Elphaba’s spine stiffened. “Where?”

“Watching. Recording. I don’t think anyone else even noticed.”

Elphaba’s jaw clenched.

“Then it’s time we make them notice.”

Chapter Text

She found the note folded inside her warm-up jacket. It had been draped carefully across the bench in their private suite, where only staff had access, where only trusted people entered.

At first, she thought it was a misplaced press packet, or a staff note.
Then she saw the handwriting. The same slant. The same ink. Her stomach dropped. She unfolded it with shaking fingers.

No greeting. No signature. Just five lines.

You’re not the girl they think you are.
I’ve seen you, before she got her hands on you.
You looked at me once. You smiled. That meant something.

I don’t care if she’s trying to keep you.
You were always going to be mine.

She didn’t breathe for almost a minute.

_____

She didn’t tell Elphaba.
Not yet. What would she say? That someone was watching? That someone thought her kindness was a promise?

That somehow, the smallest scraps of humanity she’d thrown into the world had become chains in someone else’s mind?

No. Not yet.

She shoved the note into her bag. Changed into practice clothes.
Pulled her hair into a tight braid and stared at herself in the mirror until the girl looking back stopped shaking.

~

The sun was setting over the practice courts. Orange light pooled across the clay.
Galinda stepped onto the court alone. Racquet in hand. Expression blank.

She didn’t hit softly. She hit like she was trying to bury something beneath the dirt. Ball after ball after ball. Until her palms stung. Until her breath turned to steam in the cooling air.

~

When Elphaba came to find her, she didn’t ask why she was already sweating through her second shirt. She just picked up a racquet. Stood across from her. And started hitting.

Galinda didn’t say anything for fifteen minutes. Then finally, between volleys: “If something ever happened to you, I think I’d unravel.”

Elphaba didn’t stop moving. Just hit the next ball. And said: “Then we don’t let anything happen.”

_____

Galinda woke early, before the alarms, before the sun reached the slats of the hotel blinds.

The final.

She sat in the dark with her knees drawn to her chest, one hand resting on her chest to count the beats. A trick Elphaba had taught her. Count them. Name them. Remind yourself your body is still yours.

She dressed slowly. Ate half a banana. Threw the other half away when it tasted like paper.

By the time she walked onto the court, the stadium felt like it was swallowing her whole.

But she kept walking.

And the crowd stood for her.

~

She didn’t float.

This wasn’t poetry. It was gritty and intense.
Her opponent was powerful, smart, all the things they said Galinda was, but Galinda was something else that day. Not faster. Not stronger.

But unbreakable.

Each point was carved out like stone.
A tiebreaker that stretched like a wire.

Her racquet felt like lead. Her heart like thunder. But when the last return shot came, she stepped into it, fully, completely, and sent it screaming down the sideline.

Clean. Final.

Champion.

_____

They handed her the trophy. She smiled.
Cameras flashed.
A thousand hands clapped.

And she couldn’t hear any of it. Because all she could hear was her own voice saying: Don’t cry. Don’t fall. Don’t let it mean nothing.

She waved. She bowed.

And when the ceremony ended, she walked off alone, knowing Elphaba was waiting, but needing just a minute more to feel it.

~

She didn’t see him until the hallway turned. No guards. No cameras. Just her and him and the hush of distant cheering. He stepped from behind a storage cart like he’d been waiting there all day.

Same smile. Same stillness.

“You looked pretty on court,” he said. “I like the white. It looks like surrender.”

She froze.

He stepped closer.

“They keep trying to build you into something else,” he said, low. “But I remember the girl who looked at me in the parking lot. You knew. You felt it.”

“I don’t even know your name,” she said, barely above a whisper.

He smiled wider. “That’s what makes it pure.”

She moved. Fast. Past him. But his hand brushed her shoulder, not to grab, but to remind. A featherlight promise.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he said.

~

She found Elphaba in the locker room. Didn’t speak. Just met her eyes and whispered: “He was here again.”
And this time, she didn’t try to hide the shaking.

_____

They didn’t knock.

Elphaba opened the door to her temporary office with a force Morrible hadn’t seen in months.

Galinda stood beside her, shoulders square, expression stone, but her hands were white-knuckled at her sides.

“He got in,” Elphaba said.

“Who?”

“The man stalking her,” she snapped. “The one you said wasn’t your jurisdiction. The one who’s been here, in the lounge, in the halls, in the stands.”

Morrible’s face didn’t change. But her eyes did.

Galinda swallowed hard. “He touched me. He said he’d come back. And I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Morrible finally stood.

_____

Everything was different.

There were no official announcements, no armed guards, no panicked headlines to replace the romantic speculations. Just subtle shifts.

Two unfamiliar faces at the end of the hallway wearing federation polos and earpieces. Doors that stayed propped open just a crack.

An empty locker beside Galinda’s suddenly taken, occupied by a woman with no racquet bag, no lanyard, and eyes that scanned the room like a drone. Security, she realized. Federation-approved, quiet, deliberate.

Morrible had acted.

The man’s face had been pulled from the televised footage and circulated discreetly across internal systems. Elphaba had said so in the hall last night, voice low, hand braced gently at the small of Galinda’s back as if to anchor her to the floor.

Still, it was hard to breathe.

_____

They ran drills with sharp, efficient silence.
Galinda’s footwork was flawless. Elphaba’s returns cracked like thunder.
But the spaces between hits felt slower, tension curled into them like smoke.

Every time Galinda turned her head, she thought she saw someone watching.
And every time she blinked, she told herself she imagined it.

~

Elphaba knocked once on the suite door and stepped inside without waiting. She’d brought two mugs of something warm and herbal-smelling.

Galinda was sitting on the edge of the bed, her shoes still laced.
“Chamomile,” Elphaba said.

Galinda didn’t respond at first. Then: “Do you think he’ll come again?”

“I think he’s already gone too far.”

That answer made her stomach twist.
But she nodded. “He thinks I belong to him.”

Elphaba set the mug down and knelt in front of her. “You don’t belong to anyone.”

Galinda’s breath hitched. “Not even to you?”

Elphaba’s voice softened. “Especially not to me.” She took Galinda’s hand, cool, trembling, real. “I want you,” Elphaba said, “because you’re still here. Not because I kept you.”

Galinda closed her eyes. Then leaned forward, forehead against Elphaba’s. And whispered, “Then help me finish this.”

~

They slept with the door latched. Two security staff posted in the hallway.

Galinda woke once, just before dawn, and turned toward Elphaba in the dark. And for the first time in days, she whispered: “I’m not scared right now.”

Elphaba pulled her closer. “You don’t have to be. Not anymore.”

Chapter Text

By the time they stepped onto the court, the sky was the color of flint and rose gold. It had rained lightly that morning, not enough to delay play, just enough to leave the air cool and heavy, the clay just damp enough to hold memory underfoot.

Galinda took her place at the baseline. Elphaba stood beside her, calm, still. And when their eyes met across the net for the first time that match, they didn’t nod or speak. They didn’t have to.

It was a final that demanded rhythm.
Their opponents were tall, fast, and precise, two players who had never once cracked under pressure. But Galinda and Elphaba were something else entirely. They weren’t fast. They were exact.
They weren’t loud.
They were in tune.

At the net, Galinda moved before Elphaba even finished the first motion of a serve. She knew where the ball would land, where Elphaba would place it, not because she’d planned it, but because she felt it.

At the backline, Elphaba adjusted her stride without thinking when she saw the slight shift in Galinda’s foot, signalling a drop shot before the swing even began.

They played as one. Not mirrored, not echoed…

Interlaced.

6–4.

5–2.

The crowd was a pressure cooker of thunder and awe. At match point, they didn’t blink. Elphaba served wide. Galinda rushed net. One low volley. One stretch.
One final slam down the center line.

Match.

_____

The sound was tidal.
They didn’t fall into each other. They stood. Backs straight. Shoulders brushing.
And when Galinda turned to her, barely hearing her own name over the roar, she said only:

“We did it.”

And Elphaba smiled, wide, unguarded, and whispered: “No. You did.”

They didn’t rush the trophy. They didn’t need to. Their victory was already woven between them. And when they raised their hands together, no one watching could pretend this was just partnership.
It was devotion. And it had just won the world.

_____

Morrible always preferred press events to competition. Matches were chaotic, unscripted things, unruly bodies on clay, momentum governed by emotion rather than calculation. But a press conference, that could be managed. Framed. Posed. Contained.

And today, of all days, they needed containment. The federation’s golden girl had just won everything. Perfect symmetry: singles and doubles.

Twice a blond head raised in triumph. Two arcs converging into one. The world would eat it alive.

______

Morrible arrived ten minutes early. Her assistants were already pacing.
The media was gathered in tight formation, rows of plastic chairs under harsh lights, every one filled. The front row was packed with credentialed reporters and high-profile sponsors. Beyond them, freelance vultures and second-tier publications stood at the back, recording on phones, hungry for angles. Cameras framed the dais. Microphones stood like sentries. Morrible’s gaze swept the crowd with instinctive calculation.

No anomalies.

Just noise.

~

Galinda entered first. Her posture was perfect, her smile fractionally too bright.
The dark circles under her eyes had been concealed with skill, but Morrible saw the stiffness in her neck, the flick of her gaze to every door. She’d barely spoken since the match.

Elphaba followed. Chin high. Dressed in her trademark black. Jaw tight with purpose.

Morrible seated herself behind the curtain, stage left, close enough to intercede. Close enough to monitor.

~

The questions began with expected symmetry.

“Galinda, what does this victory mean for you, emotionally?”

“Elphaba, was there a moment you knew the match was yours?”

“Can you speak to the partnership you’ve built?”

They answered well.
Brief. Gracious. Steady.
They knew the dance.

Morrible let herself settle into it. The edges of her vision softened. The flashbulbs became rhythmic. The voices dulled into manageable volume.

Until the man in the tan blazer raised his hand.

Morrible hadn’t seen him earlier. No badge. No mic logo. But he stood in the aisle with such calm, practiced composure that no one questioned it.

Galinda looked up.
And went very, very still.

Elphaba’s hand moved, barely perceptible, toward the edge of the table.

The moderator nodded to him. “You in the second row?” He stepped forward.

Not slowly. Not rushed. Just wrong.

Elphaba stood.

Galinda froze.

Then he lunged.

Chapter Text

The table crashed backward. Papers flew. The cameras followed everything.

Morrible’s breath caught mid-command as the man vaulted the dais and grabbed Elphaba’s shoulder hard, yanking her off-balance. She twisted. Fought.

He shoved her aside. And turned to Galinda.

The kiss wasn’t a kiss.
It was a collision. An act of theft. Galinda recoiled with a scream that never left her mouth, his arms wrapping tight around her midsection like he was trying to take her, fold her into him.

“Don’t fight me,” he said. Into her ear. Into the cameras.

~

Security surged. The taser crackled once, then twice.

The man seized.

And fell.

Onto Galinda.

Hard.

Dead weight.

Morrible’s stomach turned to ice.

Galinda hit the stage with a choked breath, her legs pinned, her wrists caught beneath his limp body.

The cameras didn’t cut. They zoomed.

She didn’t scream. She just lay there. Eyes wide.

Elphaba was the first to reach her, prying the man’s shoulder back, wrenching his weight off her with shaking arms.

Galinda gasped once.
Then crumpled.

Elphaba didn’t hesitate. She knelt beside her. And held her. Not for the crowd. Not for the narrative. But like a lifeline. Like an anchor to the world.

Morrible stood frozen, two steps from the curtain, her hand gripping the frame. And for the first time in years, she realized she wasn’t in control. The world had seen everything. And none of it could be erased.

~

The man was in cuffs before Morrible reached the stage. Security had descended like wolves, dragging him off Galinda’s crumpled frame and pinning him to the ground with mechanical force. Someone in a blazer shouted about federal jurisdiction. Another ordered the cameras to stop rolling.

But it was too late. The feed had been live.
Unedited. Unfiltered.

The world had already seen Galinda on the ground, frozen. Had seen Elphaba wrench the man’s weight off her like she’d tear gravity itself apart to get to her. Had seen Galinda reach for Elphaba and only her, even when medics arrived. Had seen everything.

And Morrible, shaken, breathless, heels damp from spilt water as she stepped behind the broken dais, realized something else:

There was no stopping this. But there was spinning it.

Chapter Text

The press conference was postponed within six minutes. Morrible made the call herself, hissing it into the assistant’s ear while simultaneously typing out a preliminary damage control release on her tablet.

“Elphaba Thropp intervened heroically.”

“Unidentified intruder now in police custody.”

“No injuries requiring hospitalization.”

“Team to regroup privately under federation care.”

She avoided the words attack, trauma, assault.

Let others say it first. She would own what came after.

~

Galinda sat on the leather couch in the green room, one shoe missing, her jacket still half on. Her eyes were open but unfocused, somewhere beyond the walls, the noise, the trembling hands gripping a paper cup she wasn’t drinking from. She looked like a statue left too long in a storm.

Morrible approached.
“My dear,” she said softly, crouching to eye level. “You’re safe. He’s gone.”

Galinda didn’t respond. But her eyes flicked toward the opposite couch, where Elphaba sat with ice on her temple, still watching Galinda like she might shatter if looked away from.

Morrible clocked it instantly. The thread. The headline. The salvation.

~

Statement from the Oz Federation of Tennis

“This tragic breach of security during our champions’ press conference was swiftly handled thanks to the calm and quick thinking of our athletes and staff. Galinda Arduenna and Elphaba Thropp have displayed not only strength and grace under pressure, but the kind of bond that defines true partnership—on and off the court.

In times of fear, it is love, platonic or romantic, that reveals who we are. These two young women remind us that resilience is not just about physical strength, but about choosing each other.

We stand with them. And we thank the world for standing with them, too.”*

Morrible smiled faintly to herself. Let the world call them Gelphie. Let the hashtags bloom. Let the sponsors pivot. The scandal was already theirs, she might as well make it beautiful.

And profitable.

_____

The room smelled of citrus and power. It was one of those high-floor federation-owned suites in the media tower: expensive without being personal, all glass and leather and silence. Morrible had chosen it because the windows reflected the city lights instead of the mirror. She waited exactly thirty seconds past the hour. Then Oscar arrived. And slammed the door behind him.

“She was mine,” he snapped before he even crossed the room. “Do you understand that?”

Morrible didn’t blink. “Sit down.”

“She was branded, Morrible. Do you know how much I’ve poured into her image? The clothes? The exclusives? The foundation grants tied to her charity appearances?”

“Sit. Down.”

He did, but only because she wasn’t someone you shouted at without consequence.

“She was attacked on my watch,” he hissed, pacing in front of the picture window now. “By some deranged fanboy who thought she was giving out… what? Signals? Smiles? Intimacy?”

He spat the word like it was a crime.

Morrible folded her hands. “No one was giving anything. And she is not your property.”

“Don’t be naïve. You sold her the same way I did. Just with better lighting.”

She let that hang in the air. Let him hear it.
Let him hear himself.
Then: “She was almost kidnapped on live television.”

Oscar turned, eyes gleaming. “And you’re sitting here like that’s a problem.”

She arched one brow. “Would you like to be quoted on that?”

Silence. Long. Ugly.
Then, softly, calculating: “What’s your angle?”

Morrible stood and walked to the window. “The footage’s already viral. The girl trembling. The other girl holding her. Hands still dirty from the match, but shielding her like a soldier. People are eating it alive.”

“I’ve seen the trending tags.”
“#Gelphie. #MyChampion. #ProtectHer.
It’s romantic. It’s tragic. It’s perfect.”

Oscar snorted. “So you’re letting them play girlfriends.”

“I’m letting them play heroes.”

Another pause.

Then Oscar asked the real question. “Does it keep me in the picture?”

Morrible turned. And smiled. “You want her marketable? Safe? Profitable?” She reached for her tablet and tapped it twice. A paused frame appeared on the screen, Elphaba with her arms around Galinda, eyes sharp, holding her like something sacred. “Then this is your answer. Lean into the love story. The partnership. The protection. You back it, and you look benevolent. She stays golden. You stay relevant. You stay, close”

Oscar stared at the image. Then sat. “Fine,” he said. “We sell the illusion.”

“No,” Morrible corrected. “We protect the asset. And if you so much as look like you’re undermining it…”

“I get it.” His voice was low now. Controlled.

“She’s not yours anymore,” Morrible said. But she didn’t mean Galinda. She meant the narrative.

And Oscar, after a long, simmering breath, finally nodded.

Chapter Text

The room was quiet, heavy with artificial calm. Federation security had moved them to the innermost suite of the complex, an unmarked floor guarded by two staffers in earpieces and bland expressions. No press. No cameras. No glass walls. No windows. Just soft lights and silence.

Elphaba hated it.

Galinda hadn’t spoken in three hours.

They lay side by side on the narrow couch, legs overlapping slightly, a blanket draped unevenly over their knees. The TV was on mute, showing a news panel dissecting the footage of the attack for the fifth time that hour. Galinda stared at it like it might swallow her.
Elphaba didn’t look.
Her gaze stayed on Galinda’s hands, folded tightly in her lap, nails dug into her palm.

“They’re calling me your girlfriend,” Galinda said at last.

Elphaba swallowed. “I know.”

“They’re calling you mine.”

“I know.”

Silence.

Then Galinda said, quieter: “It’s not that I don’t want it.”

Elphaba turned to her, brow furrowed.

“I just wanted to choose.”

The words hit like a soft bruise. Elphaba nodded slowly. “You still can.”

Galinda’s throat worked around a word she didn’t say. Instead, she whispered, “Would you have said yes?”

“To being yours?”

A long pause.

Elphaba answered, honest and unguarded: “Yes. Since the first time you looked at me and didn’t ask me to be anyone else.”

Galinda blinked fast. Then leaned in, forehead resting against Elphaba’s. And whispered, “Then I’m choosing now.”

_____

The media prep team arrived at 6:45 a.m.
A new campaign was already in motion: soft lighting, joint interviews, pre-cleared questions. A partnership forged through adversity.
A story of strength.

They were handed coordinated outfits, off-court casuals in soft pinks and deep greens.

“You’re going out there together,” one handler said. “United front. Speak from the heart, but stay on message. Love wins. Courage. Growth.”

Galinda looked at Elphaba.

Elphaba gave a faint nod.

Galinda said, “Then let’s win the part that matters.”

_____

The suite had a mirror.

Not a grand one, just a tall, narrow panel bolted between the wardrobe and the windowless wall. It caught only the edges of things: the curve of a shoulder, the flick of a sleeve, the tilt of a jaw.

Galinda stood in front of it barefoot, hair half-pinned, foundation already smudged once and re-applied. Her hands were steady now. They hadn’t been earlier.

~

Elphaba sat on the arm of the couch, flipping absently through the pre-approved talking points their handler had left on the desk.
Her eyes weren’t reading, they were watching Galinda.
But not the way the world watched her, hungry, possessive.
Just present. “You don’t have to wear that if it makes you uncomfortable,” Elphaba said gently.

Galinda glanced at the blush pink dress laid out on the bed, soft, almost romantic in cut, chosen by the team for its perceived vulnerability.

She shrugged. “I’ve worn less for people who wanted more from me.”

“Still.”

“I want this one to look real.”

Elphaba tilted her head. “Because it is?”

Galinda’s lips curved into something almost like a smile.

Almost.

She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on her shoes slowly. “I used to think if I played the part well enough, no one would look too closely.”

“And now?” Elphaba asked.

“Now I hope they do.”

Elphaba blinked.

“Because maybe if they really see me,” Galinda said, “they’ll believe me next time.”

The knock came right on time. “Ten minutes,” said the assistant outside. Neither of them moved at first.
Then Galinda stood.
Elphaba rose with her.
They faced the mirror together, shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching. Two girls. A little bruised. A little more real than yesterday.

Galinda reached down, found Elphaba’s hand, and wove their fingers together. Not for the cameras. Not yet. Just for this.

“Ready?” Elphaba asked.

“No,” Galinda said. “But let’s go anyway.”

_____

They stood in perfect symmetry. Elphaba in slate-gray. Galinda in pink.

The lights were warm but not soft, the stage constructed inside a federation studio repurposed overnight for the exclusive. Morrible stood behind the two-way glass just offstage, arms crossed, headset crackling in her left ear as the camera director whispered counts and cuts.

“Three seconds. Standby.”

Elphaba squared her shoulders.

Galinda exhaled like she was stepping off a ledge.

Then the lights blinked once, and the feed went live.

~

Morrible watched the first thirty seconds like a hawk. The introduction was tight: pre-recorded footage, a soft instrumental swell, a voiceover written by her assistant but rewritten in her own tone.

“…two champions. One bond. A victory shaped not only by talent, but by trust.”

She’d edited the final line herself. Not strength. Not resilience.

Trust.

It was the word the world was craving.

_____

The interviewer was gentle—by design. A woman with warm hands and clean nails, instructed to speak like a sister, not a stranger.

“How are you both feeling today?”

Galinda hesitated, Morrible hated that.
But Elphaba stepped in.

“Tired,” she said. “Grateful.”

Galinda echoed softly, “Still here.”

Morrible leaned closer to the monitor. Good, she thought. Lean into survival.

~

They were holding hands by the ten-minute mark. Not ostentatiously. Not for effect. But their fingers stayed loosely twined between them, an accidental grace Morrible hadn’t dared script.

The feed cut to stills from the final. To a silent frame of Elphaba pulling the attacker off Galinda. To the two of them, huddled under the fluorescent lights.

Morrible held her breath. Then Galinda said, carefully: “Sometimes, what saves you isn’t a strategy. It’s a person.”

Elphaba looked at her.
Not for the camera. Just at her.
And the whole room, not the set, not the studio, but the digital world watching beyond, exhaled together.

~

The moment the feed ended, Morrible turned away. She didn’t need to see the cameras cut. She already knew the headlines would write themselves.

#GelphieWasAlwaysReal
#ChooseEachOther
#CourageAndClay

She passed a monitor on her way down the hall. Already, a side-by-side was playing: Galinda with her trophy; Galinda crumpled beneath the attacker; Galinda and Elphaba in matching federation jackets, walking off the court hand in hand.

A triumph arc.

A three-act story.

A palatable, profitable trauma.

Chapter Text

Galinda kept waking up early. Not in panic. Not from nightmares.
Just… early. She’d open her eyes to the soft hum of the federation suite, air conditioning low, morning lights still off, Elphaba’s steady breathing beside her, and feel something she didn’t quite recognize.

Not safety. Not exactly. Something closer to possibility.

~

The last few days had passed like a dream.
Photos. Interviews. A formal letter from the Oz Ozlympic Council congratulating her and Elphaba on their “historic unity of purpose.”

Strangers on the street clapped when they passed. Journalists no longer called her sweetheart. Even sponsors, new ones, unsolicited, were waiting in a line Morrible kept just out of reach for now. But more than that, it was the quiet.
The way Elphaba poured tea in the morning and always made sure Galinda’s mug was closer to the chair she liked. The way she touched her back when she walked too long in the hallway.
The way she waited, always, until Galinda was ready to speak.
And Galinda was beginning to think…
Maybe she was allowed to want this. To love someone who didn’t look at her like a product or a prize. To feel safe, and not owe anyone for it.

_____

She didn’t expect to see Oscar. Not in the corridor that led from the main press wing to the federation lounge, neutral ground, with tinted windows and staff two rooms away.

He stepped out from behind a structural pillar as she turned the corner. Smiling.

She stopped short.

“Oscar.”

“Champ,” he said, voice smooth. “There you are.”

She glanced down the hall. No one. Too quiet.

“Congratulations,” he said. “They made you into a religion. It’s impressive.”

She smiled, tight and polite. “Thank you.”

She moved to walk past. He caught her wrist. Not hard. But enough. Galinda froze.

“Oscar…”

“You think I didn’t notice?” he asked, voice low now. “You and the new press darling? Holding hands. Whispering. Sharing beds, probably.”

“That’s not your concern,” she said, trying to pull free.

His grip tightened, not enough to bruise, but enough to remind.

“Isn’t it?” he said. “I paid for this. For you. Every shot. Every dress. Every win. You don’t get to rewrite the deal just because you finally found someone who pets your hair and tells you you’re brave.”

Her breath hitched.

“Oscar, let go.”

He stepped closer. His hand slid to the back of her neck, firm, proprietary.

“I made you,” he whispered. “Don’t forget what you still owe me.”

She pulled back.

He let her go, but not without dragging his hand all the way down her spine like punctuation.

Then he turned and walked away, whistling.

~

Galinda stood frozen in the corridor, breathing in shallow bursts. The tea in her stomach turned sour.

The warmth of the last few days cracked like glass beneath her ribs.
And all she could think was:

I should have known it wouldn’t last.

~

The hallway felt longer than usual.

She could still feel the warmth of his hand between her shoulder blades, even though it had been minutes since he walked away. Still feel his voice on the back of her neck like a bruise that hadn’t formed yet.

Galinda didn’t cry.
She just walked. One step after another. Until the quiet of the suite greeted her like a weighted blanket.

Elphaba was curled in the far corner of the couch, long legs folded beneath her, reading something on a tablet she hadn’t turned a page on in fifteen minutes. She looked up the second Galinda entered. She didn’t smile. Didn’t ask. Just set the tablet aside and stood.

Galinda shut the door gently behind her. Then just… stood there.
Hands limp. Heart thudding.

Elphaba crossed the room without a word and reached for her.

Galinda melted forward before she even knew she was moving.

No questions.

No “what happened.”

Just Elphaba’s arms around her, firm and quiet and grounding.

Galinda tucked her face into Elphaba’s shoulder and exhaled like she’d been holding it since the corridor.

She wasn’t crying. But her body shook like she was. Elphaba didn’t try to stop it.
Didn’t shush her or straighten her spine.
She just held on.

They stayed like that for a long time.

Eventually, Galinda pulled back, not far, just enough to breathe.

“Can we not talk?” she whispered. “Just for a little while?”

“Of course.”

“Can we just… stay close?”

Elphaba brushed a thumb along her cheekbone, like a benediction.

“Come to bed.”

~

They curled up under the blanket, fully dressed, no lights on but the low glow from the wall lamp across the room. Galinda lay on her side, head pressed against Elphaba’s collarbone, her arm wound tight around Elphaba’s waist like she was afraid someone might take her if she let go.
Elphaba didn’t move.
Didn’t speak. Just kept her hand carded in Galinda’s hair and waited.

And for the first time in hours, Galinda stopped shaking. Not because the fear was gone. But because someone else was still there. And that, at least, felt real too.

_____

She woke to filtered sunlight and the gentle rhythm of Elphaba breathing. There was no dream. No scream. No tightness in her chest. Just light.
Just warmth.

She turned her head and saw Elphaba watching her, one eyebrow already arched like she’d been preparing a dry comment for five minutes. But her voice was gentle when she said, “You drool.”

“I don’t.”

“You do. Right here.” Elphaba tapped the corner of her mouth.

Galinda slapped her arm with the pillow. “Rude.”

Elphaba just smirked. “You’re smiling. That’s new.”

And it was.

_____

They didn’t tell anyone where they were going.
Didn’t ask for an escort or approval. Just put on sunglasses, zipped jackets, pulled low-brimmed hats over their heads, and slipped out the side door of the federation tower like schoolgirls playing hooky.

No destination. No plan. Just freedom.
Elphaba hadn’t realized how much she needed that, how much she had been carrying too, beneath the stoicism, until Galinda pulled her down an alley that smelled like espresso and citrus peel and grinned up at her like she hadn’t been chased across a press table five days ago.

“Come on,” she said. “I’m buying you a croissant.”

“Croissant?” Elphaba replied in a high pitched voice. They dissolved in giggles.

~

They walked the river later, arms bumping as they moved. No security. No photographers. Just the quiet hush of the water and the click of Elphaba’s boots on the path.

They shared ice cream. Galinda tried all four flavors before deciding, which made Elphaba roll her eyes but smile. Elphaba said pistachio was the only acceptable flavor. Galinda said that made her pretentious.

“You’re attracted to me anyway,” Elphaba said, deadpan.

Galinda choked on her spoon. Elphaba handed her a napkin like it was nothing. Like flirting with her was normal now.

Maybe it was.

~

The bookstore came next. Tucked between a used record shop and a florist, it smelled like dust and lemon and old spines. Galinda wandered off to the poetry section.
Elphaba ended up in philosophy, as expected. When she turned around, Galinda was leaning against the endcap, watching her like she had the answer to a question she hadn’t dared ask yet.

“You okay?” Elphaba asked.

Galinda tilted her head. “Yeah. Just… trying to memorize the way your face looks when you’re relaxed.”

Elphaba cleared her throat and put the book down. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Saying things that make my stomach hurt.”

Galinda smirked. “You like it.”

Elphaba didn’t deny it.

~

Dusk found them on a rooftop café. Fairy lights overhead. Soft jazz playing inside.

Galinda had a lavender soda. Elphaba drank coffee, because of course she did.

Galinda leaned her head on Elphaba’s shoulder without asking. Elphaba didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just said, “You’re warm.”

Galinda looked up.
“I want to kiss you,” she said. Quiet. Honest. Not trembling.

Elphaba’s breath hitched.

“I want you to.”

The kiss was gentle. Not cautious, but reverent. It didn’t feel like fireworks or drowning or burning.
It felt like being allowed. Like a door opening without a key.
Like maybe, for once, no one would take this away.

When they pulled back, Galinda smiled and whispered, “Told you I was memorizing.”

Elphaba touched her cheek. “Then don’t forget this part.”

Chapter Text

The sky was low and gray as they drove to the airport. Not storming. Just heavy.
Like the clouds couldn’t quite decide if they were supposed to break.

Galinda sat beside Elphaba in the back of the black federation car, her fingers knotted in her lap. Her suitcase was too light. The croissant Elphaba had picked up for her sat untouched in its paper bag. She kept telling herself it was just a few weeks. Just home.
Just familiar walls.
But her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

~

Elphaba’s flight left first. Her father had chartered something sleek and sterile to take the family to a beach resort she hadn’t named, “somewhere expensive and photogenic,” she’d muttered, half-joking. Galinda had smiled at that. Laughed, even. But now they were here, outside the private wing. And Elphaba was looking at her like she wanted to tear the sky apart just to make room for one more question.

“You could still come with us.”

Galinda looked down. “You know I can’t.”

“I know you think you can’t.”

Galinda pressed her thumb against her wrist until the ache steadied her. “If I don’t go, he’ll come find me.”

Elphaba didn’t speak.
Didn’t argue. Just exhaled through her nose and nodded once. She stepped forward and pulled Galinda into a hug, tight, anchoring, not for show. Galinda leaned in. Closed her eyes.

“I wish I could stay where you are,” she whispered.

Elphaba’s voice was a breath against her temple. “Then remember what that feels like. So you know when to run next time.”

_____

Her own flight was quiet. Commercial.
Coach seat. Aisle.
She didn’t speak to anyone. Didn’t sleep.

When the plane landed, her phone buzzed once with a message from Elphaba:

Text me the second you’re through baggage claim. Or I’ll stage a coup.

Galinda smiled at that.

Then looked out the window.And felt the smile slip. Because there it was, the same stretch of road. The same exit ramp. The same gut-deep dread.

Home.

If you could call it that.

_____

He picked her up himself. She saw his car before she saw his face. Same dent in the side. Same sagging bumper.

She stepped into it without speaking. He didn’t say hello. Didn’t ask about the trophies or the headlines. Just lit a cigarette, stared through the windshield, and muttered, “You look soft.” Galinda stared straight ahead. Fingers curled tight around the handle of her bag. And reminded herself: Just a few weeks. You’ve survived worse.

But the weight in her chest didn’t ease.
Not even a little.

_____

The first blow wasn’t what did it. Nor the second, third… Not the shove into the kitchen counter, not the backhand across the face, not even the scream that echoed through the hallway, not loud but final, like a door slamming shut inside her chest.

It was later. When she was curled on the bathroom floor, knees pulled up, the ache deep and sharp and wrong. When she realized she couldn’t stand without bracing against the sink. When she couldn’t take a full breath without her stomach cramping so hard her vision blurred.

~

The next day, she told him she thought something was wrong.
He told her not to be dramatic.

“Maybe next time keep your mouth shut about who you’re lying down with, fucking dyke” he muttered, flipping through a newspaper she knew he wouldn’t read.

She tried to drink water. It came back up. She tried to rest.
Her dreams were fire and teeth and every moment she’d ever wanted to be held without having to earn it.

~

By the second night, she couldn’t sit upright without shaking. By the third morning, he took her to a private clinic out of town. Not because he was worried. Because she couldn’t stop vomiting blood into the sink.

~

The nurse took one look at her and brought a gurney. The doctor, a small, silver-haired man with an expensive watch and too-clean shoes, never looked her in the eyes.

They ran scans. Fluids.
Her hands were shaking so badly the IV tape wouldn’t stick.

She heard them say the words from the other side of the curtain.

“Internal hemorrhaging. Retroperitoneal. Possibly splenic involvement.”

“She say how it happened?”

“She didn’t. And she won’t.”

“Family’s well-connected?”

“Apparently.”

~

She drifted in and out of consciousness. When she woke fully, she was bandaged and cleaned and hollowed out.

Her father stood by the bed, arms crossed.
“You’re lucky I got to you in time,” he said, like he wanted credit.

She stared past him.
Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Later that day, she heard him on the phone in the hallway.

“You tell Morrible it was a burst appendix. Peritonitis, whatever. They’ll believe it. She’s too valuable for a scandal, and you’re too well-paid to care.”

“If she tells anyone different, she’s done.”

She turned her face into the pillow and let the tears come silently.

Because it wasn’t the pain that made her cry.
It was that even now, even after everything, she still wasn’t allowed to say what had really happened.

Chapter Text

Elphaba hadn’t planned to call. They were both supposed to be taking a break, time to rest, reflect, recover. The tournament had been intense, and the press scrutiny even worse. Morrible had promised Galinda would be fine. That she just needed a few weeks of quiet. That she’d had a routine appendectomy, caught just in time.

Nothing serious. Nothing lasting.

Elphaba believed her.
She had no reason not to. Still, she couldn’t ignore the tension in her chest when the message came through.

Galinda Arduenna formally withdraws from a pre-Ozlympic tournament due to extended recovery from surgery.

Elphaba stared at the screen for a full minute before she hit call.

“Elphie,” Galinda answered, her voice thin but bright, practiced.

“Hey,” Elphaba said. “You okay?”

There was a pause. A breath. Then: “Of course. Just a little setback. The stitches pulled when I tried to sit up too fast. The doctors said it’s minor, but they don’t want me training until the end of the month.”

“That’s three weeks.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Elphaba frowned. “Galinda. You sound… worn out.”

A soft laugh. “I mean, I did have an organ removed.”

That was enough to make Elphaba ease. Just a little.

Still.

“You don’t want to come here?” she asked. “Stay at the resort? My brother already bailed, and my father’s been distracted trying to make me network with hotel executives.”

Galinda’s voice was soft. “I so wish I could.”

“Then why not?”

“My dad…” A pause. “It’s complicated.”

Elphaba let it go. She always did when Galinda said it that way.

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I am,” Galinda said.

And for a moment, Elphaba believed her again.

She ended the call and stared at her phone long after the screen went dark. Galinda sounded like herself.
Maybe a little tired, breathless.
But recovering. Still…

There was something she couldn’t name. A space between Galinda’s sentences. A drop in her voice like she was holding something in her lap too heavy to shift. But Elphaba had never wanted to push her.
Not like others had. Never wanted to take something she wasn’t ready to give.

So she set her phone down. Tried not to worry. And whispered to herself:

“She said she’s fine.”

_____

Galinda wasn’t supposed to be out of bed yet. She knew that. But knowing hadn’t stopped him.
Nothing ever did.

The first time she tried to serve, the motion sent lightning through her abdomen so sharp she folded at the waist and vomited onto the court.

Her father didn’t even flinch. “Don’t throw up where you train,” he said, without looking up from his folding chair.

She tried again two days later. Got through ten minutes of footwork drills before her vision greyed and the blood from her incision started soaking through her waistband. He told her she was being dramatic.

The doctor came the next morning. Didn’t knock. Didn’t ask.
Just examined her like she was already something broken.

“Stitches pulled again,” he said quietly, wiping blood from her hip with a practiced hand. “Tissue’s inflamed. But we can keep this off the books.”

Galinda stared at the ceiling and said nothing. She didn’t trust her voice not to crack.

~

The punishment came that night.
Not with fists, he couldn’t use those anymore. Not for awhile if she was going to compete.

But with silence. With denial. No dinner. No painkillers. No permission to lie down until she completed a full thirty minutes of shadow drills.

She did them with shaking legs. With gauze damp under her shirt.
With tears she wouldn’t let fall.

~

By day twelve, her skin had turned an unnatural color across her lower abdomen, yellow-gray, sick with bruising, and heat radiating outward.

Her left leg throbbed every time she moved.
Her vision blurred at the edges when she stood too fast.

She was going to break. For real, this time.Not just bend.
Not just bruise.

Break.

Chapter Text

She heard the footsteps before she saw her.

Light.

Even.

Measured.

Elphaba didn’t turn around right away, just fed another ball into the machine, caught it on the rise, and sent it slicing across the clay.
Her timing was good.
But her head wasn’t in it.

Not since they landed. Not since her phone buzzed with a court assignment that read:

Upland, Galinda — confirmed arrival. Court 4 reserved: 10:30.

The name hit her like a held breath released. Still, she wasn’t ready. Not for whatever version of Galinda had made it through the last month.

“Hi.”

Elphaba turned.

Galinda was standing just past the gate, racquet bag over one shoulder, glasses on despite the cloud cover. She looked… different.

Still golden. Still slight.
But guarded.

Like someone who’d built a second skin and wasn’t quite sure how to take it off.

“Hey,” Elphaba said, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.

Galinda smiled. Not the stage smile. Not the smile for fans or sponsors.

A real one. Small. Careful. But real.

_____

They started with warmups. Neutral ground. No questions.
No explanations. Just footwork, volleys, groundstrokes.

The rhythm was there, rusty, but familiar. Galinda moved well, but not freely. Her steps were efficient, not graceful. Her shoulders stayed just a little too tight.

And she winced once.
Barely.

On a deep backhand.

Elphaba caught it. Said nothing. But her heart sank.

~

Half an hour in, they paused by the sideline.
Galinda leaned her elbows on the tape, hair falling forward slightly as she caught her breath.

Elphaba handed her water. Their fingers brushed. Galinda looked up. And in that moment, it was like none of the silence mattered. Because she stepped forward, cupped Elphaba’s jaw with one hand, and kissed her.

Soft.

Simple.

No drama.

Just there.

Elphaba exhaled against her mouth. Galinda pulled back half an inch. “I missed you,” she said.

Elphaba blinked. Then smiled, gently. “I missed you too.”

Galinda looked down, suddenly shy. Then: “Can we just… hit a few more?”

“Of course.”

~

They returned to the court. Not because they needed the practice. But because it gave them something to do with their hands besides hold each other too soon. And because whatever came next,
They’d start here. Together.

Even if the shadows still lingered.

Chapter Text

The grass felt different.
Softer than clay. Less predictable. Quieter under her shoes, like even the earth didn’t want to speak too loudly. Elphaba liked that.

She liked the silence between points, the way it carved space in the noise. She liked the way Galinda’s voice sounded on this surface, low, focused, a little breathless after long rallies.

What she didn’t like was the space between them when they weren’t playing.
It wasn’t cold, just tentative. Like touching a bruise and not knowing if it would hurt again.

_____

Elphaba’s singles match came first.

Straight sets.

She was calm. Precise.
Aggressive without overreaching. The win was clean, and the applause didn’t feel as sharp as it had the last time she played alone.

Galinda was in the stands. Clapping quietly, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She smiled when Elphaba bowed to the crowd.

And that smile held.

~

Galinda’s match followed. Elphaba stood near the tunnel, arms crossed, watching every serve, every slide, every time Galinda’s body moved like she remembered it, fierce, technical, beautiful.

It wasn’t perfect. She caught a few grimaces between points. Her serve was slower than usual. But she fought.
And she won.

6–4, 6–3.

When she walked off court, Elphaba handed her a towel and a bottle of water. “Your footwork’s sharp,” she said softly.

Galinda blinked. Then smiled, small and real. “I told you I was ready.”

~

Their doubles match was late afternoon. They barely spoke during warm, up, but it didn’t matter. On the court, they didn’t need words. They moved like they’d never been apart.

Elphaba covered the backline like a storm.
Galinda ruled the net with velvet claws.

They trusted each other. Every time Galinda’s hand brushed hers between games, something in Elphaba settled.

Like: She’s here.

Like: We’re okay.

They won.

Effortless, but not easy.

Back in the locker room, the silence returned, but it was softer now. Less about fear. More about maybe.

Galinda changed beside her, carefully, slowly. Elphaba looked at her. Really looked.
She still saw the caution in her shoulders. The stiffness in her core.
But Galinda looked back. And didn’t flinch.

“Dinner later?” Elphaba asked, casual but not careless.

Galinda hesitated. Then nodded. “Only if we don’t talk about tennis.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Galinda smiled. And that, that was enough for now.

_____

They picked a quiet place a few streets off the tournament grounds. Nothing flashy. No press.
A family-owned bistro with real tablecloths and dim lighting that turned every glass of water into something soft and golden.

Galinda sat across from Elphaba with her hair pulled back, sunglasses hooked into the neckline of her loose blouse. She looked tired, but the kind of tired that came after a long day of doing something, not the hollow kind Elphaba remembered from winter. They didn’t talk about tennis. Not at first.

They talked about the bartender’s dog, who roamed freely between tables like he owned the place. About the way Elphaba’s dad had sent her a photo of himself in a sun hat and referred to it as “vacation battle gear.”

About how Galinda used to imagine “London” meant fog and tea and trench coats, only to arrive and find it filled with tourists and pollen.

The food came. They laughed. And for a little while, it felt like the world had a pause button.

Galinda shifted in her seat as they reached dessert, lifting her arm to adjust the collar of her blouse.

The fabric pulled up from her jeans.

Just a little. But enough.

Elphaba saw it. Not clearly. Not fully.
But the edge of the scar peeked out above her waistband, thick, faintly red, not quite healed.

Elphaba blinked.

It wasn’t where it should be. Not for an appendectomy. Not for anything routine.

She looked down. Took a breath. Didn’t speak.

Galinda didn’t notice.

She stirred her coffee, eyes soft and unfocused, the way she always looked when she felt safe enough to drift. Elphaba watched her hand move. Watched the steam curl up.
And said nothing. But she filed it away, that angry red line. Too high. Too wide.

Wrong.

_____

They won again. Singles, both of them, Elphaba in two clean sets, Galinda in a tighter three.

The grass was fast, the sun gentle, the crowd full but not overbearing. For once, Galinda walked off court and didn’t feel like she had to hold her smile up with both hands.

She found Elphaba waiting outside the tunnel, towel looped around her neck, grin lopsided with residual adrenaline. “You look smug,” Galinda said.

“You’re imagining things.”

“You won in under an hour.”

“I like being efficient.”

Galinda rolled her eyes. “You’re unbearable.”

Elphaba tilted her head. “And you’re staring.”

“I’m allowed.”

_____

They spent the afternoon in the player lounge, not the formal one, but the private space reserved for seeded pairs. A couch, a balcony, a little fridge with iced lavender soda that Galinda had decided was her new personality.

Elphaba napped with her legs stretched across the cushions and her head tipped against the armrest.
Galinda lay beside her with her feet curled under Elphaba’s knee, reading tournament gossip aloud in a dramatic stage voice.

“They think we’re secretly engaged,” she said at one point.

“Who?” Elphaba murmured, eyes closed.

“The Daily View.”

“Tell them you proposed. I said no.”

Galinda smirked. “I would be the one proposing.”

“Exactly.”

~

When Elphaba stirred again, Galinda had stopped reading and was just watching her.
Her eyes flicked open.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low and soft.

Galinda nodded. Then leaned over and kissed her. Not urgent. Not teasing. Just there.
Steady.

When she pulled back, Elphaba blinked up at her. “You’re dangerous,” she said.

Galinda smiled. “You have no idea.”

_____

That night, they walked back to Elphaba’s hotel hand in hand, the sky stretched wide and purple above them. No media. No noise. Just their footsteps and the hush of everything that hadn’t yet gone wrong.
Galinda held tighter.

Just in case.

Chapter Text

Galinda saw them before she even stepped on court. Middle seats. Front row. Perfectly centered in the players’ box.

Oscar, in a tailored cream suit and sunglasses that cost more than she’d ever be allowed to keep in cash of her own winnings. Smiling like he’d bought the match.

And beside him, her father. In a jacket he clearly hadn’t chosen himself. Groomed. Clean-shaven.

But no one else would know that his collar was too tight, that his hand twitched when the crowd got too loud, that his knee bounced like a silent threat.

Galinda knew.

She hadn’t seen him in person since the hospital. They’d gone to get her cleared to play. And now here he was, invited.

A guest of honor.

Oscar’s expression made it clear: this wasn’t a mistake. It was a message. You’re mine again. Don’t forget it.

The applause didn’t sound real as she walked to her seat. Her legs moved on instinct. Her grip tightened around the handle of her racquet until her knuckles blanched.

She didn’t look at them again. Not once. Not even when she won.

~

Galinda sat through it with sunglasses on and her hands folded too neatly in her lap, across the stands from her father and Oscar.
Every time Oscar leaned in to whisper to her father, her stomach curled. They weren’t saying anything kind.
She could feel it through the space between them.

Still, Elphaba played like she didn’t know anyone was watching. Galinda didn’t know if she’d even seen them. She was controlled. Bold.
When Elphaba hit the final ace, the stadium roared.

Oscar clapped slowly.
Her father didn’t clap at all.

_____

Galinda almost told Morrible she couldn’t play. But then Elphaba met her at the court entrance, leaned in close, and said softly, “Ignore the crowd. Play like it’s just us.”

Galinda nodded. And did. Every ball. Every serve. Every set, measured to the beat of not breaking.

They won again. Flawless. The crowd adored them. Socials exploded.

And Oscar? Oscar leaned back with a satisfied grin like he’d orchestrated the whole thing.

_____

Galinda got sick in the locker room sink after.
Elphaba found her rinsing her mouth out, her braid undone, her fingers shaking.

“He’s here,” Elphaba said. Not a question.

Galinda nodded. “He’s not staying with me,” she added quickly. “Oscar got him a hotel.” Galinda didn’t entirely know if this was true, but was hoping saying it aloud would help manifest.

Elphaba didn’t answer.
Just reached out and took her hand.
Held it there, in the dim quiet, as if to say: You’re not alone. Not yet. Not ever.

Galinda looked up at her. And for just a second, she could breathe again.

_____

She didn’t go back to her hotel right away. After doubles, after the press, after pretending she didn’t see the way Oscar smiled like he was tightening the drawstring on a velvet noose, she lingered.

In the locker room. Then in the staff lounge. Then at the vending machine, staring at the blinking red light like it might suddenly dispense the version of her life where she didn’t have to return to the hotel at all.

But she had nowhere else to go. Elphaba was already back at her hotel, an early press call in the morning.

Morrible had been whisked off by Federation suits to wine and dine some donor. And Galinda,
Galinda had a suite at the Windsor House Hotel. Courtesy of Oscar Diggs. Room 803. She knew he was paying, he always did.
She knew the key code. Knew the elevator hum. Knew how the carpet in the hallway dipped just slightly near the fire exit.

What she didn’t know..
What she hadn’t known….
Was that the suite was now booked for two.

_____

The lights were already on when she entered. Muted. Gold-toned. So soft they almost fooled her into thinking it was empty.
Until she heard the unmistakable crack of a beer tab opening.
Her breath caught.
Her hand still on the doorknob, she looked up…
And there he was.

Feet up on the coffee table. Shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Remote in hand like he belonged here. Like he owned her silence.

“Didn’t know you were going to be out this late,” he said, not looking at her. “This better not affect your game”.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Just blinked once.

He glanced over finally, eyes bloodshot and glassy. “Room’s nice, huh? Oscar’s idea. Said you needed rest. Said we’d train better here, away from distractions.”

Distractions.
Like Elphaba.
Like peace.

~

Galinda stepped inside slowly. Her feet felt heavy. Her chest hollow.

“You’re staying here?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he said, already turning back to the TV. “I’m your coach. Your father. They just gave us the suite instead of separate rooms. Budget or something. I’m not complaining.”

She was. Quietly.
Viciously. Secretly.
Every cell in her body screamed.

But she said nothing.
Because the bed was made. The bathroom stocked. The second toothbrush already unwrapped.

This wasn’t a mistake.
It was arranged.

“You didn’t mention you were coming”. She ventured later, even tho her father was now several beers deep.
“I built you like a custom Ferrari”, her father responded, “I’m not going to give up the keys so easily”.

~

Later, when she finally shut herself in the bathroom, she sat on the edge of the tub and pressed her hands to her temples. Her phone buzzed on the counter.

A message from Elphaba.

Missed you after the match. Want to come by? I saved you some dinner.

Galinda stared at it.
Typed nothing.
Because Oscar was smart, her father was stifling. The wedge was in place. And now she had to figure out how to breathe around it.

Chapter Text

It started with a knock.
Not frantic. Not loud.
Just two firm taps on the door.

Elphaba had just returned from morning practice. Hair still damp, shirt clinging between her shoulder blades, forearms smudged with fresh chalk.

She opened the door expecting a handler. A trainer, hopefully Galinda. Instead: two men in navy jackets with federation insignias and plastic lanyards. Their faces were blank.

“Miss Thropp,” the taller one said, “you’ve been flagged for a substance review. You’re to report to the testing committee immediately.”

She blinked. “What?”

“This is procedural,” said the second, quieter. “Your sample from two days ago showed irregularities. We’ve been asked to remove you from active brackets until clarification.”

“Clarification of what?”

Neither answered.
They didn’t have to.
The word wasn’t said.
But it hung in the room like a knife:

Doping.

_____

They didn’t let her bring her phone. Didn’t let her speak to Morrible. Or her coach. Or Galinda.

She was escorted down a back hallway lined in grey tile, past a waiting room she didn’t know existed, and into a small office with a single chair and a stack of papers she wasn’t allowed to touch.

“This isn’t an admission,” said the woman across from her. “Just an acknowledgment of receipt. The lab will verify, and in the meantime, we’ll issue a provisional withdrawal. Pending clarification.”

It was the third time someone had said clarification. None of them could look her in the eye.

~

She signed. There was nothing else to do. She walked out the back door under light security escort, no cameras, no press.
Just silence.

The kind that makes you feel like your name has already been scrubbed from the bracket board. Like maybe it never belonged there to begin with.

~

The official announcement came an hour later. Elphaba sat on the floor of her private room, watching the statement scroll across the tournament’s digital bulletin:

Elphaba Thropp has been provisionally withdrawn from Wimbledon 2025 due to inconclusive anti-doping results. The federation will cooperate fully with the ongoing investigation.

Her name was still there. But it was already fading.

~

She didn’t cry. Not yet.
But she stared at the blank television for so long the image of Galinda, rising in the rankings, waving to the crowd, alone, burned behind her eyelids like afterlight. And she whispered, without meaning to: “This is Oscar.”

~

She’d never sprinted in jeans before. Not properly. Not the kind of sprint that made your lungs claw and your knees scream. But she was doing it now, shoving past startled spectators and side-stepping security, phone in hand, thumb tapping redial over and over.

Call failed.

Call failed.

Call failed.

She’d barely made it out of the review office when she’d started calling. But Galinda wasn’t answering. Not her personal number. Not the federation line. Not even the encrypted one Morrible made them use during training weeks.

It wasn’t like her. Unless…unless she hadn’t seen it yet.
Unless someone else had already told her.

Unless someone had gotten to her first.

_____

He told her while she was tying her shoes.
Like it was nothing.
Like it was weather.

“Elphaba’s out,” her father said smugly from the couch, not looking up from the tournament feed.

“What?!”

“Failed a test or something. Doping. Federation’s pulling her.”

Galinda stopped breathing for a second.
Not from shock. From the way he said it. Flat. Amused. Like he liked saying it…and then the shock came in a hot wave of disbelief.

“You’re lying,” she said, standing too fast.

He shrugged. “Check your phone.”

She did. Seventeen missed calls. All from Elphaba. And a headline notification flashing across the top of the screen like a verdict:

BREAKING: Thropp Withdrawn Amid Doping Inquiry

She staggered backward. Fell onto the edge of the bed. She didn’t cry. Not yet. But her breath felt like it was being choked out of her. Her vision blurred and her ears roared and her stomach turned cold.

“Elphie wouldn’t—she wouldn’t—”

“Course she would,” her father said. “They all do. You just don’t know ‘em as well as you think.”

He looked at her then.
Smiled like something rotten.

“But don’t worry. You’re still in. You’re the real star now, and now that bitch won’t be here to distract you”.

_____

Elphaba made it to the gates of Galindas’ hotel before a security team stopped her.

“No access,” they said. “Not anymore.”

“I just need to talk to her”

“I’m sorry.” They weren’t.

And she knew then…
She wasn’t just out of the tournament. She was being removed.

From Galinda.

Chapter Text

Galinda kept winning.
Even when her grip faltered. Even when the locker room comments made her stomach turn. Even when she stepped onto the court with Elphaba’s name still burning behind her eyes.

She kept winning.

Because losing now, losing after Elphaba was gone, would feel like letting them both disappear.

The crowd adored her.

#CinderellaOnGrass.

#QueenGalinda.

The press called her composed. Tenacious. A fairytale forged in sweat and grit.

No one mentioned the man in the player’s box whose expression never changed. No one mentioned the fact that he, her coach, a man with no proper license and no history of developing anyone but her, with a criminal record, was still sanctioned, still credentialed, still allowed to stand thirty feet from her every time she served.

And no one asked why Oscar Diggs always stood beside him. Smiling. Watching.

_____

Her days were filled with matches and media.

Her nights.

Her nights were quiet corridors, carefully edited conversations, sandwich bags full of ice and the hotel suite where her father now moved like a ghost made of threats.

She never brought her phone in with her. Never let him see it light up. Not when Elphaba’s name still sat in her inbox unanswered.

Not when Oscar’s assistant texted schedules and instructions and dinner invitations phrased like obligations.

____

After her quarterfinal win, Oscar met her in the private dining lounge. He kissed her cheek in front of the photographers. Smiled like a proud uncle. Held her elbow too tightly beneath the table.

“You’re making people fall in love with you,” he said. “Even more than I expected.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him. He leaned in. Voice low.

“Let’s not forget how much you owe that love to me.”

She nodded. Not in agreement.

In compliance.

He released her arm.

______

Later that night, her father scolded her for wearing lipstick in an interview.

“Trying to bait the cameras?” he asked, circling her like a critic. “The old wallet isn’t enough for you these days?.”

She didn’t answer. Because he hadn’t noticed the bruise under her collarbone from when he shoved her earlier that week. She needed full face to avoid detection on camera.

Or maybe he had.

And that was the point.

She lay awake in bed long after midnight, the sound of his snoring vibrating through the suite wall. Her racquets lined up beside the wardrobe.
The dress Oscar had sent for the finals folded neatly in a box. Caged.

She thought about Elphaba. About grass stains on their knees.
About laughter that didn’t come with conditions.

And for the first time in days, she let herself cry.

Quietly. Completely.

Because tomorrow she had to smile again.

And win.

_____

The win came clean.

Two sets. No tie-breaks. No falter in her swing.

She smiled through it. Bowed. Thanked the crowd with both hands over her heart.

Oscar stood in the box, clapping with slow precision, a smirk on his face. Her father looked like he’d swallowed something sour.

The cameras cut to her face as she exited the court, and she made sure to look radiant. Because that’s what they wanted.

That’s what he wanted.

_____

The text came while she was in the locker room.

Oscar:

Come to my suite after press. 905. We’ll toast your big day properly.

She stared at the screen too long. Long enough for her PR handler to ask if everything was alright.

She smiled. Nodded.
Tucked the phone away.

She didn’t answer Elphaba’s message.
Didn’t reply to the string of congratulations from fans, sponsors, even Morrible.

Didn’t even look up when her handler reminded her the press conference was starting in ten minutes.

She just got dressed.
Carefully. Slowly.
Like a woman walking into a role she couldn’t rewrite.

~

The suite was on the top floor. The hall carpet muffled every footstep.

The door opened before she knocked.
Oscar stood in the frame, tie loosened, eyes gleaming with satisfaction and something colder and calculated beneath it.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I came straight after press.”

“Of course you did.”

He stepped aside. She walked in.

The door clicked shut behind her.

~

What happened after was never loud.

Rarely violent.

Endured.

Managed.

A transaction dressed in champagne and whispered praise.

“You’ve done so well, darling,” he said at one point, brushing her hair back like she was a prize pet.

“You’re going to make history.”

~

She lay awake afterward on a mattress that smelled like bleach and cologne. He slept beside her, snoring softly. One arm draped over her waist like ownership.

The nights her body betrayed her were the worst. The more time the spent…together, the more Oscar was able to coax reactions out of her that she didn’t want to give. The embarrassment that came with the praise for breathy little noises she made unconsciously or the loss of control that accompanied them was far far worse than anything her father had ever stolen from her. She far preferred violence. Was used to it. Understood it even. This, mockery of care was what drove deep into her psyche. What marked her soul like a stain that wouldn’t lift.
After, she didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
Just watched the shadows shift on the ceiling until dawn bled through the curtains.

~

By the time she returned to her own suite, her father was already gone for breakfast.

She stood in the bathroom.
Washed her hands three times. Avoided the mirror.

Chapter Text

He poured the champagne before he spoke. No toast. No flourish. Just the quiet fizz of something celebratory used like a warning.

Oscar leaned back in his armchair, ankle resting on his opposite knee, glass cradled in one hand.

Galinda sat stiffly across from him, dressed in the soft silk robe he’d left folded on the bed. “You’ve been remarkable,” he said, like a man admiring a well-oiled machine. “The public adores you. You’ve helped us weather Elphaba’s little… setback quite beautifully.”

Her throat closed. She didn’t ask. Didn’t want to. Didn’t need to.

He smiled. “You know, I’ve always said everything happens for a reason.”

He took a sip.

“People like Elphaba, too sharp, too principled, they don’t always know how to survive the system. But you… you’ve adapted. Flourished even.”

Galinda looked down.

Oscar’s voice dropped, smooth as lacquer. “I’m prepared to do something generous, Galinda. Very generous. If you and I were to begin stepping out together after your birthday, something official, tasteful, public… well, I imagine a lot of things could quietly be set right.”

Her pulse pounded in her ears.

He went on, casually. “You’ve done so much for the Federation. And for me. It would only be fair if I ensured Elphaba’s name was cleared in time for the Ozlympics.”

Then, with a glance toward the bedroom: “Of course, I’d want a certain level of access before the announcement. Something honest. Exclusive. Real. And after your birthday…”

He stood and crossed to her, lifting her chin with one finger.

“You understand, don’t you?”

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t say a word.

Just let him guide her back into the dark.

~

She dressed in silence.
No makeup. No earrings. Hair pulled back too tight. The pain a welcome distraction.

Her team met her at the car. Oscar didn’t join. He didn’t need to.

He’d already taken what he wanted.

~

They said her name like it was a coronation. They handed her flowers before she even stepped onto the court.

The crowd was louder than it had been all tournament. Signs waved. Cameras flashed. Commentators used words like “destiny” and “fairytale.”

She walked to the baseline and tightened her grip on the racquet.

Her fingers didn’t stop trembling. Her mind replaying the earlier conversation, trying desperately to look for an escape to the trap, one that wouldn’t rob Elphaba of everything, one that wouldn’t guarantee her own incarceration.

~

She lost.

Quickly.

She missed easy shots. Her serve collapsed under pressure. Her legs moved like she was made of rust.

And she smiled the whole time. Because she had to.

~

When her opponent shook her hand, Galinda looked her in the eye and whispered, “Well done.”

And meant it.

Because she’d never been freer than that girl was in that moment. Free to win. Free to lose
Free to belong to herself.

~

The ceremony was brief. She held the runner-up plate with palms that still bore half-moon nail marks from the night before. Tried to ignore the steely rage glinting in the eye of her father’s otherwise expressionless face as she genuinely praised her opponent and thanked the crowd for their support. Oscar watched from the sidelines.
Her smile was brittle and fake, buried in the sobs she couldn’t release.
And the worst part was..

No one noticed.

Chapter Text

She’d barely made it off the court when it started.

“You embarrassed yourself,” her father snapped, grabbing her wrist just past the tunnel. “You embarrassed me.”

A staffer froze mid-step near the corridor entrance. Her opponent, still clutching her winner’s bouquet, turned to glance back, uneasy.

Her father kept going.

“I told them you were ready. I trained you. And that’s what you give me? You played like a child, an incompetent one.”

“Dad…”

“Don’t Dad me. You don’t get to call me that after dropping a final with half the damn planet watching. You were soft. You let her run you. You let yourself lose.”

A silence fell over the hallway. Three people now stood awkwardly frozen nearby.

Galinda looked down at her shoes, embarrassment rooting her to the spot.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Her father took a step towards those observing. They scattered to the wind.

He stepped closer. Put a hand on the shoulder. And quickly decked her twice in the stomach. His fist sunk low into her abdomen in short, practiced blows that knocked the air from her lungs without leaving a mark above the waistline. He turned and kicked her shins, quick, sharp, right where the bruises already bloomed from training. A sharp slap across her face punctuated his words.

“Maybe you’ll move faster next time, and you know what else? Don’t come back to the hotel.” He sneered.

She looked up. “What?”

“You didn’t earn it. You don’t get to sleep in a bed after that performance. You’re not good enough.”

Her mouth went dry.

“I, I don’t have anywhere else to go. I don’t have any money…. I just won millions, and I don’t even have cab fare! You’ve taken everything…”

He raised a hand again, and she flinched, stepping back into the wall, lowering her eyes like a reflex.

He didn’t hit her this time. He just smiled.

“Then figure out what you are good for, I think old man moneybags already knows”.

~

He left her doubled over. Trophy still in her hands. Mascara smudged from the heat. Her chest hollow.

She did consider Oscar’s room. She’s given him more for less. She even walked past it. Once. Stopped in front of the door. Lifted her hand. Lowered it again. Then turned away.
She wasn’t going to let her father be right, not yet. There were bridges she wasn’t willing to cross yet.

She made it all the way to the train station before realizing she didn’t have her ID. No wallet. No phone charger.

She sat on a bench and watched trains come and go, eyes glassy, body aching.

And when the cold started to creep up her legs through the thin fabric of her dress, she got up and walked back to the stadium.

~

The players’ lounge was dark. Dimmed after hours, the snack bar shuttered, the TV on mute playing the match highlights on a loop.

Her shoes were in her hand. Her dress clung damp with old sweat. Her legs ached. Her abdomen burned. She was so hungry.

She moved to the far corner behind a row of unused lockers. Found a bench half-shielded from view. Laid down stiffly under it with her trophy still in her arms. And didn’t cry.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Elphaba’s face in the stands. Imagined it. Invented it. Longed for it.

The exhaustion won.
Eventually. She fell asleep with her fingers still curled around the edge of the silver plate.

~

The door opened softly just after 4:30 a.m.

Two cleaning staff entered, murmuring to each other in low voices. The taller one pointed first. There, in the corner. Half-shadowed. A small blonde girl in a wrinkled dress, makeup smudged beneath her eyes, arms wrapped around a trophy like a life raft.

They didn’t speak louder. Didn’t touch her. One pulled out a phone to call someone.

~

Morrible arrived. Silk robe cinched at the waist, leather mules soundless on the floor.

The cleaners straightened. She offered them both a crisp envelope and a knowing smile. “No need to report this. She’s just tired. The pressure, you understand.”

They nodded. Said nothing. Left.

Galinda didn’t stir until Morrible knelt beside the bench and touched her arm. She woke with a sharp inhale, disoriented, hands tightening around the trophy. Fire spreading hot across her abdomen.

“Shhh,” Morrible said, smoothing Galinda’s hair with clinical detachment masquerading as affection. “It’s alright.”

Galinda looked up slowly. Eyes wide. Blank.

“Come on, darling,” Morrible murmured, standing. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You have press in three hours. You need to look strong.”

Galinda sat up slowly, legs stiff and trembling. Didn’t speak. Didn’t protest.

Just followed.

Because there was nowhere else to go.

_____

They painted her face like nothing had happened. Concealer over the shadow blooming beneath her eyes. Foundation thick enough to hide the pitting bruises on her legs. Gloss that split slightly when she smiled too wide.

She sat still through it all, letting the federation’s media team spin her into the version of herself they liked best: humble. Resilient. Beautiful, in a bruiseless way.

No one mentioned the incident in the tunnel. No one mentioned the night. No one mentioned the cleaners. No one mentioned that Morrible had walked her out of the lounge at dawn with a hand on her shoulder like a leash.

~

She gave three interviews. All scripted.

She called her opponent “a fighter,” thanked the crowd “for their belief,” and said she was “proud to represent Oz on the global stage.”

The reporters smiled.
Asked her what was next. She smiled back.
“Rest,” she said.

They laughed.

She didn’t.

~

The phone stayed dark. She hadn’t heard from Elphaba since the doping announcement.

She’d tried to text the night before the final. One sentence.

I wish you were here.

No reply. No read receipt. Just the soft blue glow of a message waiting to be noticed.

Her handlers said Elphaba was unreachable. Too many restrictions during the investigation. No digital access. No approved press contact. But Galinda felt the space between them like an itch she couldn’t reach. She didn’t even know if Elphaba had seen the match. Or what Oscar had said. Or what her father had done.

~

After lunch, they sent her to a photo call. She wore the same white dress from the ceremony, freshly steamed and pressed.
The silver runner-up plate rested in her lap like a reward for surviving.

Someone asked her to laugh. She did. And in that moment, it didn’t even sound fake. It sounded hollow.

That night, she lay on her hotel bed, knees drawn to her chest in an attempt to soothe the raw feeling, the curtains drawn against the sky she couldn’t stand to look at anymore.

Elphaba still hadn’t written. And Galinda knew, deep down, that even if she did, she wouldn’t be allowed to see it.

Not while she was still inside the bubble.

.

Chapter Text

The familiar pain came back. Not sharp. Just deep. Dull. Constant. Blooming like rot under the bruises she could no longer cover with makeup.

It started two days after the final, right at the edge of the lowest scar from her surgery, where her father’s punch had landed clean. No longer the sharp fire of acute injury. Now even sitting hurt.
Even turning in bed.

The team physio blamed it on overtraining and stress. Prescribed rest. Ice. Fluids.

But the pain didn’t feel like overtraining.

It felt like something giving up.

_____

She had too much time now. No press until the next sponsor shoot. No training cleared. No family, no Elphaba, no voice.

Just the room. Just the tablet. Just… curiosity. And nowhere safe to put it.

It started innocently.
She typed her own name into the search bar. Saw highlights.
Fan edits. Articles.

Then scrolled.

Past the sponsored content.

Past the magazine clips.

To the darker corners.

The ones no one had told her about.

~

“Legal in seven days.”

“Countdown Queen.”

“Pure. For now.”

Taglines wrapped around videos with low-res candids of her walking into hotels, training, changing shoes courtside. There were thousands of comments. Some about her legs. Her smile. Her bottom. But none about her backhand.

But most, most were about what they wanted to do to her once the clock ticked over midnight on her birthday. What she would owe the world by then.
What they’d take.

There were images she didn’t recognize.
Deepfakes. Some clumsy. Some terrifyingly realistic.
Her face on bodies that weren’t hers, doing things she hadn’t done, yet looked almost like she had. Things she worried she’d be asked to now she knew of them.

She turned off the screen. Stared at the ceiling. And didn’t breathe for a while.

~

Later, she made it to the bathroom. Sat on the closed toilet. Pulled her knees up.
And rocked, slowly, back and forth.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t panic. Didn’t scream.

Because this wasn’t new. Just louder now.

So much louder.

Chapter Text

The PR packages started arriving first.
Boxes with ribbons and soft tissue paper, from sponsors she hadn’t approved and stylists she hadn’t met.

Each item labeled with some pastel version of her name:

Galinda’s Birthday Collection.

Eighteen & Iconic.

The Countdown Edit.

She stared at the delicate pink sandals in the first box, heels she could never wear on court, in her size, embossed with a loopy golden G.

Underneath was a card:

Can’t wait to see where the next chapter takes you—by Oscar Diggs & Co.

_____

The press had picked up the scent. Subtle at first. Innocent, even.

“Arduenna’s poised to become one of tennis’s most eligible stars.”

“Will Galinda celebrate her big day with a big announcement?”

“Inside her glamorous Wimbledon summer—and the man who helped shape it.”

Photos of her with Oscar. Oscar with her father. Oscar smiling beside her after the semifinals, hand suspiciously low on her back.

None of the photos from the final made it in. Not the ones where she flinched. Not the ones where she lost.

~

She tried asking one of the handlers if they could review the press quotes going out under her name.

The woman smiled. “They’ve already been approved.”

“By me?”

“By Mr. Diggs,” she said, like that meant the same thing.

_____

There was a new schedule slipped under her door the next morning.

The headline read:

Birthday Media Timeline: Strategic Engagement Plan

Strategic.

She almost laughed.

Underneath, a bullet-point list of appearances, pre-cleared interview language, and a note from her PR team:

“If asked about Mr. Diggs, we suggest a warm, nostalgic tone. Audiences respond positively to mentor-turned-romantic arcs, especially with long-term investment narratives. See: Dion/Angélil.”

There it was.

Out loud.

Printed in ink.

Oscar was staging her.

Not just as a girlfriend.

As an investment fulfilled.

_____

She sat on the floor of her bathroom that night and opened her tablet again. Typed his name. Her name.
The word “together.”

Thousands of hits.

Mockups of their future children. Fan posts fantasizing about the “romance.”

One even used the phrase “she’s been groomed for greatness: now it’s time for the reward.”

The reward.

Her.

An object. Not a person.

She threw up in the sink.

_____

No one came when she didn’t show up for lunch. No one noticed she hadn’t eaten in two days. Not really.

Because her birthday was coming. And all anyone wanted was the ribbon on the package.

Not the girl inside it.

Chapter Text

Elphaba hadn’t slept properly in a week. Not since her hearing.

Not since the provisional suspension stuck, and her phone stopped working, and the Federation started treating her like a liability instead of a legacy.

Her father was trying to work it out behind the scenes, meetings, lawyers, advisors, but every conversation ended with the same shrug:

The Federation doesn’t want to admit the test was flawed.

They were too close to the Ozlympics. Too invested in keeping things clean. Too happy to let Galinda shine alone.

Elphaba kept refreshing news feeds for something, anything, official.

Instead, she saw photo after photo of Galinda in white. Galinda smiling. Galinda holding her plate like it didn’t cut her hands.

The birthday hashtags had started trending by Monday.

#Galinda18
#CountdownToGalinda
#GoldenGirlTurnsGold

She didn’t click on them. Not at first.

~

It was Shell who found it. He wasn’t even looking for anything dark, just gossip, maybe something they could use to see if they could prove Galinda was being manipulated.

He knocked on Elphaba’s door just after midnight, laptop in hand. “You need to see this,” he said. “But you’re not going to like it.”

~

She scrolled in silence for fifteen minutes. Some of the sites were hidden behind paywalls. Others were open forums.

Threads with names like:
“When She’s Legal,”
“Training the Perfect Blonde,” “Oscar’s Prize.”

Thousands of comments. Deepfakes that made her stomach turn.

Pictures she knew were stolen, and wildly out of context. Galinda tying her shoes, jumping for a shot- tennis skirt catching the wind, walking into the hotel, yawning with a coffee cup in her hand, all captioned like hardcore pornography.

- She’s almost ours.

- She’s ripe.

- Look how he’s shaped her. Bet she’s already broken in.

Shell sat across from her, not speaking. Waiting. Elphaba shut the laptop. And didn’t say a word for a very long time.

When she finally stood, her voice came out colder than she expected. “I’m going to London.”

“You’re still banned.”

“Then I’ll go through the fucking sewer.”

Shell opened his mouth. Closed it.

Nodded.

Chapter Text

Galinda didn’t eat breakfast. She tried.
Sat at the table in her suite, peeled the skin off a nectarine, tore a croissant in half. Stared at both.

Her stomach twisted and twisted until she thought she might be sick from hunger, nerves, pain or shame, she couldn’t tell which. Probably everything all together.

She told herself it was just the pressure. The noise. The press.

The pink boxes piling up outside her door.

The fact that every headline used the word “woman” now instead of “girl,” as if tomorrow made her different.

_____

Her first meeting of the day was with Morrible.
The woman wore a grey silk blouse and long pearls. Her smile was as polished as her tone.

“Well, my dear,” she said, tapping a folder closed with two fingers. “You’ve done more for the image of the Federation in the past six weeks than most of our athletes manage in six years.”

Galinda sat on the edge of the sofa, hands folded in her lap. She said nothing.

“You’ve weathered heartbreak with elegance. Held your head high. And our sponsors have been thrilled. But…” Morrible’s eyes flicked up. “…now comes the delicate part.”

Galinda stayed still. Prey that knows it’s been sighted by a predator.

“The public has made up their mind. Elphaba was… polarizing. Oscar, on the other hand, is a self-made empire. A philanthropist. A mentor. And, if I may say, very good at reading the room.”

She reached forward and smoothed a crease in Galinda’s sleeve. “It would be wise to… lean into the narrative. There’s warmth in it now. Safety. Timing.”

Galinda’s voice was quiet. “You mean pretend we’re together.” She needed to hear it straight.

Morrible’s smile sharpened. “I mean let them believe it’s the story they want. You wouldn’t be the first girl to trade fiction for protection.”

Galinda nodded once.
Then again. Just enough to end the meeting.

She threw up in the bathroom before her second.

_____

Oscar’s suite was already dark when she entered. Curtains drawn. Fire flickering.
He poured her wine.
She didn’t touch it.
He didn’t seem to care.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll release the photos. The lake shoot, remember? We look so good together there. Cinematic.”

Galinda stood by the window, arms folded over her stomach.
He approached her slowly from behind, placing his hands over hers.

“You’re making the right choice,” he said. “The Federation is thrilled. I’m thrilled. And I always, always pay my debts.”

He stepped even closer. Put a hand low on her hip. Breathed deeply. Spoke into her hair.

“She gets to compete in the Ozlympics. The charges will disappear. All you have to do is smile and say yes when they ask if it’s real.”

Galinda nodded.

It wasn’t a decision anymore. Just a survival reflex.

~

Later, she stared at herself in the mirror above the sink. Her reflection looked ghostly. Like a girl half-remembered. She washed her hands.

She tried to eat toast before bed. Took one bite. Spat it out. Her stomach flipped again and again and again.
But she didn’t throw up this time. Just curled under the covers in silence and whispered to herself:

“I did it for her.”

But even that didn’t feel clean anymore.

Chapter Text

The morning didn’t begin with music. No cake. No candles. No knock at the door with flowers. No texts from friends, she’s never been allowed to have any.
No Elphaba.

It began with a phone call from Morrible. “Happy birthday, dearie,” she said in a voice like syrup over steel. “Check your messages. You’re trending in forty countries.”

Galinda sat up in bed.
Her abdomen ached again. She checked her phone. There it was.

EXCLUSIVE: Galinda Arduenna & Oscar Diggs Confirm Their Romance: Mentor Turned Match

The lead photo was from the lake shoot as promised: Galinda in a floaty pale blue dress, Oscar standing behind her with his hand on her shoulder, like a proud husband or a patient owner.

The headline beneath read:

From Prodigy to Partner: A Fairy Tale 3 Years in the Making

⸻

By noon, the internet was on fire.

#GalindaAndOscar
#CinderellaAndHerKing
#FromCorporateToCompanion

Celebrities congratulated her. Sponsors doubled down. Fans who once called her “Barbie” were now calling her “an icon of feminine strength.”

They called Oscar her “savior.” Her “protector.” Her “constant.”

She didn’t look at the comment sections. She didn’t have to.
People told her what they said anyway.

She’s so lucky.

What a beautiful story.

He believed in her before anyone did.

_____

Her father texted her midafternoon:

See? Told you he’d make you useful. Guess you found out what you’re really good at.

She deleted the message and left the room.

_____

The new apartment was ready by evening.
She arrived with two handlers and one suitcase.

Oscar was already there, pouring champagne. He gave her staff a key. For emergencies. None for Galinda. Not her own key. Not her own bank card. Not her own passcode.

“To our future,” he said, raising his glass.

She raised hers too.
Didn’t drink it.

~

The place was too big.
Too dark. Too cold.
No books. No cluttered warmth like Elphaba’s suite used to have.

The fridge was full, but she couldn’t eat.

~

She asked one of the handlers when she’d receive her own account access now that she was eighteen.

He gave her a polite smile. “Oscar prefers to manage things personally for now.”

She asked about the prize money. “Oh, that’s still locked under your father’s authorization. It’s a transfer process. Paperwork.”

She said nothing.
Because there was nothing left to say.

_____

Oscar left just before ten. He kissed her cheek, told her she’d made “the best choice of your life”. When he left, she stood at the door for a full minute. Just… stood there. Listening to the click of the lock.
The silence afterward.
The air that didn’t move.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Didn’t throw anything. She just walked stiffly to the couch.

Sat down and whispered, to the empty room:

“I’m not free.”

Then again. Softer.

“I’ll never be free.”

Chapter Text

The pain had changed.
It wasn’t sharp anymore. Not like the punch. Not like that first electric flare of agony weeks ago when her father’s knuckles landed just below her healing scar. Not even the familiar dull constant. Always there.
Now, it was a slow sickly warmth under her ribs. A heaviness when she bent too long. A tug behind her navel when she stood too fast.

Sometimes it pulsed during press events.
Sometimes it throbbed when Oscar…. She didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t let herself.

~

He was rougher lately.
Less careful. Like she was something built to absorb damage. And maybe she was, certainly nothing in her existence had ever taught her otherwise.

He liked when she flinched. Said it meant she was “paying attention.” He didn’t call it pain. He called it play. She had thought nothing could be worse than the gentle, attentive Oscar of before. She wasn’t sure anymore.

He liked to tie things.
Liked to press his palm over her mouth while whispering what a good girl she was for staying still. Liked to squeeze her neck tight enough she passively wondered if each breath would be her last.

She never said no.

She never said yes, either.

~

She was bleeding. Not constant. But enough.

Just a little. Dark. Sticky. Not period blood. Not like anything from any injury she remembered. She wasn’t quite sure where it was coming from, or why.

It happened the morning after Oscar had gotten too excited about the silk ties then again after…that. Sometimes it happened when she was out. It was becoming more unpredictable.

She found it in the sheets. Washed them herself. Didn’t tell anyone.

~

At breakfast the next day, she couldn’t finish her toast. Everything tasted like metal. The orange juice burned going down.

Oscar said she was “too in her head” and handed her a protein shake instead.

She drank it because he told her to. Threw it up before lunch.

______

The trainers said she needed iron. The stylist said she needed sleep. Morrible sent her a note:

“Don’t be such a stereotype. Eat something before the press starts talking.”

Her father sent a single text:

“Don’t embarrass yourself. Or me. Or else.”

_____

That night, she woke up on the bathroom floor. No memory of how she got there.
Just the cold tiles and a slow, aching pressure in her lower stomach that felt like something inside was trying to unstick itself from the rest of her. Her head floating somewhere high above her body.

She didn’t call for help.
She crawled back to bed before sunrise. Her body slick with a cold sweat.

Smiled through her 9 a.m. interview like nothing was wrong. Because no one wanted the truth. They wanted beauty. Grace.
Gratitude. They wanted her to win.
And she would.

Or die trying.

Chapter Text

Elphaba wasn’t ready.
Not for this. Not for the way Galinda walked into the training hall with her hair pinned up like nothing had ever broken.

Not for the fact that she looked so much smaller, tighter in the face, thinner in the legs and arms, paler under the lights, but still glowed for the cameras like she was made of pressed pearls.

Not for how easily the press swarmed.

“The dream team, reunited!”

“Fire and finesse back on court together!”

Not for how Galinda smiled at her.

Like she didn’t know everything she’d ruined.

~

They didn’t speak the first day. Just volleyed in silence, paired in doubles drills by a coach who didn’t care about tension so long as the footwork stayed tight.

Elphaba moved like fire. Galinda moved like a glacier. She missed two returns in a row and apologized both times, breathlessly.

Elphaba didn’t respond. Didn’t look at her. Just said, “Let’s not waste each other’s time.”

_____

Galinda had mentally practiced the words on the plane.

“I didn’t mean to disappear.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“I still think about you.”

But none of them fit inside her mouth when Elphaba stood five feet away and wouldn’t even meet her eyes.

She could feel the blood pooling in her lower abdomen again, deep and sticky like a held breath. Her fingers trembled on the grip of her racquet. Her vision blurred. Time was too slow and too fast, concurrently. Confusingly.
She missed another shot.

Elphaba’s jaw tensed.

~

They were dismissed after drills. Galinda followed her. Not fast. Just enough to try.

“Elphie,” she said.

Elphaba stopped. Didn’t turn.

“I, I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but m…”

“You’re not sorry,” Elphaba said. Still facing away. “You’re branded now. Perfect. Groomed. He must be so proud.”

Galinda’s mouth parted. “Please…”

“You don’t have to explain.” Her voice was ice. “We all get it. Too much sex, not enough sleep. You’re not playing like yourself.”

Galinda froze.
It wasn’t just the words. It was how easily she said them.
Like she believed them.

Like she believed that’s all Galinda was now.

~

She made it to the locker room before her legs started shaking.
She bent over the sink. Dry heaved twice. Spat peach-tinged foam into the sink.

She looked in the mirror and saw a familiar stranger through the haze:

Dirty.

Soiled.

Used.

And suddenly understood, viscerally, why Elphaba hated her.

Because she hated her, too.

_____

Elphaba watched Galinda leave the court with her hand pressed to her stomach like she was holding something in, eyes glassy with unshed tears. She told herself she didn’t care.
That the girl she loved had never existed. That whatever was left was just Oscar’s plaything in a nicer dress.

But something twisted in her gut. A tension that didn’t come from anger. A pressure that tasted like guilt.

She didn’t follow. Didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Because she was still furious.

And because somewhere deep down, part of her was afraid that if she looked too closely, she’d see how much damage had already been done.

Chapter Text

The drills got faster. The air heavier. Every serve echoed louder inside the massive training hall, like it was already surrounded by stadium silence.

Ozlympic nerves were normal. But this felt different. Like the whole team was made of dry rope, fraying by the hour.

And the worst part was: her younger partner wasn’t the weak link. Not technically.
Her footwork was crisp, her net reactions sharp. But Elphaba could see it in the way she stood between points.

Too still.

Too pale.

Too hollow-eyed beneath the makeup.

~

“She’s pushing herself too hard,” one of the coaches muttered near Elphaba’s rack. “Whatever Diggs is doing to prep her, it’s not recovery-focused.”

Elphaba didn’t respond. Just clenched her jaw. Because it was the first time anyone said it out loud.

And it wasn’t nearly enough.

_____

The schedule was relentless.

Morning weights. Doubles strategy. Singles endurance. Media rotation.

Every hour choreographed. Every camera ready.

Oscar watched one practice from the glass box above the court. Her father stone-faced from the bench. Galinda could feel their eyes on her the whole time.

The next morning, there were fresh bruises she didn’t remember getting.

~

She missed a call time for a sponsor shoot and got a three-line email from Morrible:

You are replaceable. He invested in you. Don’t make him regret it.

She didn’t know who “he” was in that sentence.

Her father?

Oscar?

The entire Federation?

The country?

It didn’t matter. She apologized. Showed up the next day with curled hair and a stitched smile.

_____

Elphaba found herself watching Galinda too often. Not with softness. Just scrutiny.

The girl who had once smoothly kissed her in the back hallway of a doubles qualifier now moved like her limbs weren’t fully connected.

Elphaba could see her entire rib cage through her filmy white dress. It emphasized the unsettled rhythm to her breathing. Alternately shallow and deeply gasping. No one else seemed to notice.

Or care.

_____

After practice one night, Nessa pulled her aside.

“You HAVE to ask her what’s going on.”

“She made it clear what she wants.”

“Maybe what she WANTS is to be alive, and what she GOT was Oscar.”

Elphaba stared at her.
Didn’t say anything.
Because she didn’t know how to believe anything anymore.

_____

Galinda’s vision fractured again during strength drills. Black spots. Rainbow Flashes. She blinked them away. Breathed shallowly. Laughed breathily when someone asked if she was okay.

Afterward, she locked herself in the physio suite and lay on the cold tile floor until her hands stopped shaking and her heart stopped racing.

Then she reapplied her lipstick. And walked back out.

_____

The countdown clock to the Opening Ceremony ticked on.

Six days.

Then five.

Then four.

Galinda kept training.
Kept smiling. Kept fading, somewhere unseen.

Because even pain had a purpose.

And winning was the only thing that let her pretend she still belonged to herself.

Chapter Text

The robe they gave Galinda backstage was white and heavy, embroidered with her country’s green seal across the shoulder. Her hands trembled as she pulled it on. No one noticed.

She had barely eaten all day, again. Her stomach hurt too much, and the water they kept offering tasted sharp and metallic, she could barely swallow any.

The stadium thundered beyond the gate. The floor vibrating through her custom trainers. She stood alone behind the curtain, torch in hand, stomach heaving under the glittering belt of her uniform.

Her heart pounded against her ribs like it was trying to signal SOS. She was the final runner. The face of the team.

The girl the world already thought they knew.

~

She stepped onto the ramp. Light exploded. She wasn’t sure if it was real or in her brain.
People screamed. The torch flared. Her body burned with it.

Her vision narrowed to a tunnel, blood roaring in her ears, knees locking as she climbed. She almost didn’t make it. Her left foot faltered on the last step.

But she didn’t fall. Didn’t pause. Didn’t faint.

She thrust the torch forward. and lit the flame.

The stadium roared. She smiled. On camera, it looked radiant.

Off camera, her fingers were white past the second knuckle, and her knees nearly buckled as she turned away.

She wasn’t allowed to join the others for the celebration. Before the anthem even finished echoing, a handler took her wrist and steered her down a separate corridor.

“The dress is waiting,” the woman said.

Galinda nodded.

~

The changing room was cold. The dress hung like a threat on the rack.

Backless.

Strapless.

Split to the hip.

Oscar’s favorite.

She peeled off her national uniform, sweat-soaked and safe, and stepped into something that didn’t belong to her.

The bodice dug into her ribs. The slit left a dark bruise visible on her thigh. She added lots of powder. Lip gloss. Heels.

By the time she joined him outside the dignitary suite, she looked like a goddess carved for someone else’s temple.

Oscar smiled when he saw her, brushed a rogue curl flat behind her ear with his thick, bejeweled fingers. “Perfect,” he said.

______

Elphaba stood on the stadium floor with the rest of the team, eyes on the torch. She didn’t blink. Didn’t cheer. Didn’t speak when someone said, “Wow! That’s your partner up there.”

Instead, she watched the exact moment Galinda disappeared from the arena floor.
Escorted out before the anthem had even finished. Didn’t return for the team walk-off.
Didn’t come to the reception room. Didn’t come back to the village.

By the time the newsfeed published the photos, Elphaba was already back in her training gear.

Galinda in a slit dress beside Oscar, champagne glass in hand, posing like an actress at a premiere. Not an athlete. Not a teammate. Not the girl Elphaba remembered sharing broken protein bars and bad jokes with after drills.

“She doesn’t even bother pretending to be one of us anymore,” someone muttered nearby. “She’s ethereal!”, someone else gushed. Elphaba didn’t respond. She just turned away.

Tighter.

Harder.

Colder.

Because it was easier to believe Galinda had chosen that world, than to imagine she might still want hers.

Chapter Text

The dress never loosened. Not during the press event. Not during the dinner with foreign dignitaries.

Not even during the post-ceremony gala where champagne flowed like confession.

It cut into her hips, pinched her ribs, and left the fading bruises on her spine screaming by the time she finally got to sit. But she didn’t sit for long. There were photos to take. Hands to shake. Oscar to stand beside, smile beside, laugh beside.

He answered every question for her. Told every origin story like it was his name printed on the tournament brackets.

~

She lost count of the interviews. At least three different countries. Two networks with translators.

A whisper from his assistant: “Touch his arm more.”

A whisper from him: “Smile wider.”

~

When the limo finally pulled away, she couldn’t feel her feet.
She stared at her reflection in the tinted window and didn’t recognize the woman looking back.

Too perfect.

Too polished.

A statue designed for worship, and sacrifice.

_____

The suite was already lit when they arrived. He poured her a drink before she even took off her shoes. She didn’t drink it. He didn’t notice. Like always.

His hands were already on her waist.
Guiding.
Turning.
Removing the pins from her hair one by one like he was unraveling something he had built.

~

He was rougher than usual.

Not angry. Not really.

Just… certain.

Like she was his prize to claim.

She didn’t fight it. Couldn’t have if she tried.

Didn’t speak.

Just laid still afterward, half-curled beneath the silk sheet, watching the ceiling flicker with the lights from the city outside.

Something low in her abdomen throbbed.

Persistent.

Insistent.

_____

He didn’t stay long.
Important breakfast in the morning. More interviews. Another day of being seen.

He kissed her shoulder before he left. “Try to sleep. You’ve got your big match tomorrow.”

~

She waited until the door shut.

Then sat up slowly. Carefully.

Made it to the bathroom on shaky legs and splashed her face with cold water until the room stopped spinning.

Something warm trailed down her the back of her thigh.
She didn’t look to see what it was. She already knew.

_____

She curled up on the couch instead of the bed. Afraid if she laid flat, something inside her might break open.

She didn’t sleep. Didn’t cry. Just stared at the clock.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Until tomorrow came.

And the first round of doubles was upon her.

Chapter Text

The court looked exactly the same as every other she’d ever stepped onto. Painted lines. Hard light. Worn green walls and bouncing echoes.

But Elphaba’s chest felt too tight. Her hands wouldn’t stop flexing. This was her dream. Everything she’d ever wanted.

People had doubted her. Hated her for her looks, her wealth and perceived privilege. Both together. But she had made it. She was here. It had been lonely then. It was lonely now. But she was ready. She could do this.

But Galinda? Galinda looked like a corpse in slow motion.

She’d arrived late. Not by much. Just enough to set off every nerve Elphaba had left. The cameras were already warming up. The announcers highlighting their notes. The heat rising from the court floor like stage lights waiting for something to crack.

Galinda didn’t even look around when she stepped into the warmup area. Her ponytail was slightly lopsided, natural curls lank and unraveled.
Her warm up sweatshirt was on backward.

And her skin…
Her skin looked grey. Not pale. Not nervous.
Grey.

Elphaba watched her stretch with stiff, half-hearted movements.
She moved like she’d been held together with KT tape and ambition.

Elphaba’s stomach twisted. Concern.
Then fury. Then shame. Back to fury.

What the hell had she done?

Stayed up too late. Trained too hard?
Gotten drunk?

Or had she just spent another night draped over Oscar’s lap like she belonged there.

_____

Galinda stumbled slightly as she stepped onto the court. The umpire called time.
Elphaba clenched her jaw and walked beside her to their baseline positions.

They didn’t speak.

The crowd buzzed with expectation. Somewhere in the rafters, Elphaba saw a flash of gold, Oscar in a VIP box. Of course.
Watching his investment perform.

Galinda finally looked at her. Just for a second. Her lips parted, not to smile, not to greet. Like she was about to say something.

Elphaba cut her off.

Flat. Low. Cutting.

“I hope whatever you did last night was worth it.”

Galinda blinked. Her mouth closed. Her eyes flicked down and away instantly, full of shame.

She nodded once. Just barely. Then turned toward the net.

~

Elphaba’s grip on her racquet turned punishing. She didn’t look at her again. Not before the toss. Not before the first serve.

Not even when the ball rose between them like something holy they were both about to desecrate.

Chapter Text

Galinda tossed the ball high, legs planted with practiced poise, racquet cocked back…

And then she twisted.

_____

Elphaba didn’t understand what she was seeing at first. Galinda’s posture collapsed in on itself like a paper crane folding backward. She dropped the racquet mid-swing. It clattered to the ground. Clutched her stomach with both arms. Staggered, and went down.

The sound of her knees hitting the court cracked through Elphaba’s spine.

She was moving before she realized it.
Screaming her name. No answer.

Galinda lay curled on her side, eyes wide, lips parted in a grimace. There was sweat across her face and neck, but her skin was terrifyingly pale, more grey, almost green at the lips- ironically. She was shivering or seizing, or both.

“Thropp! Back!” a voice barked. A medic shoved past her. She obeyed, rebelling against every fibre of her being.

~

She watched them gather around her fallen partner. Oxygen mask. Pressure on her abdomen. They rolled her onto her back and Elphaba saw her right hand twitch once, then go still.

Someone yelled something about blood pressure crashing. Someone else radioed for emergency medevac.

A curtain of uniforms moved between them.
And Elphaba was no longer needed.

She stood outside the ring like a spectator. Like everyone else.

Except she wasn’t everyone else. She used to be the person Galinda called first. Now she was… no one.
Not family. Not a coach. Not even a friend. Just a girl with a front-row seat to someone else’s pain.

The ambulance arrived. Sirens wailing as they manoeuvred as close to the court as possible. But Elphaba couldn’t hear them. Only the silence Galinda left behind on the court. And the echo of her own words:

I hope whatever you did last night was worth it.

Chapter Text

Shell leapt down from the players box and ran onto the court. Elphaba hadn’t realized she was shaking until he gathered her into his arms. The ambulance started back up and screeched out into the evening. She exhaled only then. A single, shattered breath. But it didn’t feel like relief.
It felt like watching the gates of something sacred close in front of her, and realizing, she wasn’t inside anymore.

_____

She replayed the collapse in her mind over and over. The way Galinda’s face pinched in pain. The way she didn’t cry out, just crumpled.

The way she herself had said something cruel not five seconds before it happened.

Her throat tightened again. But she didn’t let herself cry. Not here. Not now.

She had known, deep in her bones, that something was wrong, but she was so blinded by her own hurt, so primed for rejection by her past experiences that she convinced herself that’s what she was experiencing.

Suddenly the last six weeks shifted into sharper focus. Morrible’s sudden attention and care - what she’d been working for all her life.
Galinda disappearing-literally by the look of her today-completely into the narrative they wrote for her.
With a cold wash of clarity Elphaba realized. Morrible knew, and she had manipulated them both to get what she wanted.

_____

“Absolutely unacceptable,” Morrible snapped, tossing a folder onto the hotel suite desk.

Oscar leaned against the minibar, sipping scotch like he hadn’t just lost his golden goose in front of half the planet.

“She was supposed to hold up through the Games,” Morrible hissed. “I trusted you to control yourself. To control her”.

Oscar raised a brow. “You had control. Until you didn’t.”

“She’s cost us two events. Two.” Her tone was pure acid. “You know how much prize money we probably lost? How much airtime and sponsorship? You know how long it takes to spin a public health crisis? The people will want answers”.

Oscar didn’t answer.
Morrible exhaled sharply through her nose. “She had one job. One. Be pretty. Be strong. Be useful.”

She grabbed her phone.

“Find me another narrative. Before the next news cycle hits. We need to get out in front of this”

_____

They wouldn’t let her in.

Elphaba tried the hospital again the next morning, badge in hand, eyes steady. But the nurse behind the glass gave a soft, practiced shake of the head. Non-family only with clearance.”

“But I’m…”

The nurse raised her eyebrows, almost kindly. “On the list?”

Elphaba stepped back.
Didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

_____

The Olympic village shimmered in the morning heat, bustling with photographers and flags and tightly-wound national pride.
But it all felt like static behind her eyes.

She walked without purpose until a notification buzzed on her official device.

Morrible.

Singles round one tomorrow. Schedule confirmed. Chistery will debrief you at 4 p.m.

There was no mention of Galinda. No check-in. Just the assumption she’d play.

And Elphaba… didn’t say no. Not because she felt ready. Not because she was calm.
But because she needed something she could control. And the court was the only place left. Where the ground was marked.
The rules were clear.
And the violence was hers to decide.

~

She hit the gym for two hours. Didn’t speak to anyone. Just listened to her pulse in her ears.
And reminded herself that Galinda was alive.

That was enough.

For now.

_____

Dr. Samira Manek, internal medicine fellow on rotation, stood just outside the critical care unit.

She’d read the chart twice. She’d assisted on the transfusion.
She’d watched the surgery with the senior attending and noted every burst vessel, every adhesion, every strange scarring pattern on the lower abdomen.

She kept her notes clinical. Precise. Detached.

But something in her chest ached as she stared at the window into Galinda’s room.

Breathing tube and NG tube warring for space on her petite face.
Lines everywhere.
So small in that massive, spotless bed.

⸻

“She’s lucky she collapsed when she did,” her attending murmured. “Another twenty minutes, we’d have been calling time of death.”

Samira nodded.

Didn’t say the rest.
Didn’t mention the damage that couldn’t be explained by one fall, not even by a lifetime of sport.

Didn’t point out the old scar tissue. The microfractures. The bruises in strange patterns.

Didn’t say the words forming at the edge of her thoughts:

This doesn’t look like an athlete’s body.

This looks like someone who’s been surviving something.

And most of all:

This girl didn’t do this to herself.

Chapter Text

The echo’s of her final words to Galinda were all she could hear. What if they were the last things Galinda ever heard from her?
Had she always been this heartless?, or had it been thrust upon her by how she was treated by those around her?

~

Elphaba had grown up knowing she would be misunderstood before she even opened her mouth. Her green skin was not just a mark of difference, it was a symbol, to many, of untrustworthiness, danger, otherness.
Even as a child of power and privilege, she learned early that money doesn’t protect you from prejudice. Teachers assumed she was angry when she was focused. Spectators assumed she was aggressive when she was determined. Friends’ parents refused to host her. Coaches praised her technique and then quietly benched her for PR-friendly lineups

So she hardened. She overachieved. She told herself fairness could be earned if she just outclassed and outperformed everyone else.

But it didn’t stop.

And then along came Galinda. Blonde, charming, breathtakingly beautiful …Talented, she’d been forced to admit, grudgingly, after that fateful first meeting when her father had stormed the court and essentially forced a match between the two girls. One which, to her horror and vexation, she had LOST. She had assumed that the world has always said yes to Galinda. That her pain, if it existed, has been coddled or optional.

~

She had immediately resented the way Galinda fit into the same system that shut Elphaba out time and time again. How quickly she was accepted and respected. Promoted in situations where their skill was objectively equal, even, sometimes, when Elphaba was better.

Morrible gave Galinda so much attention, both good and bad.
She couldn’t deny Galinda worked hard, the two often vied to be first on or last off the courts. Often both. However, both of their looks would always ensure that one was playing with an advantage. Galinda would always be noticed, lifted up, Morrible made her the face of the sport. Elphaba would always be noticed, so they tried to hide her, no matter how much she gave or how hard she tried. No matter how good she became.

She didn’t trust Galinda, but she couldn’t deny she made her a better player. But had she made her a better person? She tossed and turned on the small bed in her dorm. She should be resting for the match but she couldn’t turn off her brain. Needed to understand.

~

It had been Nessa’s idea to invite her to the manor in the first place. She couldn’t take credit. Everyone had seen what had happened with her father and the umpire, and Nessa had thought she could use a break, away from the scrutiny. Elphaba had agreed, she did genuinely feel bad for her teammate, but also because she was curious about Galinda. There were so many things that didn’t add up. Her father was obviously hard on her, that was painful obvious, and sure, he was probably crossing some lines…and clearly had a problem with alcohol…but how bad could it really be for a girl like Galinda?

She’d known she’d had a problem with food, but she hadn’t know what it was. Had made an assumption. What rich blonde princess didn’t? Could she be more of a stereotype?

When they had gone away and she’d noticed that maybe, maybe Galinda was watching her wallet more than her figure, she’d been confused. The Digg’s sponsorship deal was huge, Galinda must have more money than she could possibly spend, why was she so cautious? Was her father afraid she’d be frivolous? Her own father loved her, loved all of them, of that Elphaba was certain. But growing up without a mother was hard. Her father threw himself into his work when she died. Loved his children yes, but often in a distant way, like he wasn’t really sure how to be there for them.
Maybe Galinda’s father was like that. No one knew what had happened to her mother, they assumed she was dead, or had left. Galinda herself certainly never mentioned it, never spoke of her past at all.

Even when they were growing close, a part of her always believed Galinda had it easier, and couldn’t understand the stakes Elphaba had always lived with.
‘Pretty Privilege’ was something Galinda had in spades, something that smoothed every social interaction. That gilded the corners of her life. She could see, logically, that it came with downfalls, certainly Galinda hadn’t seemed to welcome Oscar’s advances. Had actively shied away from the advances of boys at the club (Elphaba had assumed that she was just like her, focused). There had been those incidents with the man in the car that she had never fully understood, or at least, never confirmed what she thought.

Even once she knew that Galinda had been forced to…do things. More than once, with her father of all people, later with Oscar, possibly with car-man she had still felt a degree of resentment. She knew, objectively, viscerally even, that Galinda didn’t encourage or welcome any of it. Would never wish any of the incidents on her given that. But…was it really such a curse to be so wanted by everyone? No one had ever wanted Elphaba. No one would.
The few times a boy or girl would touch or caress her, would act interested, invariably they would run off laughing after they got what they wanted, clearly the result of some curiosity or worse, a dare or cruel joke. She was always left hurt and alone. Furious she had let herself be fooled again. Had let herself start wishing.
She hardened her heart further. Would stop giving them opportunities.
Galinda had never seemed to try and stop it. Looked uncomfortable, yes, but wouldn’t even consider going to the police. Maybe she felt it was nice to be wanted too, somewhere deep and murky in her soul. Surely it was better than the alternative.

That resentment simmered. Unacknowledged. Unchecked. Even after sharing trauma and victories. Even once she better understood the situation with Galinda’s father, the depth of her fear of Oscar. It lingered like a toxin, deep in her blood. A slow poison.

Even after she learned the truth of Galinda’s financial situation, had seen how it contrasted so deeply with her own…she reflected that she still thought she still had it worse. Galinda could make money. Would make money. Was making money.
Elphaba could never change the instant hatred that accompanied her visual appearance. Could never seem to truly overcome it.

Galinda had confided in her in some ways but she knew that there were mountains of things left unsaid. She wasn’t sure which of them was more responsible for the slight distance that remained, even when they were together. Still….she had told Galinda she would always be a safe place for her to run, to return to…and she hadn’t kept that promise.

_____

When the doping scandal hit her, Elphaba had spiraled into a place she hadn’t been since she was a child. Completely helpless, defenseless, and defined by others’ assumptions. The media, who had just started to warm to her-a product of the light reflected from Galinda herself, had turned on her quickly. The Federation had offered little support.
So then, when Galinda seemed to walk away. When she started dating Oscar, when the risqué photos appeared, when it looked like Galinda chose wealth and comfort over truth. Elphaba didn’t think. She believed.
She believed she’d been discarded again, and she retaliated with biting cruelty not just to protect herself, but also she had to recognize, to punish Galinda for fitting so well into the world that always had always punished her.

_____

Elphaba lay awake her brain going over and over every memory, ever thought, every belief.
This was the crux:

Elphaba, in her pain, had forgotten to see Galinda as a full person. She had done to Galinda what the world had always done to her, to both of them. Assumed the surface held all the answers.

Oh Oz she had to talk to her. She had to believe they’d have that chance.

Chapter Text

The stadium was loud.
Too loud. Like it was trying to swallow the silence she’d been dragging around since Galinda fell. But Elphaba didn’t flinch.

She walked to the baseline like she hadn’t spent the night reconsidering her entire existence.

Like she hadn’t stood outside a hospital she wasn’t allowed into.
Like she wasn’t about to come undone.

_____

Her opponent was fast. Confident.
A rising star from a southern nation who had a fierce backhand and the press already whispering “bronze contender.”

They smiled at Elphaba across the net like this was just another match. She tried to smile back. She needed to change. Being hard had got her into this mess. She could do this. Had to.

~

First serve: wide. Missed return.

Second serve: ace.

Third: rally. Long. Sharp. Final shot down the line.

Point, Thropp.

~

By the third game, Elphaba wasn’t thinking. She was moving. Clean, efficient.

Every step struck the court like it owed her something. Every swing cracked like a door slamming shut.

She didn’t feel graceful. She felt surgical. And the crowd loved it. They cheered when she ran down impossible angles. They roared when she broke serve.

But it was all static.

Because in her head, she could still see Galinda falling.

~

At the changeover, she sipped water and stared through the barricades. She half-expected Oscar’s smug face in the VIP section.

He wasn’t there. Coward.
Morrible was. She clenched the bottle tighter.

~

“Love–forty,” the announcer said. One more point. She tossed the ball high.

Let it hang in the sun like something sacred.
Then slammed it down like a judgment.

Game. Set. Match.

Chapter Text

The Olympic gym was cooler in the early hours. She arrived before the sun had fully risen, before the media trucks parked and the world remembered she was supposed to be fierce and focused.

She wasn’t. Not really.

She was trying.

But she kept seeing Galinda’s hand slip off her racquet. Kept hearing the soft, sick sound of her body hitting the court, the silence afterward.

The kind of silence that feels final.

Kept trying to tease apart which moments, specifically, she had let slip through her fingers. Where she may have looked beyond her own green nose and truly seen.

~

She lifted heavier than she should have. Ran longer than her knee liked.

She kept her face neutral when the trainer praised her intensity.

“Looks like you’re hungry,” he said.

She almost said, You have no idea. Instead, she stared at the floor and whispered between reps:

“Please wake up.”

She knew she shouldn’t be falling back on old patterns while simultaneously vowing to change but she also needed a way to get through the next two weeks.

_____

The false appendectomy had bothered Samira from the beginning.

She’d seen the surgical scar during cleanup. Too low. Too wide.
Not standard.

The records said “ruptured appendix.”But the surgical notes, tucked deeper in the transfer file, said something else.

Emergency laparotomy. Splenic rupture. Blunt-force trauma. Delayed presentation. Patient initially unconscious.

The CT scan attached was clear. So was the autopsy-level report language on internal bruising.

Not from tennis. Not from accident.

From force.

Sustained and repeated.

~

During her full-body assessment that morning, Sarima found more. Not just fresh bruises. Not emergency wounds.
Scars. Thin, silvery, and criss-crossed like careful calligraphy.

Overlapping tracks low across Galinda’s back and hips. Too patterned.
Belt.

More than once.

From more than one direction.

Years of it.

Samira had seen the same patterns on domestic cases before.

She thought of her sister who would turn seventeen next month. Still texting her memes about Saylor Twift and trying to skip class with fake migraines.

Galinda was barely older. And no one had protected her.

Further examination revealed faint wrist scarring, like healed ligature marks, and internal signs that made Keira’s chest tighten.

Tearing. Adhesions.
Distension consistent with repeated, forceful, long term contact.

She documented clinically.

~

She turned back to the visitor logs. Oscar Diggs had tried to stay overnight again. Her father had left and returned twice already.

Sarima clicked into the access list and made a small edit.

Visitor window reduced to ten minutes. No unaccompanied access.

She flagged the file for quiet review by a social care consultant.

This was the body of a girl who had been hurt, over and over, and made to smile through it. She didn’t say what she was thinking. But she was thinking it anyway:

“You are not alone anymore.”

She left the room and texted her sister.

~

Later that evening she returned. She stared at Galinda through the glass. A media empire crafted around a girl who never got to just be one. She was still unconscious.
Skin too pale. Cheeks sunken, bony peaks visible beneath the sheet, frayed curls greasy on the pillow. She was, even like this, undeniably beautiful. Her fingers twitched once beneath the blanket.

Samira stepped forward, instinctively, hand almost at the call button, But Galinda didn’t wake. She just curled slightly inward.

And Samira realized, with the kind of clarity that leaves your throat dry:

“If I don’t say something soon, they’ll bury this.”

She sat down hard and opened a secure file share. She sent two messages.

One to her mother: a federal judge with an impeccable sense of patterns.

One to her father—a chief trauma surgeon who had once said, “You can read a life in scar tissue.”

She didn’t editorialize.
Just wrote:
“Take a look. Tell me what you see.”

Chapter Text

Elphaba was already in warmup when the crowd started gathering. The match wasn’t for another hour, but the cameras always came early now. They wanted their sharp-tongued warrior.

Their lone survivor of the doubles tragedy.
Their headline.

Not the girl with too many questions and nowhere to place them. The girl trying to soften under a hard lens.

~

She stared down at the court, hands on her hips, breathing through her nose. Tennis had always been her refuge. The lines were clear. You kept the ball in, or you didn’t. You won, or you lost. Even if you were green.

There was no version of that in whatever hell Galinda had been living in.

She thought about the things she’d said before Galinda collapsed. Thought about how long it had been since she’d looked her in the eyes without resentment clouding her view.

Thought about the word used. And hated herself for ever believing it fit.

_____

She won the first set 6–2.

Her serve was clean. Her returns lethal. But her heart wasn’t in it.
Not like before.

Because she wasn’t playing to prove anything anymore. She was playing to endure. To be something when everything else still felt like shadows.

~

Shell stood in the stands, arms crossed tight across his chest.
Nessa had her hand over her heart like she was trying to push her support through the air. Even her father was quietly present, tho she could see him frantically typing into his phone on occasion.

When Elphaba hit the final point, sharp, low, unsalvageable, the stadium roared.

She didn’t.
She just nodded once.
Raised her racquet.

And walked off the court with Galinda’s name still tucked between her ribs like a bruise that wouldn’t fade.

_____

Samira was reviewing Galinda’s chart again, wanted to know if there was anything else that had been missed, intentionally or otherwise. Still couldn’t look at the girl without seeing the face of her own precious sister.

Curiously, there was paperwork in Galinda’s chart, right at the end, that she had only come across once before in her career. A series of numbers in the top corner of each page. A refugee ID?

What. In. Oz.

_____

She hasn’t meant to go on such a deep dive but after filing the latest progress note, still no movement, still sedated, unconscious, Keira returned to the small break room and pulled up a search.

From the date and the faded logos on the top of some of the official paperwork she managed to determine Galinda had been displaced during the Upper Uplands Uprising twelve years prior. It was known to have been a particularly violent period in Gillikin history with many civilian casualties. The impact in northern Gillikin had lasted more than a decade with the lower and middle classes experiencing greater poverty than ever before.

Samira admitted she wasn’t a tennis fan, but it was more or less impossible not to know at least a little bit about Galinda Arduenna. She thinks one of her sisters’ had mentioned something about a documentary exposing that the athlete had risen from apparent poverty, shocking the nation a few years ago, but she hadn’t paid much attention beyond something about sleeping in a car. Now she had to wonder what the childhood of the star was really like. And what had happened to the rest of her family.

_____

She found it buried in a collection of human rights archives: a documentary short from the Emerald Dispatch, focused on their peacekeeping efforts during the Upper Uplands Uprising.

And there, frozen mid-frame:

A small girl with matted blonde curls, no shoes, clutching a ball of fabric (surely not an infant?!). Familiar eyes wild, face coated with soot, smoke billowing through the streets.

Labeled: “Children of the Uplands.”

The narrator: “Her mother and infant brother were among the casualties. Her name, we believe, is Galinda.

Chapter Text

The first thing Galinda felt was pressure. Heavy.
Like something was holding her down.
Fear.
Not again, please.

Then sound. The beep. The low hum. The hush of something breathing that wasn’t her. No one was holding her down.

Pain.

Deep.

Low.

Dragging.

Her eyes fluttered open, then closed again almost instantly.
Too bright. Too sharp.
The light on her skin felt like needles. Her throat ached. Her lips were cracked.

A voice.

Soft. Calm.

“You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

She turned toward it.
Tried to speak.
Nothing came.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t swallow.

Then everything went white again.

~

She woke once more, later, no idea how much time had passed. This time, she managed to open her eyes. The artificial breathing noise had stopped and her throat felt raw but clear.

There was a woman seated beside her. Mid-thirties. Blue scrubs. Sharp, kind eyes.

“Hi, Galinda,” the woman said gently. “My name is Dr. Samira Manek. You’re in the hospital. You had emergency surgery. You’ve been asleep for eight days.”

Galinda blinked.

Her fingers twitched against the sheets.
Tears burned at the corners of her eyes before she even understood why.

“I know. It’s a lot.” Samira soothed.

Galinda’s words were dry, cracked as sand:

“Is… anyone here?”

Sarima hesitated.

“You’re safe here”. She repeated.

_____

The world stayed soft for a while. Muted edges. Gentle light. A humming presence beside her that never pressed too close.

Galinda blinked slowly, her body feeling foreign. She tried to move,her arm, her leg, but everything ached. Deep, hollow aches. Her abdomen was wrapped so tightly she felt like breathing too deep might unravel her.

She didn’t remember the pain ever being this constant. Didn’t remember anything, really.

Just flashes.

Oscar’s mouth on her earlobe

The feel of damp court slamming into her knees.

Elphaba’s voice, sharp as a blade.

_____

“You’re awake,” said the woman at her bedside again.

Same one as before.
Scrubs. Calm voice. No perfume. No harsh words.

“Hi again. I’m Dr. Samira Manek. We’ve spoken before. You’ve had a major surgery. You had intestinal tearing and an nternal hemorrhage: do you remember anything about what happened?”

Galinda blinked. Swallowed. No voice came out. She shook her head.

Samira nodded like that was fine. Like it didn’t scare her half to death. “That’s okay. You don’t have to talk. Just let me know if something hurts.”

The pain was there. But it wasn’t sharp. It was tired. Deep and waiting.

Galinda nodded. Barely.

Samira reached forward and adjusted the pump at her IV.

“You’re on pain meds. Nothing heavy. You’re still metabolizing a lot of blood loss. You’ve been out for… eight days.”

Galinda’s eyes widened, then fluttered shut again.

~

The next time she woke, Samira wasn’t there but returned within minutes when the call button was pressed.

Galinda didn’t ask for anything. Just… needed her to be there. To not be alone.

She sat, quietly. Read from a file. Asked if she could adjust the bed. Didn’t ask for more than Galinda could give.

And when Galinda’s hand curled in on itself against the blanket, the doctor gently uncurled it and placed a warm blanket over her knuckles.

“You don’t have to do anything yet,” Sarima said softly. “Just heal. That’s the only job right now.”

Galinda didn’t answer.
But her eyes stayed open a little longer.

~

That night, Galinda had a nightmare. Something about being in the locker room.

Someone knocking. The sound of fabric ripping. A belt clinking against tile. She woke up gasping, heart racing.

Samira was there within thirty seconds.

She didn’t ask what the dream was. Just dimmed the light. Brought her water.
And said, again, steady and quiet:

“You’re safe now.”

Galinda knew better than to believe it.

Chapter Text

Snow against skin.

Not the kind that flutters. The kind that bites.

The shed roof creaks under weight. She’s six, maybe seven, and her knees are tucked into her sweatshirt because they won’t give her tights anymore, just socks with holes and a sweater that belonged to someone dead.

“Be quiet,” her father snaps. “We don’t want to get sent away.” As if they’re not already gone.

~

The dream shifts. She’s younger.

The war is everywhere: sirens, boots, glass breaking three streets over.

She’s in the crawlspace behind an old icebox, arms curled around her baby brother.

Only he isn’t there.

He never made it past the second night.

She remembers her mother’s scream.

But not her face.

~

Vinyl seats under her back.

Her wrists hurt.

Someone humming. Not a tune. Just… sound. Deep and careless.

She’s trying to say no but her voice doesn’t work.

The weight doesn’t lift.

It never lifts.

Her legs are cold again. Always cold.

~

A match strikes.

She’s in the shed again.

Watching her father boil water on the camping stove and pour it over uncooked oats, muttering about debts and rats and how the city made her weak.

She says she’s hungry.

He slaps her.

~

Oscar’s office.

The photo shoot is setting up.

He says she looked tense, wants to help her relax. Says she needs to glow for the cameras.

Hands on her hips. A buzzing sound. A sensation so strong she doesn’t know what to do.

She can’t breathe.

Can’t move.

Her body moves without her permission.

She stares at the ceiling until the spots come.

~

The tennis court.

The high toss.

Her stomach rips apart.

Everything glows white.

Her mouth opens, but it isn’t a scream.

It’s the sound of letting go.

~

The hospital room.

Only it’s not clean.

It’s the shed again, only someone’s humming and her skin is covered in ash and clay.

Her father is in the doorway.

He’s always in the doorway.

She can’t make him move.

No matter how many times she locks it.

____

She stirs. One violent twitch. Then stillness. The monitors squawk then resume their hum.

~

Outside the glass, Samira watches from her chair, muscles relaxing after tensing to jump up, sipping stale coffee and reading over Galinda’s chart again. She does not know what Galinda sees.
Only that the girl hasn’t moved, other than just, in over two hours.
Only that her hands are curled too tightly again, brow furrowed.
Only that something is still trapped inside her—and it hasn’t stopped fighting to get out.

Chapter Text

Galinda woke slowly that morning, surfacing from a sleep thick with shadows.

She blinked at the light, then turned her face into the pillow as though it might let her stay hidden just a little longer.

Samira was already in the room. She didn’t speak at first. She’d learned the hard way to wait until Galinda reached for the water or shifted her legs beneath the blanket. Wait until she initiated the world.

Today, it came with a whisper:
“Hurts less.” Her voice was rasping sand.

Samira nodded. “That’s good. You’re stable. Healing.”

Galinda nodded once. The smallest motion. Then closed her eyes again.

~

At noon, Oscar arrived. No announcement. Just the scent of his cologne and the sharp sound of expensive shoes on tile.

Samira stood from her chair.
“Ten minutes,” she said, cool and firm. “You’ll be observed.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Charming.”

He leaned over Galinda, touched her shoulder lightly. “Sunshine.”

Galinda’s eyes opened.
Wide.
Her body tensed, not visibly, not theatrically. But Samira saw it. The fractional lift of the chest. The locked jaw. The shift in her pulse on the monitor: up, up, up.

Oscar leaned in a brushed a curl from her forehead , murmuring something low and saccharine about how proud he was of her, how beautiful she still looked.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t even nod.

Her fingers curled in on themselves again under the blanket.

Oscar didn’t seem to notice.
Or didn’t care.

When he finally left, Samira adjusted Galinda’s monitors wordlessly and said, “Do you want to talk?”

Galinda just shook her head.
Very small. But Samira noted the tears at the corner of her eye.

_____

Highmuster came later. He didn’t knock. Didn’t wait for permission.

Samira stood, intercepting him halfway. “Ten minutes.”

“I’ll need more.”

“You won’t get more.”

He sneered. “What are you, her keeper? I’m her father!”

Samira didn’t blink, “I’m her doctor”.

He didn’t respond. Just brushed past her and loomed over the bed.

Galinda opened her eyes at the sound of his voice. She didn’t flinch. But something drained out of her.
Color.
Heat.
Hope.
She stared at the ceiling like it was safer than looking at him.

Highmuster muttered something about “setting back her training” and “making a scene.” When he reached for her wrist, Samira moved before she realized it.

“Do not touch the patient.”

He looked at her, amused. “You think she minds?”

Galinda’s eyes squeezed shut.
Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

But Samira saw it.

The smallest tremble in her jaw. The kind that doesn’t come from pain. The kind that comes from experience.

_____

After he left, Galinda asked, faintly, “Can you… make it so I don’t see anyone for awhile?”

Samira sat beside her and reached for the chart.

“I’ll do what I can.”

And for the first time, Galinda looked directly at her. Eyes tired. Walls thin. And said, “Thank you.”

_____

They removed the catheter the next morning. It should have been simple. Samira cursed herself for not predicting the response.

As soon as the nurse pulled back the sheet, Galinda jerked. Not from pain.
From memory.
Hands where they shouldn’t be.
Being told to hold still.
Told to be good.
Told to relax.

“No!” she rasped, weakly, but loud enough that the nurse froze. Her whole body was shaking now. She tried to push herself back up the bed, but her muscles gave out halfway. She let out a pained sob.

“Galinda,” Sarima’s voice came, calm but firm from the far side of the room. “You’re safe. They’re here to help. Look at me.”

Galinda did look towards her.
Barely.
Trembling.
Eyes wide.

Sarima crossed the room and took her hand. “We’ll go slowly. Only if you’re ready. You control this.”

Galinda nodded once, rigid and pale. The nurse moved carefully. It still hurt.

But it was the not fighting that hurt worse. It was always the hardest.

~

The rest of the day passed in stillness. Quiet check-ins. Slow breaths. No questions.

Samira remained nearby.
Not hovering. Just present.

~

In the afternoon Galinda was moved to a private room, her condition stable enough to leave critical care for step down. She asked for the window to be opened.
She wanted to hear something besides machines.

Samira nodded, opened it halfway. The wind stirred the edge of the curtain. Galinda blinked at it like it was the first soft thing she’d seen in years.

“You’ve had a hard few weeks,” Samira said quietly.

Galinda didn’t laugh. Didn’t cry. Just… stared.

Samira added, “Your chart has some … history.”

Galinda went still.

Not tensed.
Just frozen.

The kind of stillness she’d trained into her spine from the time she was small, don’t react. Don’t provoke. Don’t break.

“You don’t have to explain,” Samira said. “I just want you to know… I see it. And I believe you. Whether you ever want to talk about it or not.”

Galinda looked at her.

Just for a moment.

And blinked quickly, twice, like it hurt to be believed.

~

That night, when Samira returned for evening rounds, Galinda whispered, rushed and small: “It wasn’t my appendix.”

Samira paused. “I know.”

Galinda turned her face to the wall. But her voice followed:
“Then maybe I can tell you more.”

Chapter Text

Galinda didn’t speak all at once. Didn’t pour it out. Didn’t cry.
She just let the sentences drop like stones into the stillness of the room. Their impact would ripple outward, slowly.

~

“We lived in my uncle’s shed. After the war. My mom and brother died in the fire - after a bomb hit the neighbouring building.”

Samira didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t write anything down.
Just listened.

“He didn’t like when I cried at night. Said I’d get us kicked out. Said we had nowhere else to go. Said I needed to learn how to be quiet.”

Galinda’s hands were trembling, but she didn’t seem to notice. “The belt started that winter. The… other stuff, that happened, started later.”

The “other stuff” hovered like smoke between them. She didn’t name it. Not yet.
But Samira felt the weight of it settle into the corners of the room. She wanted to reach for her hand again but didn’t. Let Galinda choose the silence.

~

“I thought it would stop when I got into the academy. But he just got quieter about it. Meaner when no one was watching. He liked the sponsorship money when it started coming in.”

Galinda swallowed, blinking up at the ceiling now. “He said I owed him. For feeding me. For keeping me alive. For not letting the government take me away when they tried to place me with a stranger after the camp.”

A pause. Then: “I wish they had….does that make me ungrateful?”

~

Samira’s chest ached. But her voice stayed level. “I’m so sorry, Galinda.”

Galinda blinked slowly. “I’m still pretty. So they let it keep happening.”

Another pause. “Oscar and Morrible… said if I just did what he wanted….”

Samira finally stepped closer, slow and deliberate. Not looming. Just… present. “You don’t ever have to have it happen again.”

Galinda turned her head—just barely. “Is that a promise?”

“It’s a start.”

Galinda’s eyes fluttered. The exhaustion returned fast. She wouldn’t stay awake much longer. But just before her lashes lowered, she murmured: “Do you think anyone could still love me… if they knew?”

_____

It didn’t happen all at once. She didn’t sit up and tell everything. But the more Samira came, the more she stayed, the more Galinda spoke.

One detail at a time.
Little scraps of memory, like frayed thread pulled from the hem of a gown too tightly stitched.

She stared at the window and murmured, “There was a girl at the academy who gave me a granola bar once. I didn’t really eat for two days before that.”
A beat.
Then:

“I told her I wasn’t hungry. But she looked at my hands and gave it to me anyway.”

Samira folded her clipboard. Sat. Said nothing.

~

“The belt wasn’t the worst,” Galinda whispered one evening. “It was the mirror.” She was half asleep. Her face turned to the wall. “He’d make me stand in front of it. Naked. While he told me what I’d ruined. What parts weren’t worth anything anymore. He’d make me repeat it to him, to be sure I was listening”.

~

Some days she didn’t talk at all. Others she told strange, intimate facts like she was listing ingredients.

“I used to pretend warm water was soup.”

“Sometimes I think my body doesn’t know how to heal unless I’m scared.”

“I’ve never had a bed I didn’t share with someone who hurt me.”

~

Samira never pushed. She documented. She built the case one thread at a time.

But more importantly, she sat in that chair every night with the lights low and her hands quiet. And Galinda kept talking.

_____

Samira didn’t like the step down ward. It wasn’t the medicine, it was the silence. How easy it was for power to hide here, for visitors to come and go under veils of good intentions. Especially for patients with a name, a reputation, and something everyone wanted from them.

Galinda was barely six weeks into adulthood. Technically 18. But Samira knew technicalities didn’t build resilience, and the trauma in her file hadn’t expired with a birthday.

She walked the chart straight to her attending. “I’d like to request a pediatric transfer. She meets the psychological and developmental criteria.”

“You mean she’s still a child,” the doctor replied quietly.

Samira nodded. “And she needs a room with a door that locks.”

_____

She arrived with flowers. Not wildflowers. Not gentle blooms. Roses, tight, symmetrical, almost too perfectly white.

They made the room feel like an ad campaign. Galinda stared at them with faint confusion when the nurse brought them in. “I thought I wasn’t going to have visitors today,” she whispered, hoarse, the sounds half-swallowed.

“You weren’t,” they said, glancing toward the doorway. “Apparently someone pulled some strings.”

~

Madame Morrible entered like she belonged there. Designer coat. No visible badge, just the confidence of someone used to cameras and contracts. To directing them.

“My dear,” she said brightly, sweeping forward. “You’ve given us all such a fright.”

Galinda didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched her with the hollow kind of caution usually reserved for wild animals or broken glass.

~

“We’ll keep it simple,” Morrible went on. “Your fans are worried. The Federation is swirling with questions. But with a few well-chosen words, we can give them something that reassures without revealing too much.”

Galinda’s throat tightened.

Samira stepped in the door, having been alerted by the nurse.

“She’s not doing interviews,” she said evenly.

Morrible’s smile didn’t falter. “Of course not. Not now. But when she’s stronger, we’ll need to discuss a statement.”

Galinda looked at Samira, properly. And said, voice low:
“Do I have to?”

Morrible paused.

Samira didn’t. “No,” she said. “You don’t.”

_____

Samira sat in a quiet call room, video chat open on her tablet. Her mother’s brow furrowed over the redacted case notes.
Her father exhaled slowly after reviewing the initial abdominal trauma scans.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Finally, her father, the surgeon, said: “This wasn’t an accident.”

Her mother, the judge, nodded. “Start preserving records. Securely. Quietly. And if you can, start asking questions that don’t sound like questions.”

Samira leaned back.

“I already have.”

_____

Galinda had thought she’d be scared. She was sure of it, in fact. The moment Samira said, “I need to talk to you about something serious,” Galinda’s whole body tensed. Not out of distrust, but out of a lifetime of training.

Bad things started with that tone. That hush. That kindness.

~

They sat near the window, afternoon light soft on the blankets. Samira’s voice was steady. Measured. “I’m a mandatory reporter, Galinda. That means I am legally required to report suspected child abuse. And based on your chart, and what you’ve told me… I have to file.”

Galinda blinked. Waited for the panic. The pounding chest. The cold wash of dread.
But it didn’t come.
Just a silence. A stillness.
And then, “Okay.”

Samira paused. “You understand what that means?”

Galinda nodded. “It means someone might finally see the real me. I thought they would once before…but it was a lie”.

And her voice broke, not from fear, but from relief. The kind that filled her throat like warmth after years of frost.

Samira reached over and squeezed her hand. “You’re not alone anymore.”

This time—Galinda believed her.

Chapter Text

The quarterfinal wasn’t Elphaba’s cleanest match. She double-faulted twice in the second set. Her return game cracked at the baseline once or twice.
But she never stopped moving. Because stopping meant thinking. And thinking meant seeing Galinda the way she last did, writhing, silent, falling like a string snapped at the center.

~

She wore her oldest lucky shoes. The ones she’d broken in back when she was still a junior.

She didn’t look at the VIP box.
Didn’t need Morrible. Didn’t need her father’s nod.

All she needed was the idea that somewhere, on the other side of all this, someone was surviving. If they could, she would too.

~

6–4, 3–6, 6–1. Win.

The crowd surged. She didn’t hear them. Just breathed.

And whispered, barely audible, into the hem of her towel: “That one was for you.”

_____

They didn’t come in uniform, that was Samira’s doing. She’d made a quiet call and asked for plainclothes female officers, trauma-informed, no visible weapons, no rush.

The first officer who arrived was a woman in her late thirties. Soft voice. Clipboard left tucked under one arm instead of held like a shield. The other stood back. Said nothing. Observed.

Samira didn’t leave Galinda’s side.

~

Galinda sat upright for the first time since surgery, pillows stacked behind her like scaffolding. She was pale but alert. Focused, in a way that made Samira’s chest ache.
Like she was bracing for a match no one had trained her for.

~

“We understand this may be difficult,” the woman said gently, “and you don’t need to go into detail right now. But any information you can give us will help us begin a formal report.”

Galinda didn’t answer. Not right away. She stared at her hands in her lap, fingers twisting together like rope.
Then nodded once.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “But I need to go slowly.”

Chapter Text

Elphaba didn’t sit.

The room was too quiet, too soft. Like it had been designed for grief. Pale walls, warm light, an armchair and a couch that looked like they came with tissues hidden in every crevice.

Dulci didn’t say anything at first. She just watched Elphaba pace, her eyes kind but unreadable. She wasn’t taking notes. There was no clipboard. No official seal on the wall proclaiming that she had been trained to fix the broken parts of people like Elphaba.

Eventually, the silence itched too much. Elphaba muttered, “I’m only here because Nessa asked.”

Dulci nodded. “That’s a good enough reason.”

Elphaba stopped pacing but didn’t sit. Her hoodie was up even indoors, the sleeves pulled tight around her fists.
“She said I was haunted,” she added, voice flat.

Dulci tilted her head. “Are you?”

It wasn’t a challenge. Just a question. But it lodged somewhere behind Elphaba’s ribs, in that part of her chest that had been too full ever since Galinda hit the ground.
Her knees.

Oz, her knees.

Elphaba sat without meaning to, all at once like gravity had remembered her. She stared at her sneakers.

“She went to serve,” she said. “First point. First match. We weren’t speaking but I had to say something, and I said something cruel. I thought she wasn’t taking it seriously. Thought she was hungover, or distracted, or… just being her new self”

Her hands curled tighter.

“She looked grey. I thought it was makeup, or… I don’t know what I thought. But she wasn’t okay.”

She paused. Dulci didn’t fill the space. She let the air hold the weight.

“I told her I hoped whatever she’d done the night before was worth it…And then she dropped. Like a puppet with the strings cut.”

Elphaba’s jaw clenched. “She didn’t even cry out. Her knees hit the court first.
That’s the sound I keep hearing. The crack.”

She rubbed her face once, roughly. “I didn’t even move. Not at first. I just, watched her fall. And I thought, good. I thought, that’ll show her. And then I realized she wasn’t moving.”

Silence.

Dulci finally said, “You think that moment says something about who you are.”

Elphaba’s voice cracked. “Doesn’t it?”

“It says you were angry. Hurt. Walled in. Not that you’re heartless.”

She didn’t reply.

Dulci let her sit with it.

After a long time, she said, “We don’t have to do everything today. You came. That’s the hardest part. If you come again, we’ll look at what else is sitting behind that sound you can’t forget.”

Elphaba didn’t promise anything. But she didn’t say no.

_____

Elphaba found Nessa on the back terrace of the house her family had rented near the village. Nessa handed her a cup of something warm. Elphaba didn’t ask what it was. She sipped.

Nessa didn’t ask how the session went. That was the thing about siblings, they knew when to ask, and when to just let you breathe. Eventually, Elphaba said, “She didn’t even flinch.”

“Dulci?”

“Yeah.” She stared out over the hills. “I said the thing I was afraid to say. The worst thing. That I wanted Galinda to hurt. Just for a second. And she didn’t even blink.”

Nessa didn’t look away from her own cup. “You didn’t want her to collapse.”

“No,” Elphaba whispered. “I didn’t.”

Nessa put a hand over hers. “That’s why you’re in therapy.”

Elphaba snorted softly. “You should be a therapist.”

“Too many feelings. I’d end up yelling at everyone.”

~

They sat in silence for a while.
“Do you think…” Elphaba said finally, “do you think she’ll forgive me?”

Nessa didn’t lie. “I think she already has. But I think you’ll need to forgive yourself too.”

Elphaba didn’t respond. She just stared out at the quiet garden, the dusk painting the edges of the world in gold, and tried to believe that healing was something she could earn. Even if she had to fight for it.

_____

“I was a child in the war, and I don’t think I’ve ever learned how to live in safety”, Galinda started, hesitantly.

My baby brother, Franrik, had been born 2 nights earlier. My Dad was off fighting with the rebels. The apartment building next to us was bombed.
The fire spread quickly, so quickly, it was so loud, so many noises, screams….

The officers still didn’t speak. One of them, the older one, just murmured, “That’s a good place to start.”

Galinda nodded, but her gaze had unfocused, slipping back into memory. “I was always hungry after,” she said. “Not just like, ‘oh, I missed lunch’ hungry. I mean sick hungry. Dust in my stomach hungry. You can get used to it, but it never stops hurting. My dad would make these… bowls. Of water and oats, but the oats were dry. Dusty. Like chewing cardboard soaked in mud. I would pretend it was stew. Pretend we were somewhere with real spoons. I hated the plastic ones that bent in warm water, but sometimes we didn’t even have those. You can learn to be grateful for things you hate, you know”. A pause, then

“As it turns out, you can get used to just about anything…”

Her hands had started to shake. Sarina reached forward slowly, offering her a blanket. Galinda accepted it like a soldier taking a medal.

~

“My dad, he wasn’t always like this, I don’t think. Or maybe he was. I was six-ish when the bomb hit the building next door. Galinda’s voice had gone flat. Rehearsed, almost. Like she had said it to herself too many times. “She put him in my arms, told me to run. There was fire, smoke. I didn’t know when he wasn’t breathing anymore. I didn’t know where to go, who to trust, when to stop. He was warm. Still warm. He felt like something alive. I was so scared…so scared.”

A pause. Her eyes blinked, slowly. “I didn’t talk for a month after they took him. They, peacekeepers, pried him out of my hands. I tried to bite someone. I didn’t understand they were trying to help.
I think someone took pictures, or video. I’m not sure. I didn’t look at them.

They took me to a camp. There was a makeshift school there but I couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, I think they thought I was slow. I think they taught me that I wasn’t very smart.

They were working on placing me with a foster family. Said I’d be easy. Quiet and cute. Like that made me more worthy of care, or to handle, or something. It took three months to find my dad. He was out fighting in the hills.

When he came, he looked smaller than I remembered. Like everything had been scrubbed out of him. We didn’t hug. He just said, ‘You’re alive,’ and I nodded. We never talked about it. I had to be the one to tell him, about the others. That they didn’t make it”.

Sarima didn’t cry. Neither did Galinda.

~

“We walked most of the way to Frottica. Sometimes people gave us rides. Once in a chicken truck. Once in a flatbed full of tires. I was coughing a lot still from the smoke in my lungs. We had a tarp but it wasn’t enough. My dad pulled me behind him like I was a suitcase.

When we got there, Uncle Letten said we could sleep in the shed. The house was full of people who had gotten there before us, friends, family. I had slowed us down. There was a cot. A stove, with fuel, sometimes. We froze that winter.”

She looked at her hands. “He started hitting me around then. Not always, not at first. He’d yell, mostly.

I think he blamed me. I think I did too. Maybe if I’d run faster, or yelled louder, or… maybe if I’d known the baby, that Franrik, was already gone...”

Her voice cracked, but she didn’t stop. “After a while, he’d scream until he was hoarse. Then he’d slap. Then he’d drink. And then he’d just look at me like I wasn’t even his child. Like I was something that survived when better people didn’t.”

~

School was awful. The other kids made fun of how I talked. Said I sounded like a peasant or like I was pretending. They called me “mop” because my hair never behaved. They said I was dirty. I was. Sometimes there was no hot water, sometimes no soap.

I missed a lot of school. My dad needed help. He was a boxer before he was made to be a soldier. He’d pick up whatever work he could find, moving things, delivering things, and I’d go with him to carry, to wait, to run ahead and talk to people when he couldn’t bear to.

He didn’t sleep much. We didn’t. He’d get up at dawn and go running. I think he was trying to outrun something. Eventually he started waking me up too. Made me run with him. We’d do push-ups in alleyways. He said I had to be strong, stronger than adversity. I was seven. I didn’t know what that meant yet.

_____

I used to play with this broken wooden board and a pitted rubber ball I’d found, one of those red and blue ones. Just hitting it against a wall over and over. He watched me for a long time. Didn’t say anything.

When I was eight he brought me a tennis racquet. It was old and half the strings were dead, but I could hit with it, and when I didn’t drop the ball right away, I saw something light up in him.

He got obsessed. Started watching tennis matches on his phone, sneaking into clubs to watch the lessons. We couldn’t afford anything, so he made a deal with one of the local clubs. We’d sweep the courts, gather balls, help fix things. In exchange, I got lessons.

People started noticing me. I was fast, I could hit clean. They gave me some scholarships. Nothing big at first, but enough that I got to train more. I stopped going to school most days, started playing matches, winning. The teachers gave up calling. I had a few people I was friendly with, but they didn’t know anything real about me. I didn’t let them. Couldn’t.

Eventually we got a small apartment, we could only ever afford one bedroom . It had heating. I remember crying when I could take a hot bath. My dad pretended not to see.

Then one day when I was eleven or twelve, he packed our things without warning. Said we were moving to the Emerald City, said that’s where real champions were made

He showed up at Madame Morrible’s academy with me standing behind him, still holding my racquet in a trash bag, and demanded she coach me.

That’s how it always was. He never did anything gently.

_____

No one interrupted her. Galinda blinked again, harder this time. “I’m sorry I’m starting all over the place,” she whispered. “This part isn’t important”.

Officer Kella leaned forward slightly. “You’re not. You’re exactly where you need to be.”

Galinda took a long, slow breath. And began to talk again.

Chapter Text

Sarima didn’t speak during the interview.

She wasn’t there to question, just observe. The detective had explained that Galinda might feel steadier if someone she knew was in the room. Not family, not a lawyer—just someone who’d been around. A face that wasn’t trying to take anything from her.

So Sarima sat. Silent. Hands in her lap.

Galinda didn’t cry. Didn’t pause often. There was a kind of stillness to her voice that Sarima couldn’t stop thinking about. As if she’d rehearsed this story in her own head a thousand times and this was just the first time saying it out loud.

“He said I looked like my mom,” Galinda said. “Said I was growing up pretty.”

That was how it started. A casual memory, dropped like a coin into a fountain.

“Even if tennis didn’t work out, I’d be good for something,” she added a moment later, almost like she was quoting him word for word.

Sarima felt something twist low in her ribs. Galinda kept going. Not linear. Fractured. Just moments. Phrases.

“He started keeping my underwear in his drawers. I’d have to ask for it back. It was like a joke to him, I think. Or…not a joke, actually.”

She didn’t say more. Didn’t have to.

The detective didn’t interrupt. Just nodded, gently, and let the silence stretch.

Sarima stayed still. Kept her breathing even. She’d learned over the years how not to react too visibly. Victims noticed. Especially ones like Galinda, who watched and measured everything.

The thing was, Galinda didn’t act like a victim. She didn’t act like anything. She just described, deliberately, clearly, how her world had narrowed year by year. How he’d isolated her with love and training and fear all braided together.

It wasn’t the first story Sarima had heard like this. But it was the calmness that haunted her. Not numbness. No. This wasn’t shock. This was survival.

Galinda had adapted so well to the life she was given that the abuse wasn’t a rupture it was the foundation. It shaped her days. Her body. Her silence. Even her discipline on the court, Sarima suspected. Control had been a currency in that household. Compliance mistaken for love. Talent mistaken for freedom.

And now, after twelve years, Galinda sat here unblinking, telling them about it like she was giving a weather report.

Sarima wanted to reach for her. Just to offer some kind of human tether. But she didn’t move.

She sat with the weight of it all. The things said plainly. The things Galinda didn’t have the language for yet. The things Sarima could feel underneath, vibrating like a struck wire.

She knew what this meant. What had been taken. What would take years to rebuild, if ever.

And she knew, without needing to look at the detective, that this wasn’t over. This was only the edge of what Galinda had been holding.

The rest would come slowly. If it came at all.

_____

The room was quiet again. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful, more like the air had gotten thick with something no one wanted to name.

Galinda shifted slightly in her chair. “He loaned us the car,” she said, almost casually, as if continuing some earlier story. “One of my dad’s friends. Or… not really a friend. A guy he knew from a gym, or the bar, or… I don’t know. My dad said we’d ‘owe him for a while.’”

She said “owe” like she knew exactly what that meant, like she knew they would know.

Sarima’s stomach turned.

Galinda didn’t describe anything outright. But she didn’t need to. She said he started picking her up sometimes after lessons. Waiting by the gate. Always alone.

“My dad said he worked out a deal,” Galinda went on. “So we didn’t have to worry about money for a while. That it was fair.”

Fair.

She didn’t make eye contact as she said it. Her voice was flat. Not defiant. Not broken. Just… distant. Like this was something that had happened to someone else. But Sarima could see the effort it took to keep speaking.

“I’d come back late sometimes. He’d already be home. Wouldn’t even ask where I’d been. Just look at me like he was checking for something, take the money if there was any.”

A pause.

There was a current running underneath it all, and Sarima could feel it. That layered, sickening complexity, the way the father resented exactly the thing he’d arranged. Like watching his own guilt get reflected back at him through her. Like he couldn’t stomach what he saw, so he punished her for it.

_____

And then there was Oscar Diggs. Galinda didn’t say much about him at first: just his name, dropped like a stone into water.

Sarima had heard of Oscar. Most people in Oz had. Wealthy. Charismatic. Heavy sponsor to the tennis team. A self-made billionaire.

“My dad thought he was the answer,” Galinda said. “Said if I played well enough, trained hard enough, Oscar would take care of us.”

Us.

Sarima’s jaw tensed. She hated that word in this context. The way abusive parents used it to blur lines. To turn exploitation into shared sacrifice.

Galinda continued, more mechanical now.

“My scholarship got rolled into the Diggs sponsorship. Like, officially. So if I leave the brand, I lose the court access. The coaching. The travel. All of it.” She paused. “It’s all connected now.”

Sarima understood. It wasn’t just coercion anymore. It was infrastructure. A whole system built to look like support, but designed to make escape impossible.

Galinda looked down at her hands. “I think he knew what Oscar wanted from the beginning,” she said softly. “But he thought it didn’t matter. As long as I kept winning. As long as we kept moving forward.”

There was a weight on the word forward, like it had stopped meaning anything real.

“But he also hated him. My dad, I mean. He’d get like… weird. Possessive. Act like…”

She stopped.

Didn’t finish the sentence.

But Sarima knew where it was going. Owned. Property, possession. Not person.

That’s what made it worse. The father needed Oscar—his money, his attention, his connections. But he couldn’t stand the idea of someone else touching what he considered his.

And Galinda?

She lived in the space between those two men. The deal on one side. The jealousy on the other. The thing traded. The thing defended. The ball passed between racquets but never given her own.

Sarima wanted to ask if anyone ever stopped it. If any adult ever noticed. But she already knew the answer.

The club looked the other way. The coaches focused on her forehand. The drivers kept the windows up. The silence was built into the system.

And Galinda had just kept playing.

Because what else was she supposed to do?

______

Sarima didn’t cry in the car.

She’d learned, a long time ago, how to sit with things. Let them settle. Crying felt too clean for what she carried after an interview like that. It wasn’t grief, exactly, it was heavier, lingering. Like smoke that clung to your clothes long after a campfire.

Galinda had been extraordinary in the way that most people would completely misunderstand. The kind of self-possession mistaken for maturity. The way she held her body like a statue, measured, practiced, barely breathing. Not because she was composed. Because she had trained herself not to shake. As if the horror had been measured, folded, and packed away long ago.

Sarima had seen girls like her before. But never quite like this. What struck her most wasn’t what Galinda had said. It was what she had navigated, mostly alone. What she’d survived wasn’t just trauma.

It was machinery.

Contracts, sponsorships, image management, performance metrics. A brand built around a child who had never had a chance to be one. A girl who, even now, still hadn’t gotten her period.

Galinda had said that part almost offhandedly, like it was something defective in her own self, not a sign of what her body had been forced to endure. Sarima knew what delayed development could mean. Malnutrition. Chronic stress. Fear so constant it locked the body in survival mode. And there had been plenty to survive.

Poverty wasn’t just the backdrop, it had been centre stage. Galinda had grown up in hunger. Not just the brutal winters, the rationed meals, the rooms with no heat, the constant threat of eviction. Even now, in fame, she still lived as though anything could disappear at any time. Because it always had.

And then, then there was the violence. Her father didn’t just train her. He hurt her. Purposefully. Regularly. Sarima had seen the way Galinda instinctively scanned every room, checked every exit, braced for sudden movement. Those habits don’t come from discipline. They come from being struck across the face while still holding a fork. From being kicked awake when she didn’t rise fast enough. From learning exactly how far she could push before pain came.

She had said it without emotion. Just a list. “He hits me when I talk back. When I lose. When I wear the wrong thing. Or nothing at all. Sometimes just because he’s already mad.”

She’d said it like she was reporting the weather.

Sarima could barely breathe.

She had been thrown into adult business conversations before she had the vocabulary to participate. “Sponsorship,” “branding rights,” “exclusivity.” Words that sounded like success but felt more like traps. Her name was attached to contracts she likely hadn’t read, couldn’t understand. Her image used in campaigns she had no creative control over. She was the youngest person at every table, and still expected to perform like a professional: on court, in interviews, on camera.

And she had performed.

She had smiled. Won matches. Worn what they gave her. Let herself be styled like a brand mascot, airbrushed into someone else’s fantasy of ambition and innocence.

She’d never had the luxury of adolescence. Development happened under lights. On camera. In headlines. And the world watched her grow up without asking who was behind the curtain.

And meanwhile, the abuse continued. Behind the press junkets. Behind the training schedules. The sponsorships didn’t shield her. They hid her. They made her untouchable in the worst possible way.

The worst part?

She’d been praised for staying quiet. Rewarded for it. With bonuses. With gear. With favor. Her silence had been mistaken for professionalism. For gratitude. For grit.

They said she was composed. “Focused.” That she had a “champion mindset.”

What she really had was no safe exit.

She couldn’t go back to school, she was barely literate in anything beyond score sheets and young adult fiction. She couldn’t speak out, not without destroying the very structure that gave her and her father food, rent, a path out of obscurity. She couldn’t stop winning, not without risking her value.

Sarima thought of that phrase: “value proposition.”

Galinda had been taught to think of herself as one. And underneath all of that, the worst thread of all was fear. Not just fear of what had already happened, but fear of what might come if she stopped cooperating. The desire to avoid provoking the wrong kind of attention.

Even now, with the door cracked open, with the interview behind her, she hadn’t told them everything. Sarima knew it. She could see it in the deliberate way Galinda had skipped over certain elements. Certain nights.

That was the most painful part. She still thought it was her job to hold the weight. Alone.

Sarima stared out the windshield, heart heavy.
She didn’t know how much they could help Galinda yet. Didn’t know how far the protection would go, how fast the system would move. But she knew one thing with certainty:

This girl had been surviving perfectly for too long.

And what she needed now wasn’t another performance.

She needed someone who could see through the silence and stay.

Chapter Text

The last day of the initial interview was long. “How do you fit a whole life into one report?” Galinda had asked, sincerely, before they started.

Samira had paused before answering, wanted to give the question its due. “You don’t. You fit it into one truth at a time.”

_____

Galinda was still when they reached the subject of her birthday. The one just weeks ago. She didn’t say much, just, “I thought turning eighteen would mean something.”

Galinda’s voice was quiet but clear. Her eyes were fixed on the blanket, but her mind was somewhere else—somewhere far uglier. “He told me it was a gift. That I belonged to him now.”

That sentence made Sarima’s fingers curl tightly into the edge of her clipboard. But she didn’t speak. Just stayed. Still. Solid.

“For weeks beforehand,” she said, “people were counting down online. There were message boards. Subreddits. Private sites. All of them tracking the day I turned legal.”

She swallowed hard. “They posted clips of matches. Freeze frames. Pictures from sponsor shoots where the hem was too high or my shirt had shifted just enough.”

She looked up. “They talked about me like they knew I was for sale.”

“Morrible knew.” She said it flatly. “She said if I wanted to stay relevant, I had to accept what made me valuable. Said we needed a strong federation image heading into the Olympics. That a clean, fairy-tale romance between a brilliant young player and a generous sponsor would be a gift.”

“I moved into the apartment that night. Oscar said it was for convenience. Said I needed space away from my father.”

Her voice thinned. “I thought it would be better, but it wasn’t.”

_____

They went back over the details. Adding dates. Years. Forgotten memories.

“There was a photographer when I was sixteen,” she said. “Oscar said he was world-class. That the federation owed him favors.”

The shoot had been in a converted hotel suite. No one else from the team had come.
She was told to wear the white tank top. Then to take it off. Then to pull the straps of her bra slightly down, just for shadow and light.

“I tried to say no so he asked for a closed set”.

The camera kept clicking. The compliments kept coming. And when she flinched, the photographer told her to “get over it.”

~

Galinda’s voice dropped further.

Almost gone.

“There’s a physiotherapist… or there was. From the team. He said my pelvis wasn’t aligned. Said I’d need internal release therapy. I didn’t know what that was.”

Samira hadn’t thought her jaw could tighten any further.

Galinda didn’t stop. “He didn’t ask for consent. Just said to trust him. And I was scared. I’d been told by Madame not to make problems. I was maybe, thirteen?”

So she let him.

The officer’s hand trembled slightly as she wrote.

Galinda didn’t see.

She was still staring at her knees.

Still somewhere else.

“I used to think it didn’t count. But it counts. Doesn’t it?”

Samira broke her own rule about staying quiet. “Yes”. She answered quickly. “It counts”.

_____

She told them how her father would test her willpower before tournaments, limit water. Ration food. Tell her that self control built champions.

She recounted the fainting spells. The days she trained with blisters so bad they bled through her shoes.

How she stole sugar and salt packets from the coach’s break room to keep her blood pressure up.

“I never cared too much about winning,” she said. “I just didn’t want to be worthless.”

_____

When she brought up Elphaba, her voice faltered for the first time that day. Not because she couldn’t say the words. But because saying them meant giving them up.
And some memories felt like they still belonged to just them, not the world.

“He saw the broadcast. Galinda didn’t cry this time.
Her voice was too low, too even, for tears. “He saw the stalker… the way Elphaba tried to throw herself in front of me.

A pause.

“And then saw us kiss.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He waited until we got home. He punched me so hard and so often that I thought I was going to die. I started bleeding inside…. I couldn’t stay awake. That’s what the fake appendectomy was for, he ruptured my spleen.”

“After that, he said I’d rested enough. That winners don’t sit out.” So she trained. She bled. She didn’t tell Elphaba.
Didn’t tell anyone. “It never healed right,” she said softly. “It always ached. I started hiding ice packs under my covers.”

_____

“Oscar told me the doping scandal was going to ruin Elphaba. That someone on the inside wanted her gone. That there were whispers and he couldn’t stop them.”

A beat.

“So we gave him a different story to feed the press.”

She swallowed hard.

“I felt like it was my fault she was targeted so I agreed to let him say we were dating. That I was his. That he had full access. To everything. The media framed me like I was a prize, a reward.

~

“After I lost the Wimbledon final I wasn’t allowed go back to the hotel. My dad said losers don’t deserve beds. Said to find somewhere to learn what shame felt like, as if I hadn’t known for years.”

Another beat.

“I didn’t go to Oscar’s room either. I knew he’d be waiting.”

She swallowed hard.

“I didn’t want to be raped again. Not… not so soon.” It was the first time she’s used the word, even to herself .
“I slept on the floor of the player’s lounge. It was cold.” “But it was better than what waited on either side. Morrible found me. She didn’t say anything”.

_____

The officer left with a copy of every medical record Samira had flagged. Galinda had heard the words sealed indictment whispered just outside her door.

But it didn’t feel like relief yet. Just air. Too much of it. Like someone had cut open a vacuum chamber and now she was trying not to drown.

Chapter Text

The hospital room was too clean. Too white. Too still. Galinda lay half-upright in the bed, legs pulled in, arms wrapped around her knees under the paper-thin blanket. Her shoes were still on, even tho no one had tried to take them. She hadn’t moved since they left the room.

The machines were quiet. They’d unhooked the IV already. Said she was stable. Stable. Like she was a patient and not a problem. Galinda knew better. She stared at the wall across from her like it might have answers.

The words were out now. Some of them. Too many. Maybe not enough. She wasn’t sure. She’d said things she never planned to say out loud and now everything was open. Exposed. Floating.

And for what?

She could’ve just gone back to Oscar.

Back to the apartment with the coded elevator she didn’t have access to. Back to the door that locked from the outside. Back to the furniture no one was allowed to move. Back to him.

Maybe he would’ve hit her once—hard, like a reminder. Maybe he’d have gone quiet, cruel. But she could’ve fixed it. She always did. Smile. Apologize. Say something clever. Touch his arm just the right way.

She could’ve made it right again.

Instead she was here. In this too-clean room. With nurses who looked at her like glass. With Sarima sitting just down the hall, probably still awake, probably still worrying, even though Galinda didn’t ask her to.

She brought a hand up to her face and pressed her palm over her eyes. Hard. Like she could press the tears back into her skull. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t. But her body had that hum again. The kind that came before everything broke.

She kept thinking: What if Oscar finds out I talked?

He would. Of course he would. There were ways.

He’d sent flowers to this hospital before. Years ago. After a match when she’d collapsed from heat exhaustion and dehydration. The card had said “Let this be the last time.”

She still had it, folded in a bag, tucked inside a sock.

He didn’t scream when he was angry. That was the worst part. He just changed his tone. He could be quiet and still make her feel like her lungs were filling with cement.

He wanted her quiet. Obedient. Presentable. And if she wasn’t any of those things—after she turned eighteen—he made it physical.

Not always. Not every time.

But enough that she learned not to fight, because he liked it too much if she did. Enough that when he held her wrist too tight, she stopped struggling and smiled.”

And through it all her dad had known. Not the details. Not what happened behind the locked door or inside the car. But he knew. He knew. And he never once told her to stop.

He liked the checks. The headlines. The way people looked at him when they saw her on the podium.

She’d gone from one owner to another.

Her dad had managed the first part of her career: training, travel, punishment. Then Oscar took over. Contracts. Image. Sponsorships. She never saw any prize money. Her name was on the trophies, but never on the statements.

She wore the clothes she was given, tight, bright, revealing. She smiled on cue. She won.
And the world called her lucky.

She felt the blanket shift as her legs curled tighter underneath it. The hospital light overhead buzzed faintly. She didn’t look at it. She just stared past the foot of the bed and tried not to throw up.

She could’ve kept quiet. She should’ve.

Because now everything was cracked wide open.

And she didn’t know who she was if she wasn’t winning. If she wasn’t performing. If she wasn’t surviving someone else’s plan.

Now she was just a girl in a hospital bed.

And no one had told her what she was supposed to do next.

Chapter Text

Elphaba won the semi-final in three sets. The last one was brutal, a tiebreak that left her legs aching and her lungs burning.

She played like her body didn’t belong to her. Like it was a vessel for all the things she couldn’t say. All the things she couldn’t ask. She had heard Galinda was awake. She wondered if she was watching.

~

After the final point, the crowd roared. She didn’t. She walked to the net and shook hands. Raised her racquet mechanically. And whispered into the wind:

“Where are you?”

_____

That night, Samira brought a small screen into the room. Muted, just in case. The replay of the semifinal was on.

Galinda stared. Watched the way Elphaba moved like her muscles were tuned to tension. Watched the final point. The way she didn’t smile. Didn’t celebrate.

She touched the edge of the screen with her fingers. Just once, whispered: “She’ll think I’ll hate her.”

_____

They rolled the TV closer this time.

Samira adjusted the angle, lowered the lights, set a bottle of water within reach. Galinda didn’t say thank you, didn’t have to. She was already sitting upright, hands tense on her lap.

The Olympic final.

Elphaba. The centre court. The moment they’d both dreamed about.

Without her.

_____

Oscar Diggs opened his front door to three federal agents in plain navy jackets. They said nothing as they handed over the warrant. One reached for his phone before Oscar could.

“Put it down.”

He smirked.

“Dramatic, don’t you think?”

But there was sweat blooming at his collar.

Inside, a secure server was already being disconnected, full of images, correspondences, bank records. Evidence.

_____

Galinda flinched as Elphaba missed her first serve. Samira stayed quiet in the corner.
Galinda’s breath was shallow, fingers curled hard in her blanket. “She’s nervous.”

Samira glanced over. “She’s human.”

_____

Highmuster Arduenna didn’t answer the knock. He never did. The door cracked when they pushed in.

They found him three drinks deep in a torn bathrobe, muttering about sabotage. He tried to strike one of the officers. They didn’t flinch.

They’d been briefed on the scars. The minor who had grown up under his fists.
The woman who had nearly died from his silence.

_____

Galinda pressed her hand to her chest. “She’s settling.”

The broadcast cut briefly to a slow-motion replay. Elphaba lunging, returning a near-impossible drop shot. Her eyes locked on the ball like she could make it defy gravity. Galinda whispered, too quiet for anyone but herself:

“You can do it, Elphie. You can do anything”.

_____

Morrible watched from a government box seat with an expression like concrete—polished, frozen. Her phone buzzed twice. Unanswered.

Behind her, someone in a black suit whispered into another’s ear. Cameras weren’t on her yet. But her name had appeared on the warrant summary. Not as a target. Not yet.

Just a phrase: Person of Interest – Financial Collusion / Witness Obstruction

_____

Galinda almost laughed.

But it cracked out of her like a sob.

⸻

“She’s going to do it.”

Samira didn’t say anything. Just passed her a tissue. Galinda didn’t take it. She needed to feel everything.

_____

Oscar was in the back of a van now. Cuffed. Silent. Angry.

Highmuster was already yelling in holding.

And Morrible, still watching the match, adjusted her coat and smiled at the camera.

_____

Match point.

Elphaba dropped to her knees when it landed. Not in showmanship, release.

She didn’t look for a coach. Didn’t look for the box. She looked straight ahead, as if she felt the eyes that weren’t there.

~

Galinda didn’t cry until they played the anthem. Until they placed the medal around Elphaba’s neck. Until they zoomed in on her face.
And Galinda saw, in one quick flicker of expression, what she knew down to her bones, even if she didn’t understand it:

“She still misses me.”

Chapter Text

The rain was tapping against the windows outside Samira’s apartment. Her tea had gone cold. Her parents sat on the couch opposite her, copies of a de-identified medical file open between them on the coffee table. No name. No photo. Just the echos of a girl the world tried to erase.

Her mother speaks first.

“This file is… pieced together,” Kareen says, her tone edged with unease. “Gaps everywhere. Barely any official history before age twelve.”

Her father, flipping slowly through the packet, nods. “Refugee intake, maybe age six. A school health check at seven: normal growth, low resting heart rate, listed as “physically advanced, socially shy.” Then nothing formal until academy admission at twelve.”

“And even that,” Samira says, “is filtered. It’s the version she let them see.”

Her parents say nothing for a beat. The rain ticks steadily on the window. Galinda’s file is clinical in structure — cold, orderly — but emotionally chaotic. Every page whispers of something missing.
There are numbers, yes: endurance benchmarks, strength ratios, growth curves.
But the emotional context? Absent. Scrubbed. Faked. Or never asked for.

“They tested her,” Shem says. “But never saw her.”

Samira closes her eyes briefly. “She built the perfect mask. And it worked.”

Her father turns the page to a list of forensics: bone scan overlays, hormonal panels, soft tissue damage. “This shouldn’t be possible,” he says quietly. “To have this much physiological trauma and so few records.”

“She was hurt where it wouldn’t show,” Samira says. “And when it did show, her father paid for clinics that wouldn’t ask questions. Or he didn’t take her at all.”

She’s eighteen? Her father questions softly, flipping to the chart of bone stress mapping. “And yet these injuries span more than a decade.”

Samira nods.

“Most of the patterns — ribs, pelvis, wrist microfractures — were never treated. Just reabsorbed and layered over.”
Her father exhales, long and quiet. “This is engineered invisibility.”

She’s been seen by dozens of professionals,” Samira says. “Teachers. Coaches. Reporters. Spectators. And somehow not one of them saw through it. But the language they all use is almost identical”.

“Lovely demeanor.”
“Small for age, but presents with high maturity.”
“Extremely driven; self-regulating; eager to please.”
“Exceptional poise under stress.”
“Appears older than stated age.”

“She gave them the version she knew they wanted,” Samira says.

“Every adult mirrored it back,” Kareen replies. “And then wrote it down like it was truth.”

Her father frowns slightly, flipping a page back. “Described consistently as highly polite. Compliant. Never disruptive.”

Samira murmurs, “She learned early that stillness made adults feel comfortable.”

_

There’s a pause. Then Kareen adds, gently this time:
“You’ve carried all of this alone.”

“I needed your professional insight. I needed to know I wasn’t misreading the fragments.”

“You weren’t,” her mother says. “The records are incomplete, but what’s there is damning….as well as what’s missing”
“But that doesn’t make it easier to hold.” Her father continues, voice soft. “You’re still our daughter. We want to hold some of this with you.”

Samira’s throat tightens. Not enough to cry, just enough to notice the weight of not having cried in days.

“She’s still in hospital,” she says. “She’s… quiet. But deliberate. She’s trying to decide what she’s allowed to be now that no one’s scripting it for her.”

Kareen nods slowly. “And you’re close?”

Samira considers the question. Then answers honestly. “She trusts me. A little. Enough to let me stay in the room and sit beside her. Enough to not flinch every time I speak.”

“You can’t undo what happened to her,” her mother says, “but you’re helping her name it. And that matters.”

Shem touches Samira’s shoulder, comfortingly. “Let us support you. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Samira felt her shoulders drop.
_____

Later, after they’ve gone, Samira texts her youngest sister. “Don’t forget to drink water and terrorize your teachers. Love you.”

Samaya replies: “Hydration: accomplished. Mild disruption: pending.”

Samira smiles, lets her shoulders drop for the first time in hours. Takes a sip of a warm cup of tea. The file is closed. But the girl is still breathing.
And Samira is still here. Bearing witness. Not alone.

Chapter Text

The medal was heavier than she expected.

Not physically—though it was solid, gleaming, the weight of a country pressed into metal—but in what it meant.

Elphaba hadn’t taken it off yet. Not after the podium. Not after the press. Not even backstage when her throat finally went dry and someone handed her a sports drink she didn’t want.

She’d done the interviews. Spoken about resilience. Focus. Grit. Said the right things about pride, legacy, teamwork, even tho she hasn’t played more than 10 seconds of doubles.

Now she stood just outside the green room, alone for the first time in hours, her fingers absently tracing the edge of the ribbon.

Her phone buzzed once. She almost ignored it. But something made her look.

Unknown Number

Her breath hitched. Just slightly. She stared at the message for a long time. Didn’t type. Didn’t delete.
Didn’t move.

G.

Just one letter. But she’d know that voice anywhere, even silent on a screen. It was the first message from Galinda since…. Since before everything.

~

“Was that her?” came a voice behind her. She turned sharply. Her father stood just a few feet away. Not in his usual suit, but a casual jacket and slacks that still managed to make him look like a man ten steps ahead of every conversation.

He didn’t smile. But he looked… gentle. Which was worse.

“Walk with me?” he asked.

She nodded, slipping the phone into her pocket. They moved through the quiet back halls of the venue, footsteps muted by the thick flooring and the thick weight of silence.

“I saw your press conference,” he said finally. She nodded. “They asked about her.”

He waited. “I told them we hadn’t spoken in weeks,” she added.

He raised an eyebrow. “Was it the truth?”

She hesitated. Then: “Until five minutes ago, yes.”

They reached a side door that opened onto a private garden meant for visiting dignitaries. It was empty now. He leaned against the railing. Looked at her carefully. “I want you to know something,” he said.

“I didn’t come here to lecture you. Or to talk about politics. I came to see you win. And I’m proud of you. Fiercely.”

She swallowed. Hard. He continued. “But I need you to hear this, and I’m telling you now so you’re not blindsided.”

Elphaba’s stomach flipped. He never warned her. He prepped her. Directed her. But not like this.

“There’s a case,” he said quietly. “A massive one. It hasn’t broken in the media yet, but it will. Soon. My contacts in judiciary and internal investigations say it involves multiple institutions. Sponsorship structures. Medical cover-ups. Abuse.”

Her throat closed.

“It centers around Galinda.”

~

He waited for her reaction. But she couldn’t give him one yet. She was still standing inside the echo of that single text.

“I don’t know all the details,” he said. “And I didn’t ask. I only requested they tell me enough to protect you.”

She looked at him then. Eyes sharp.

“Protect me from what?”

“From the storm that’s coming.”

He softened again. The way only a father could after years of being a diplomat first and a parent second. “I’m telling you because I saw your face when you stepped off that court. And because I know what she meant to you. Maybe still does.”

He paused. “And because I suspect she never stopped trying to protect you, either.” He said cryptically.

He reached into his pocket and handed her a card. A private contact at the ministry.
Someone trusted. Safe.

“Use it. If you need answers before the world starts making up its own. You should know, your name is mentioned in the report”.

She nodded slowly. Looked out across the garden. Her hands were trembling. Not from nerves. But from memory. From that message.
From what it meant that Galinda had sent it at all.

She didn’t open the reply screen. Not yet. But her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She would write back. She just needed to decide what kind of girl Galinda thought she still was. Needed to know who she was going to be.

Chapter Text

A tray has been delivered: broth, applesauce. Her first oral intake since surgery. Since the tear. Since she collapsed.

She stares at it too long. The food is gentle, medical. Designed not to offend a healing gut. But her body reads it like a threat anyway.

She’s hungry. Her stomach growled earlier, sharp and uncertain. She feels it in her throat like shame. Because in her world, hunger was always punished. A weakness not tolerated.

At five, during wartime, hunger meant silence.
At six, in the refugee camp, it meant long lines and rules she didn’t understand.
At seven, she was told to be grateful — not hungry.
At eight, she had learned to preform strength even when she was shaking.
By nine, food became part of a system: Do well? A little more. Complain? Nothing.

When her father started bringing protein bars, they were rationed — counted, monitored. She once asked for a second one after training and was sent outside to run sprints until she vomited.

The applesauce is pale. Innocent.

But she is not.

By twelve, the academy had cameras. Coaches. Eyes.
Morrible praised her early on:“You’re learning the value of self-discipline.”
“Girls who don’t need much become women the world wants to watch.”
By thirteen, she understood: Empty is elegant. Hunger is control. Discomfort is proof. She didn’t have a choice anyway, it’s not like she had food to turn down.

~

The spoon feels too heavy.

It’s not just about her gut — though that, too, is tender. Still healing from a surgical repair she hadn’t even known she needed. The tear was slow. Hidden.

Before it ruptured, Oscar was demanding she hide the symptoms. That was after she turned eighteen, when vomiting delayed what he wanted. When weakness was even more “inconvenient.”

“Handle it. Or I’ll find someone who can.”
“You want to start being difficult now?”

She learned to hide the pain.
Until she couldn’t.

_____

Sarima enters, quietly. She sees the tray. The tension. She doesn’t comment. Just walks to the window. Sits with a book. No judgment. No coaxing. No praise.

Galinda breathes in. Carefully. Her fingers close around the spoon. Her gut protests faintly, a mix of fear and instinct. She brings it to her lips.

The applesauce is cool. Overly sweet. Familiar and strange. She swallows. Nothing bad happens. No reprimand. No disappointment.

Just a breath. Then a second bite. Then a third. Then enough.

She sets the spoon down. She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.

And Sarima says nothing. She just keeps reading.

Galinda closes her eyes and lets herself feel something unfamiliar.
Not pride.
Not guilt.
Just… relief.

Because no one measured her. No one withheld anything. No one turned her need into proof that she was less.

Today, she ate because she chose to. And no one made her pay for it.

Chapter Text

The contact met her in a secure wing of the ministry. Not at a formal desk. Not in some interrogation room. Just a quiet office with a single window and two chairs.

Elphaba paced while the woman, gray at the temples, but steady-eyed, closed the door behind her and held out the folder.

“I’m not sure I want to read it,” Elphaba said.

The woman didn’t press. Just said, “You’re in it.”

That made her sit.

The folder wasn’t thick. But it felt heavy. Inside: statements. Medical records. Confidential testimony, sealed pending indictment. Photos she didn’t know existed. Photos she remembered being taken but had never seen published. Photos of restraints that made her blood freeze.

And Galinda’s name.

Everywhere.

_____

The report sat in Elphaba’s lap like it had been sewn there. She’d stopped flipping pages hours ago, but hadn’t put it down. The silence in the ministry office felt too soft for what it held.

~

She had come to read about a scandal. To learn how Oscar had manipulated the system. To prepare for the media fallout. To make sense of what Galinda had done, what…may have been done to her.

She had not come to learn:

That Galinda had a brother.

That he died in the Upland uprisings.

That her mother died not 2 days after childbirth.

That she and her father had lived in a shed.

~

She’d never asked about the war.

She’d assumed, stupidly, that Galinda had always been part of the class that caused it. That she’d grown up in polished stone houses with paid tutors and grandmothers who collected heirloom china. Grown up, like Elphaba herself.

She never once imagined her in a coat too thin for winter, eating cold oats while listening to distant gunfire.

Never imagined her grieving a sibling and a parent, alone in the world with a drunk who beat her for crying too loudly.

_____

She turned to the page she kept returning to:

“Subject agreed to serve as Oscar Diggs’s public romantic partner, with sexual access, in exchange for the reversal of doping allegations against athlete E. Thropp.”

Her stomach turned.

~

It had happened after Wimbledon. After Elphaba had been pulled from competition, humiliated publicly, branded with whispers of cheating.

Galinda had gone to Oscar.
Had sold herself. Not to rise—but to protect.
And Elphaba… had believed the worst.
Had let herself be convinced that Galinda had moved on. That she had chosen money, and power, and Oscar’s arm at those red carpet appearances, when really, it had been Elphaba’s name on the altar.

_____

The part that undid her was the medical record.
The spleen rupture.
The falsified appendectomy.

The second internal bleed.

How close she came to dying on that court, while Elphaba gloated.

~

Elphaba shut the folder slowly.
Pressed her palm to the table to steady herself.
She’d been standing beside her.
Rooming with her.
Training with her.
Kissing her.
And missing nearly all of it.

She felt sick. Not with guilt. With grief. She didn’t know her, not hardly at all. She remembered teasing Galinda about stale protein bars. About the way she always showered in private and never changed fully in shared locker rooms. She remembered teasing her about her “eccentric” fashion sense. Not realizing those were secondhand clothes altered to fit a body she couldn’t afford to grow into.

~

She had thought she was smart. She had thought she was attentive. She had wanted to believe Galinda trusted her. And maybe she had. But not enough.

Or maybe she just didn’t know how.

~

Elphaba looked up at the ministry contact and asked. “Will she know I’ve seen it?” The woman shook her head. “Not unless you tell her.”

Elphaba looked down at her phone. Still only one message there that mattered. She opened the reply window.

Typed:

I didn’t know.

Then deleted it.

Typed:

I see you now.

Then deleted that too.

What do you say to someone who broke herself into pieces just to protect you?

What do you say when you’re already too late?

_____

She wanted to go to Morrible’s office. To kick open the door. To spit every line of the report back in her face and ask how long she’d known.
-
She wanted to call Oscar, not to plead, not to scream—but to name what he was. Out loud. With all the weight of truth behind it.
-
She wanted to find Highmuster and watch his jaw crack under the force of her racket.
-
Instead, she sat in her room, lights off, phone face-down, muscles too tight to stretch and too weak to tense.

Chapter Text

Elohaba’s Olympic team jacket sat wrinkled around her waist. Dulci, ever calm. Ever neutral, said nothing at first, then, “where would you like to start?”

Elphaba laughed, but it was not a happy sound, “I don’t know. Somewhere between screaming and disappearing.”

“That’s a wide rage. How about we aim for somewhere in the middle, today”, Dulci replied.

Elphaba released something she didn’t know had been clenched. “She said she was proud of me”.

“You don’t think you’ve done something to be proud of?

A pause. A harsh breath. “Not to her. Not anymore.”

Dulci looked at her safely, “You’re allowed to feel guilty. But I’m more interested in why you think being seen as worthy by her feels so unbearable.”

That lands too well.

Elphaba leans forward, elbows on knees. “Because I thought she stayed with him because I wasn’t enough.”

Dulci waits.

“And now I know she stayed so I could be.”

_____

Her voice doesn’t crack. But her knuckles are pale green, the skin pulled taut. “She was with him to protect me. She hated it. Hated herself. And I hated her for it. And now I have the gold medal she bled for.”

Dulci watches her carefully. “You’re confusing shame with love.”

Elphaba freezes.

“She loved you. And you didn’t understand the language. That doesn’t make you evil. That makes you human.”

Elphaba tried to interrupt. “But I left. I made her feel like she wasn’t enough. I said things, awful terrible things”.

Dulci’s kind eyes found hers. “Let’s stay with you. Not what she felt. What did you feel, in those moments?”

Elphaba exhales sharply. Like she’s just been told to stop hiding behind grief. “Resentful. Jealous. Ugly.”

“Because?”

“Because she was wanted. Even when it hurt her. And I…”
“I hated that part of me that felt better when she wasn’t shining.”

There it was Not rage. Not guilt.
Rotten, quiet envy.

Dulci remained neutrally supportive. “Your medal isn’t tainted. But it’s lonely, isn’t it?”

“I thought winning would fix something. Would prove my worth…..but I still don’t feel like enough”.

~

Silence. The kind that isn’t empty. Broken by Dulci, “So here’s a question. Not about her. About you. If you weren’t proving something anymore — if you didn’t feel like you have to earn love — what would you want?”

Elphaba’s throat tightens.

She has no answer.

And for the first time in years, she lets herself not know.

_____

The next day Elphaba was back in Dulci’s office. “I want to see her,” she said. Her voice was low, almost testing itself.

Dulci didn’t blink at the suddenness of it. She simply folded her legs beneath her, hands relaxed in her lap.

“Why?” she asked, with no challenge in the tone. Just curiosity. Permission to be honest.

Elphaba stared into the mug. “She texted me. After the final. Said she was proud of me.”

It still didn’t make sense. Nothing about it did. “I want her to know… that I’m sorry. That I understand now, as much as I can.”

Dulci nodded, quiet. Elphaba appreciated that about her — she didn’t fill silence with softness just to make it less heavy. She let it settle. Let it teach.

When Dulci finally spoke, it wasn’t with judgment. “Do you want her to forgive you?”

Elphaba hesitated. That wasn’t the question she’d been ready for. “I don’t think I deserve that,” she said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

That was the thing about Dulci — she didn’t let Elphaba disappear behind her own self-hate. She always brought her gently back to center, back to the messy question of want.

Elphaba exhaled slowly. “I want her to be okay. I want to help.”

“But?”

“But if I go… it might make things worse. She might not want to see me. And I don’t want to show up just to make myself feel better.”

Dulci nodded again, more thoughtfully this time. “Then don’t go to help,” she said. “Go because she reached out. Because you care. Because you’re willing to be seen for who you are now, not who you were before.”

Elphaba swallowed hard. The words landed somewhere raw.
“She might not want me there.”

“Then you’ll hear that. And you’ll respect it. That’s part of showing up, too.”

They were quiet a while longer. Then Dulci reached forward and placed her hand briefly on Elphaba’s wrist, grounding her. “If this is about her, then be with her. Not to fix. Not to ask for anything. Just to be honest.”

Elphaba didn’t speak, but she nodded once. It wasn’t certainty. It wasn’t redemption. But it was the beginning of something real.

Chapter Text

The room was warm, but not too warm. It smelled faintly of chamomile and lemon peel, nothing chemical or hospital-clean. There were books stacked on the windowsill, not shelves, as though they were read often and put down mid-thought. A teacup steamed quietly on a coaster next to the chair Galinda was clearly meant to sit in.

She didn’t.

She stood near the door, arms crossed, chin tilted like someone preparing for a tie-break. She had already survived the police interview, already eaten the stupid applesauce. This was just another stop. Another woman with kind eyes. Galinda didn’t trust kind eyes.

“Hi, Galinda,” the therapist said, seated calmly across the room. She was older, but not elderly. Pale sweater, soft voice, eyes that missed nothing. “I’m Mira. You can call me that, or Dr. Selwyn, if that feels better. Either way’s fine.”

Galinda didn’t respond.

“I want you to know,” Mira continued, folding one leg over the other, her voice unhurried, “this space is yours. You don’t have to say anything you’re not ready to. We can talk about something small, or not at all. No one’s grading you.”

Galinda gave a short exhale through her nose. Not quite a scoff, she was too polite for that. Too cautious.

Mira didn’t flinch. “Some people just sit the first session. Some tell me about what they had for lunch. Or a weird dream. Some bring objects with them—buttons, marbles. Little things that feel grounding.” Her eyes flicked, once, to Galinda’s empty hands. “You’re welcome to do that too.”

There was a long pause. Galinda took two stiff steps toward the armchair and sat, perching on the edge like she was ready to spring back up again. She didn’t touch the tea.

_____

The second session felt different. Not safer, exactly, but quieter inside her head. Galinda sat before she was asked. She still didn’t drink the tea.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” Mira said, after a few minutes of quiet. “If it’s alright to ask.”

Galinda shrugged. Maybe.

“Sometimes when life feels… like too much,” Mira said, “our minds cling to small comforts. A memory. An object. Something that made us feel not alone, even for a moment.”

She waited.

“Did you ever have anything like that?”

Galinda’s gaze dropped to her lap. Her hands were already there, fingers folded tight, as if holding something invisible.

After a long moment, her voice came, dry, cautious.

~

“His name was Bristle.”

Mira blinked once. “Bristle?”

“He was a toothbrush,” Galinda said, her voice beginning to thaw. “Well, just the head of one. The plastic was broken off the handle. I found him in the dirt behind the showers at the camp. I think an animal had chewed him. But he was mine.”

She didn’t look up. Her hands unfolded, started moving, mimicking something—stroking with her fingers, careful, delicate.

“I cleaned him. Brushed him with my shirt until he was white again. He looked like a little porcupine if you squinted. I used to talk to him before bed. Hide him in my pocket during the day.”

Mira didn’t speak. Her stillness was permission.

“I kept him even after we left the camp,” Galinda said softly. “Took him with me to Frottica. To the Emerald City. I used to stroke him like a caterpillar. He fit just right in my palm.”

Her thumb traced a ghost.

“I had to hide him from my dad,” she added, almost offhand. “He’d have called it stupid. Or soft. He never let me keep things if he knew I wanted them”

She paused. The air pressed in.

“But I had Bristle. All the way until the Academy. Then someone moved my coat during a tournament and I didn’t notice until it was too late.”

Her hands went still.

“I couldn’t ask anyone to help look,” she said. “What would I have said? I lost my toothbrush-head friend?”

Galinda looked up then, finally, and her eyes searched Mira’s face for the mistake. The snort. The flinch.

“I didn’t cry,” she said. “I’d already learned not to cry. But I think I stopped sleeping for a week.”

Silence again.

Then Mira leaned forward slightly, just enough to close the distance in the air.

“Bristle mattered,” she said. “You gave him care. That wasn’t silly. That was survival.”

Galinda blinked. Her throat moved.

“I’ve seen people carry whole lives in smaller things,” Mira added. “You made him yours. And he kept you company when no one else could.”

Galinda said nothing.

But she didn’t argue.
And that, Mira knew, was the beginning.

Chapter Text

Elphaba didn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t this.

The hospital room was too clean, too blank—like someone had tried to scrub the memory out of it. A pale blanket was folded too neatly at the foot of the bed, and the tea tray on the nightstand looked untouched except for one peeled corner of a sugar packet. The walls were the colour of unsent letters.

And there, curled into the far side of the bed like she’d used up her claim to space, was Galinda.

She looked small. Smaller than Elphaba remembered, though she’d probably been this size all along. It was her stillness that made the difference now, arms tucked tight to her chest, hair loose and flat, like the air here had uncurled it. She was staring out the window, but not seeing it.

Elphaba stood in the doorway longer than she meant to.

“I can hear you thinking,” Galinda said suddenly, without looking. “From across the room. You do it very loudly.”

Elphaba took a cautious step inside. “I wasn’t sure if I should come.”

“They didn’t want to let you,” Galinda said. “I told them to.”

Elphaba’s throat tightened. “You did?”

Galinda gave a slow, tired nod. “I watched your final match,” she added, her voice quieter now. “The gold.”

Elphaba blinked. “You did?”

“I texted you.”

“I know. I just…” She trailed off. “I didn’t think you’d want to.”

“Well,” Galinda said, eyes still on the window, “I did. You were perfect.”

Elphaba crossed the room slowly and sat in the chair beside the bed. Her knees bumped the frame, and she didn’t apologize for it. The silence between them stretched out, awkward but not cold.

“I read the police report,” Elphaba blurted after a long while. “I needed to understand. I didn’t want… any more secrets between us. My Dad called in a favour”.

Galinda sighed, didn’t look at her. “And so now you know.”

“I do.”

Galinda’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “So what do you want? Closure? Penance?”

“No,” Elphaba said quietly. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Galinda blinked.

“For what I said that night. Wanted to from before I read the police report. Wanted to this whole time,” Elphaba continued. “I didn’t mean it. I just…” she exhaled hard. “I was angry. Scared. And I took it out on you.”

Galinda finally turned her head. Her expression wasn’t angry, or even hurt. Just hollowed out.

“You think I don’t know I made mistakes?” she said. “You think I don’t go over every second of it and wonder what I could’ve done different?”

“I know,” Elphaba said. “I know that now. But you never had many choices.”

They were quiet again, and it wasn’t comfortable, but it didn’t bite like it used to.

“I started thinking you’d never come,” Galinda said eventually. “That if you knew, you’d think so much less of me, that I deserved it.

I know how disgusting I am, I don’t need a mirror”.

Elphaba’s voice was steady. “I don’t think that.”

Galinda nodded once, like that answer cost something to receive. “I’m tired of everyone being careful with me.”

“I don’t know how to not be careful with you right now.”

“Well,” Galinda said. “Maybe just… sit. Like you’re doing. That’s enough.”

Elphaba let herself lean back in the chair a little. Her arms were crossed, but not closed off. The room felt just slightly less sharp.

“I missed you,” Elphaba said, after a while.

Galinda closed her eyes.

“I think I missed me too, maybe” she whispered.

They didn’t touch. They didn’t cry. But Elphaba stayed. And Galinda let her.

And that, slowly, awkwardly, quietly, was a new beginning.

_____

Elphaba started showing up with contraband.

The first time it was a stuffed toy shaped like a blue winged monkey. She didn’t explain it, just took it out of her coat pocket and set it down on the windowsill beside Galinda’s untouched broth.

Galinda looked at it for a long time.

Finally: “That’s objectively hideous.”

Elphaba shrugged. “It reminded me of you.”

Galinda huffed through her nose. “Charming.”

But the next day, the monkey was still there. And the day after that, it had been turned to face the window.

_____

Sometimes they didn’t speak at all.

Elphaba would sit in the same chair, her legs folded up beneath her, reading whatever battered book she’d stuffed into her satchel that morning. Galinda would watch her, half-lidded, pretending not to, and then fall asleep with her cheek on her arm.

Elphaba never left while she was sleeping. Not once.

~

They argued once.

It was stupid, as most things are.

Galinda had muttered something self-effacing about her own recovery—about how she’d made things harder for herself by not saying no sooner—and Elphaba had gone too still.

“You did say no,” she said. “You said it five different ways and they didn’t care.”

Galinda’s jaw clenched. “You weren’t there.”

Elphaba stood abruptly. “I’ve read every line of what happened, Galinda, I was there for some of it. I know.”

“You don’t know me. Not really.”

“Maybe not well,” Elphaba said. “But I want to.”

That shut it down. Neither of them spoke for the rest of the visit. But the next day, Galinda handed her a wrapped mint from the hospital cafeteria. Peace offering. Elphaba took it.

____

Elphaba moved through the hospital corridors like she had before , not hurried, not uncertain, but measured. This was her fifth visit. Maybe sixth. She’d stopped counting after the second time Galinda looked at her for longer than a breath.

She didn’t bring flowers. Or medals. Or more apologies.

She just came.

Today, the hallway outside Galinda’s room was quieter than usual. She rounded the corner and nearly ran into Dr Manek, Sarima— again.

It wasn’t awkward. They were used to this by now.

Sarima offered a small nod, the kind she reserved for people who’d proven they didn’t need instructions.

“She’s awake,” she said. “Tired. But… calm.”

Elphaba paused. “Good day?”

Sarima’s mouth lifted at the corner. “Small wins.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

Then Elphaba said, “She moved the monkey again.”

“I know,” Sarima replied. “Facing forward now.”

They both looked toward the door.

“You’re the only visitor she has. You know her the best, I think”, Sarima offered.

“That’s the thing,” Elphaba said, her voice low. “I’m not sure I ever really knew her. Not the way she needed.”

Sarima tilted her head. She didn’t correct her. She didn’t offer comfort.

Instead she said, “Then maybe this isn’t about knowing. Maybe it’s about being known.”

There was a beat of quiet, not heavy, just full.

Elphaba didn’t say anything back. She didn’t have to. This wasn’t the first time she’d stood in this hallway. Sarima had seen her leave after ten minutes, and once after nearly an hour. She’d seen the way Galinda relaxed slightly when Elphaba was in the room , not soothed, not fixed, just less braced.

“You know where she is,” Sarima said gently. Then she added, with softness, “And you keep coming back.”

Elphaba gave a small nod. No defense. No explanation. Just truth.

Sarima stepped past her without another word, letting her go.

And Elphaba turned toward the door, where the monkey now faced the window and the room smelled faintly of wild rose shampoo and antiseptic.

She didn’t knock. She didn’t need to.

She just let herself in, quiet, steady, and sat in the chair by the window.

Just to be there.

Just to be known.

After a few companionable moments she began quietly reading aloud from a book Galinda had once said she liked as a child. Galinda didn’t remember saying it.
But Elphaba had remembered anyway.

Chapter Text

Shell started visiting, with Galinda’s permission He brought a hand-knit hat from Maudelin and a list of shows she might like, with a tablet to watch them on.

He sat at the edge of the bed, awkward and sweet, telling her about his dumbest matches as a junior and how he’d once lost to a guy with his shoelaces untied.

~

Nessarose followed after.

She didn’t bring flowers.

She brought noise-canceling headphones, a hair brush for curly hair, a silk bonnet, and a small vial of lavender oil. “Because your nervous system deserves luxury, and your curls deserve care.”

That night, Galinda whispered to Elphaba: “I forgot people could be like this.”

Elphaba reached for her hand, slow and soft. “They can.”

~

The next day Elphaba brought clothing. A soft dress. Loose and pale blue, almost lavender.

When Galinda put it on, shaking, uncertain, Elphaba smiled so gently it made her knees go weak.

“You look like yourself,” she said.

Galinda nearly cried. Because she wasn’t sure who that was. But she was starting to believe she might want to find out.

_____

The guards had started appearing around the same time as Elphaba.

Not in uniform. Not loud. Just a little more presence in the hallway. Fewer unfamiliar footsteps. A subtle nod from the nurse station when Galinda left her door open longer than usual.

Elphaba didn’t explain at first.

But when Galinda finally asked, her voice careful, “Why does the nurse ask for a password now?”, Elphaba looked up from her book and answered plainly:

“Because my father arranged it.”

Galinda blinked. “Why?”

Elphaba set the book down. Came closer.

“Because you’re important. And he knows how much you mean to me. I think he feels terrible about ….. everything. Like he should have known”

Galinda didn’t argue. Not because she believed it. But because she wanted to.

_____

That night, Elphaba didn’t go home. She pulled the cot closer. Stayed through the nurse checks and the low murmur of the news playing faintly down the hall.

They didn’t talk about the headlines. Not the indictments. Not the interviews with Morrible’s former assistants, who were suddenly remembering everything.

Instead, Galinda asked Elphaba to help her brush her hair. “It’s just…” she trailed off, eyes cast low. “It still doesn’t feel like mine.”

Elphaba didn’t ask why. She just brushed gently, reverently, like she used to care for Nessa’s when she was younger.

Slow. Patient.

Tangled strands giving way to soft order, the bonnet placed lovingly, ready for a calm night.

______

The next day her lawyer visited. An ex-schoolmate of Govenor Thropp.

A calm, middle-aged woman with a thick file and a voice that asked permission before every sentence.

She didn’t talk about trials or dates yet. She talked about Galinda. Who she was.
Who she’d been. What she still had the power to become.

~

The next time Galinda asked for a notepad to take notes.

To ask what her rights were.
To ask what her options were.

The lawyer left with a smile.

~

Elphaba had unpacked her toothbrush in the hospital bathroom.

The staff said nothing. The guards just nodded.

And Galinda? She slept through the night with the door ajar.

For the first time in years.

Chapter Text

Sarima had noticed. Not from the chart with the nurses’s notes. Just from sitting in the room, watching Galinda gently adjust the tray each time someone placed it in front of her, pushed it a little to the side, like it was just a little too close, like she might get to it later.

She’d eaten the applesauce and broth and the trial of solids. Bit by bit. Not eagerly, but without argument. Enough to reassure the floor nurse. “Patient tolerated well,” the notes said. “Alert. Cooperative.”

But now?

The toast sat untouched. The eggs were barely disturbed. She had shredded a napkin into small curls between her fingers as she listened to people talk about recovery time and discharge planning and next steps, all while the food cooled and congealed beside her.

There was no medical reason not to eat.

But Sarima knew better.

She’d seen this before when girls had learned to be careful even with hunger. When eating became more about who was watching than what the body needed. And when silence around food wasn’t stubbornness, but a survival instinct.

Still, she approached gently.

“You haven’t touched much today,” Sarima said, sliding into the chair near the foot of the bed, voice light.

Galinda didn’t react at first.

Then she glanced at the tray like she’d forgotten it was there. “I ate some earlier,” she said.

Sarima nodded slowly. There were no crumbs. No utensils moved. But she didn’t call her out. That would be a mistake. It wasn’t about catching Galinda in a lie, it was about letting her stay invisible long enough to feel like she had a choice.

“Okay,” Sarima said. “Good.” She let the quiet return.

Galinda sat upright, legs tucked under the blanket, her hands resting perfectly still on her lap now. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, a tension that had nothing to do with style and everything to do with control. Her face gave nothing away.

This, THIS was the final layer, Sarima realized. The part Galinda still wasn’t ready to surrender. It wasn’t her story, or her father, nor even Oscar. This. Food. Eating. Hunger. Control.

Not eating. Choosing. Refusing.

It was the last thing she hadn’t handed over.

Sarima thought back to everything she knew. The food scarcity as a child—those brutal winters, the hunger buried under training, the trade-offs between heat and groceries. Then later, the image-making. The photo shoots. The clothing that wasn’t made for softness or growth. The branding that demanded a body that never asked for too much.

Even now, despite the bruises, the disclosures, the hospital bed, Galinda was still performing discipline. Still proving she didn’t need comfort. Still trying to show she could take anything.

Because weakness was dangerous. Because hunger, if shown, could be used against you. And Galinda had learned too well: if they see a need, they’ll find a price.

Sarima didn’t say any of this aloud. She just stayed where she was. “You’re not on a clock,” she said gently. “We’re not counting bites. You can take what you need. When you need.”

Galinda nodded, just once, already half-turning her face toward the window, as if the topic had closed.

And maybe it had.

For now.

~

Sarima didn’t take it personally.

Trust wasn’t won with kindness or soft words. Not here with this girl who’d been made to earn everything, then punished for having it.

Galinda would eat again when her body told her it was hers.

And until then, Sarima would just keep showing up.

Chapter Text

Her therapist’s office was soft in that way that made Galinda uneasy, not suspicious, just uncertain. The walls were pale green, the floor clean, the windows fogged to a blur. The couch was too squishy. She sat on the edge of it like she might have to bolt.

Mira,her therapist, sat across from her. Not too close. Just close enough to listen.

She didn’t ask the kind of questions that demanded answers.

“Did anything on the breakfast tray look better today?”

Galinda didn’t roll her eyes. But barely. “Same,” she said. “Fine.”

Mira nodded like that was enough. She never lingered on food, just observed it, like weather. “What else felt bearable today?”

Galinda shrugged. “The quiet.”

They sat with that for a few seconds. Then Mira tilted her head. “Mind if I ask a different kind of question?”

Galinda hesitated, then shrugged again. “Sure.”

“What’s the last book you read all the way through?”

That landed differently. Galinda blinked, like someone had thrown a question sideways. Then, reluctantly, quietly:

“Witchlight and the Summer Gate.”

Mira’s face didn’t change, but Galinda could tell she recognized the title.

“I’ve read all but the most recent,” Galinda added, more defensive than she meant to sound. “Twice.”

“I think that series has more emotional intelligence than most graduate programs,” Mira said lightly.

Galinda gave the tiniest smile, then crushed it back into her face before it could grow.

“My friend used to make fun of me for reading them,” she said. “Said they were for kids.”

“Do you read a lot?”

“When I can. Not lately. But yeah. I like it.”

“What do you like about it?”

Galinda looked away. “It’s quiet. And I can disappear. And the girls in the book get out. Eventually.”

Mira nodded.

“Were you in school when you started reading them?”

Galinda’s face closed again. The small openness snapped tight. “Sometimes.”

“Was it hard?”

“I was gone a lot. Traveling. Training. And then my dad started saying I didn’t need school. That it would just distract me.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

Galinda stared at the window, quiet for a long time. “I don’t know what I think,” she finally said. “I just know I feel stupid around people who went. Who have… words. Context. Like they know how the world works and I’m just…faking it.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

Galinda didn’t disagree. “I don’t want to go back to some school where I’m the dumb one in the corner,” she said quickly. “I’d rather not show up at all.”

“What if showing up didn’t mean sitting in a classroom?” Mira offered. “What if it meant learning what you want to learn, at your own pace? One-on-one. Private. No curriculum, just curiosity.”

Galinda looked at her sharply.

“Tutoring?”

“Tutoring,” Mira said. “Not because you’re behind. But because you deserve access. To anything. To everything.”

Galinda was quiet again. Then: “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Mira leaned forward just slightly.

“Maybe with a list,” she said. “Books you liked. Topics you wished you understood. Stuff that made you feel smart, or brave, or just… real.”

Galinda didn’t say yes.

But when Mira passed her a notepad and pen, Galinda didn’t hesitate.

She wrote Witchlight and the Hollow Keep at the top.

And under that, in smaller letters:
Why do countries exist
What are taxes
What’s electricity made of
How do you make decisions if no one tells you what to do

Mira didn’t say a word. Just nodded.

And Galinda kept the pen in her hand when the session ended.

Chapter Text

The change started small.
Galinda stopped nodding and making herself small when people apologized. Stopped whispering when the nurses adjusted her meds. She started asking questions, not to be polite, but to know. Why am I on this dose? When will my next scan be? What are my discharge options?

It wasn’t rebellion. It was remembrance. Of the power that could live in her voice.

~

Galinda’s silences were different now. Neither hollow, nor afraid. They were the tight-lipped, coiled silence of someone who had realized they were owed more than they’d ever received. And was starting to wonder why.

It came to a head in therapy.
Galinda sat with her knees pulled up, arms wrapped loosely around them. Mira had just asked how she felt about the eventual trial.

Galinda stared out the window. And then, without transition, without warning, she spat: “The whole country watched me get used up.”

Mira didn’t interrupt.

Galinda turned to her. Eyes bright. Unblinking. “People wrote about me. Gossiped about me. Took pictures of me crying in stairwells. My dad showed up drunk to five different matches and not one person pulled me aside and asked if I was safe.”

My father was drunk most days. He assaulted an umpire. Got banned from Oz-based matches.” A pause.
“But they still let him take me home.”

She talked about how no one asked about her growth. How no one noticed she’d never gotten her period. That her bones ached and she bruised like wet paper, but still the federation measured her worth by wins and media clicks.

Her voice stayed low. Steady. Dangerous. “I was fifteen when the sponsorship started. Fifteen when Oscar kissed me for the first time. Fifteen when Morrible sent me to a gala in a backless dress and told me to smile through it.” She leaned forward. “They knew.”

The next day, she repeated it all to her lawyer. But this time, she said it like testimony. She said it like she wanted it written in stone.

“Can we make this part of the case?”

Not for revenge. Not to win.

Just so it would be written down, official, undeniable.

“I want it on the record. That they all knew. And didn’t care.”

~

Elphaba saw it in the way she sat straighter after. The way she asked to go for a walk in the garden even when her legs were trembling. The way she turned down a sedative for the first time and still managed to sleep through the night.

~

That night, Elphaba found her rewatching an old match on her tablet. Not one of her wins. Not even a final. Just a quiet early round from three years ago.

Galinda sat still. Watching herself. “How did she look?” Elphaba asked softly.

Galinda didn’t blink. “Like someone no one ever thought to save.” And then: “But I think I’m saving her now.”

_____

By her final week in the hospital, Galinda had begun to move differently. She still wasn’t strong. Still got lightheaded when she stood too quickly. Still relied on the protein shakes and broth more than they liked. Still startled when new nurses entered without knocking.

But something had shifted. Not in her body. In her presence.

~

She brushed her hair herself. All the way through.

Elphaba didn’t offer help. Didn’t hover. Just passed her the brush, sat cross-legged on the bed, and let Galinda move at her own pace.

When Galinda finished, she exhaled hard and said: “I’ve never had this much hair.”

Elphaba smiled. “You’ve also never had this much peace.”

_____

She attended a legal prep session with both her lawyer and a trauma advocate. They went over her rights again. Her protections. The option to testify remotely if she chose.

They gave her the language—“ongoing coercion,” “systemic neglect,” “state failure to protect”.
It felt clinical. But oddly comforting.

Because now she knew what to call it.

_____

Galinda held a baby for the first time since the war.

A nurse on maternity leave had stopped by with her infant daughter, and Galinda, tentative, quiet, watched from a distance until she was asked if she’d like to try.

She looked terrified. But she said yes. She held the baby against her chest and whispered something Elphaba didn’t catch.

Later that night, when Elphaba asked, she said:

“I said, ‘I hope you grow big.’”

Chapter Text

The study was dim. Not dark, but softened — the way old wood and quiet voices always seemed to hush the light. Governor Thropp poured a measure of scotch into one of the heavy-bottomed tumblers and passed it across the low table without comment.

Elphaba didn’t reach for it. She sat curled at one end of the settee, sleeves pushed up, hair tied back. Exhausted but alert in the brittle-feeling after the toll of the last few weeks.

“I used to think,” he said, breaking the silence, “that wisdom was mostly restraint. Not speaking when it wasn’t your turn. Not meddling when someone hadn’t asked.”

Elphaba looked up, one eyebrow arched. “That sounds like something a privileged white man would believe.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s what I’m realizing.”

The quiet stretched again.

“When you came to me,” he said finally, about Galinda. You said she wasn’t safe. And I asked you if you were sure that intervening was what she would’ve wanted.”

Elphaba didn’t respond. She remembered. She remembered every word.

“I think,” he continued slowly, “I was picturing her as someone like you. Nearly twenty-one. Capable, defiant, full of fight. I didn’t register the actual math — that she was still a child. Seventeen at most.”

He looked down at the scotch in his hand. Didn’t drink.

“And when I went to that shabby little apartment with you… and her father turned it into some kind of performance….”

“A drinking contest,” Elphaba said bitterly.

He winced. “Yes. That.”

“I should’ve walked away. Or called the federation. Or refused to play along. But I told myself the rules didn’t matter if the outcome was good.”

Elphaba was silent.