Page 48

Months pass. I sit beside Sam at the garden party thrown by one of the racing syndicate wives. He’s holding court as usual, handsome in his pressed button-down and boots that have never seen mud. His hand finds mine and squeezes.

“I talked to the PR team today,” he says, smiling for the cameras still flashing across the lawn. “We’ve got a spread in the Courier Journal. They want to cover the wedding.”

“Oh,” I murmur, my stomach twisting. “Wedding?”

He turns to me, and suddenly, he’s on one knee. Right there on the manicured grass, surrounded by wine glasses and polite applause. “Let’s make it official, Soph. You and me. Let’s build something strong. Stable. No more drama.”

I nod. Say yes. Let him slide the ring on. Smile for the crowd. And when he kisses me, I pretend I don’t feel hollow.

After, I walk through the garden alone for a moment, barefoot in the grass, heels dangling from one hand. The scent of roses makes me dizzy. Or maybe it’s the lie pressing down on my chest.

At home, my father is sitting on the back porch with a tumbler of bourbon and the race schedule in his lap. He looks like he did before the coma, sharp-eyed, loud, fully himself again. But we keep his new nurse close by.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he calls. “Big day tomorrow. We’ve got three yearlings headed to Keeneland, and I want to be there.”

I nod. “You sure you don’t want me handling it?”

He waves a hand. “You’ve done enough, baby girl. Go enjoy your fiancé. I’m back in the saddle.”

Inside, James hovers. Always just behind dad, whispering in his ear, trying to rewrite our legacy. I see it. I feel it. But Daddy doesn’t. Not yet.

Everyone’s so happy for me.

Everyone but me.

Because they don’t know what I gave up.

They don’t know I traded the one man who made me feel wild and wanted and alive for peace, silence, and a ring I can’t stop twisting.

They don’t know that every night I dream of rough hands, stubble and ink. A biker who once told me I was his.

And I can’t tell them.

Because this is the life I chose.

And I’m gonna damn well pretend it fits.

I still run into the King’s women. Sometimes, I think I’m even more polite because they’ve seen me get my ass whacked. It’s something I don’t want to reach my daddy’s ears.

Lottie’s voice cuts through the hum of the diner like a butter knife through meringue. “You’ll never believe who Becki was with last Friday night at the clubhouse. Legend. Again.”

I stir my sweet tea, eyes locked on the amber swirl in my glass instead of her face. “That’s none of my business,” I say with a shrug that costs me more than I’ll ever admit.

Janie leans across the booth, whispering like it’s the hottest news since the Derby. “He’s been seen with a couple of the club bunnies, too. Not just Becki. One of the Arkansas girls, Madz, came for a spell, too, said she shared his bed for a week.”

Well, Legend not only has his pick of King’s club whores in Kentucky. He’s got the whole damn U.S. of A to choose from. My lips curve into a smile I don’t feel. “Good for him.”

Lottie smirks, tilting her head. “You don’t look like it’s good for you, sugar.”

“I’m engaged,” I remind them, showing off the diamond Sam slipped on my finger two weeks ago. It’s clean, perfect, maybe even a little too perfect. Like the man who gave it to me.

They both eye it like it's the star of the county fair pie contest. “Well,” Lottie says, raising her glass. “To happy endings.”

I toast them, but my tea tastes like ashes.