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The Kentucky Derby doesn’t wait for wounds to heal.

It barrels forward, brass bands and bourbon, camera flashes and six-figure betting slips. You show up or you get trampled. By the horses, by the headlines, or by your own damn legacy.

I’m standing here, barely pieced back together, wearing a red silk dress and a matching feathered hat I had custom-dyed to match the roses I prayed we’d win. It’s bold, maybe arrogant, but I needed something that made me feel like I still belonged.

I’ve walked this track a thousand times, but this time it’s different. It’s not Daddy’s voice in my ear. It’s mine. And Ribbons Undone, my jet-black filly, is everything I ever wanted to believe about myself, fast, mean, overlooked. We both carry scars no one sees.

Sam’s arm is around my waist as we wait in the box. I let him. Not because I need it, but because I’m tired. Tired of standing alone. He’s clean, polished, unbothered by the mud under my heels or the bruises still blooming beneath my skin. He's a good man. Probably too good.

“Everything okay?” he asks, brushing his fingers over mine.

I nod, eyes scanning the crowd. Part of me knows what I’m looking for.

And then I see him.

Legend.

Leather cut. Black shades hiding eyes I know like my own name.

Oaks and Bullet behind him. Rye nearby, still scoping the place out.

They stick out like wolves in a dog show.

People shift around them, uncertain if they should call security or ask for an autograph.

But they don’t move. They came to watch.

They came for me.

My throat tightens. I don’t wave. I don’t smile. I just look away.

Because if I let myself feel anything right now, I’ll fall apart.

The trumpet blares. The crowd roars. The gates snap open.

Twenty hooves hit the dirt like a gunshot to the gut, and my heart leaves my body, chasing that blur of black muscle around the track.

Ribbons Undone fights for space on the rail, boxed in, jostled by geldings twice her size, but Jackson Fields, our jockey, doesn’t flinch.

He’s young, but fearless, tucked low, whispering to her with each stride.

The first turn comes and I lose sight of them.

“C’mon, girl,” I murmur.

By the far turn, she breaks free. Her shoulders stretch, slick with sweat and sunlight. She’s all power and fury and proof. Jackson gives her one sharp tap, and she flies.

When she crosses the finish line, nose first, the world explodes. I think I scream. Or cry. Or laugh. Maybe all three. I don’t feel the tears until Sam’s pulling me close, whispering how proud he is. How no one thought we’d do it.

I pretend it’s enough.

They call us to the winner’s circle.

I catch sight of him one last time. Legend. Standing back behind the ropes, surrounded by dust and shadows and everything I told myself I was better off without.

Then he turns and walks away.

No wave. No nod. Nothing.

He walks out before they hang the roses.

And maybe that’s for the best.

Ribbons is draped in roses. Cameras flash. Hands shake. Voices ask about the purse, the breeding rights, the bloodlines. They say history’s been made. Ribbons Undone is only the fourth filly to win the Derby in 150 years.

And there I am, smiling like it doesn’t ache, like my ribs aren’t still bruised from being kicked around by men who wanted to break me.

But Paradise Falls is safe now. My name’s back in gold. And I’m standing in the spotlight, wearing every inch of my family’s legacy like a crown.

But I’ve never felt more like shit.