Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Marcus is still talking—something about appearances, and donors, and how I've embarrassed him—but his words wash over me like water over stones, leaving no impression at all.
All I hear is the phantom rumble of a motorcycle engine.
All I see is the path through the cottonwoods that leads to the old grain silo, where dust motes dance in sunbeams and secrets are kept by the light of the stars.
Where Legion waits, as he always has, for me to choose.
An hour passes like a funeral. The white tent sags at the edges now, half-empty and hollowed out. Crystal champagne flutes sit abandoned on white linen, each one marked with a different shade of expensive lipstick. Coral. Dusty rose. Blood red. Little mouth-shaped accusations left behind by women who smiled to my face, then whispered behind manicured hands about the "unfortunate interruption."
Most of the guests fled after the thunder of motorcycles faded—suddenly remembering early flights, important meetings, and sick children.
The smart ones, anyway.
The rest linger like vultures, pretendin’ they're not watching me unravel thread by thread.
The waitstaff move between tables like ghosts, collecting half-eaten canapés. I hear their whispers—soft and dangerous as rattlesnakes. They've served the Ashbys for generations. They know our secrets better than we do.
"—always had a thing for that Kane boy—"
"—Eleanor would be rolling in her grave—"
"—she used to sneak out—"
Servants remember everything. Employers forget that walls have ears and champagne loosens tongues.
The string quartet packed up twenty minutes ago, their Julliard training not quite preparing them for biker invasions. Now there's just the soft electric hum of generators powering fairy lights that cast everything in a dream-like glow. Like we're all just playing pretend.
And aren't we?
Isn't that what we're doin’ here? Pretendin’?
Because I never wanted this. Marcus knows I don't love him. He's a way for my brothers to get their share of the Matriarchal money.
Well, not Colt. Colt is different.
And I know that Marcus doesn't love me, either. I'm an expedient 'partner'. That, I've learned, is what they call the wives of politicians.
How inspirin’.
He needs a wife for his campaign.
Not just any wife, but one—as he bragged earlier—with a platform that reaches over four million people and an influence in the rural demographic that is unparalleled. Love was never a plank on the campaign platform.
Senator White stands with Cash near the bar, their heads bent together in conversation that looks more like a business negotiation than small talk. Cash's face is carefully blank—the expression he wears when he's calculatin’ profit margins and acceptable losses.
The Senator's mouth is a straight line, his fingers wrapped around a tumbler of bourbon so tightly I can see white knuckles from here.
Aunt Ruth sits alone at a corner table, methodically collecting pearls from her broken necklace. Each one drops into her crystal water glass with a soft 'plink' that somehow carries across the tent. Her gloves are still pristine white, despite everything.
She hasn't looked at me once since the bikers left.
I stand at the edge of the tent, one foot on grass, one on the parquet, caught between worlds like always. Marcus is ten feet away, but it might as well be ten miles.
I check my watch for the third time in ten minutes. How long will Legion wait at the silo? Is he already gone, assuming I've made my choice? Three years is a long time to hold onto hope. Even for him. Even for us. Time becomes cruel when someone you love is waiting on the other side of a choice you're afraid to make.
When I glance up, Marcus is watching me check the time, his eyes narrowing with the particular brand of suspicion that comes from wanting someone you don't trust.
I force my arm down casually, like I was just adjusting the diamond tennis bracelet he gave me for Christmas. The one that matches the ring that suddenly feels too tight on my finger.
A donor's wife approaches—Mrs. Halloway, or Hollister, or something with an H—her silk dress rustling like dry leaves as she moves.
"Such excitement earlier!" she gushes, pearls bouncing against her throat. "Was that some kind of... planned entertainment? So authentic! So Montana!"
I give her the Eleanor smile—lips curved just enough, eyes completely empty. Mama taught me this one before I learned to read. It's not lying if you never actually speak the lie, Savannah Rose.
"Just some local color," I say, the words tasting like dust in my mouth. "Montana traditions, you know."
Over her shoulder, I picture the way to the dry creek bed, It’s miles from here. Miles and miles from here. But I could find my way blindfolded, that’s how well I know the way.
Mrs. H-something nods like I've said something profound, then drifts away to collect more gossip for whatever charity luncheon she'll attend next week.
I move mechanically through the motions I was trained for since birth. Thanking people for coming. Accepting congratulations that feel like condolences. Each smile costs me more than the last, like I'm spending pieces of myself I'll never get back. Each handshake is another second ticking away, another moment Legion might decide I'm not coming.