Page 77 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

"There's nothing to discuss." His words fell like an executioner's blade. Cold. Non-chalet. As if he hadn’t been the one to ask me to be his and be the idol of their pack. "I wish you continued success in your career."

With a curt nod, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the merciless spotlight.

The theater's silence gave way to murmurs, growing louder with each passing second. Somewhere, a camera flashed. Someone laughed — a sharp, cruel sound that cut through the buzz.

Breathe. Just breathe.

The mantra from countless rehearsals echoed uselessly in her mind.

Her body moved on autopilot—chin up, shoulders back—while inside, something vital was collapsing. Years of disciplined emotion carefully channeled into her performances, threatened to burst through her carefully composed facade.

Don't cry. Not here. They're all watching.

The applause that had enveloped her minutes ago now felt like a distant memory from another life. In its place, she heard only the furious pounding of her heart and the whispers of the audience — pity and morbid fascination blending into a suffocating chorus.

Behind her sternum, a pressure built — grief and humiliation crystallizing into something hard and sharp. Her fingers trembled, and she curled them into fists, nails biting into her palms.

How could he do this? Here, of all places?

The stage — once her kingdom — had become her gallows.

From the corner of her eye, a figure emerged from the shadows, an elegant silhouette that contrasted sharply with her own dawning despair.

Magnolia Everhart stood apart, unnoticed by most, yet impossible for Marigold to ignore. They shared the same face — the same emerald hair cascading in perfect waves, the same sunset-gold eyes. But where Marigold's features were now rigid with shock, her twin's lips curved into a satisfied smile.

Subtle and self-assured, her sunset eyes glinting with a triumph that seemed grotesquely out of place. The satisfaction was a stark beacon amidst the dimming light of Marigold's world.

The realization that her sister might revel in her downfall sent a new wave of nausea roiling through Marigold's stomach.

"Did you see her face?" someone whispered too loudly from the front row.

"I always thought there was something off about them," another voice answered.

Marigold forced her breathing to remain steady, counting the beats as she would during a difficult sequence.

One, two, three, four... hold it together.

Her gaze drifted upward, away from the sea of staring faces, toward the wings of the stage. That's when she saw her.

Their eyes locked across the distance. Magnolia didn't flinch or look away.

Instead, she lifted her champagne flute in a small, private toast.

As if that announcement is truly some sort of rejoicing to be toasted to…

"Miss Everhart?" The stage manager approached cautiously. "Would you like to..."

"I'm fine," Marigold said, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears. "Just give me a moment."

She couldn't tear her gaze from her sister.

Why is she looking at me like that? Why isn't she coming to help me? Did…she betray me somehow? Is she involved in this sudden change in Rowan’s heart?

The realization came slowly, then all at once.

The conversations Magnolia had with Rowan behind closed doors. The whispered phone calls that stopped when Marigold entered a room.

The questions about her schedule, about when she'd be performing next.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the company director was suddenly beside her, his hand at her elbow, "let's give our prima ballerina the appreciation she deserves."

The audience, grateful for direction, broke into renewed applause, though it was tinged with uncertainty.

"You don't have to stay," he murmured for her ears only.

Marigold nodded once, mechanically. As she turned to leave, she caught sight of Magnolia again, now moving through the crowd toward where Rowan had disappeared, her green hair gleaming under the lights like a beacon.

"She knew," Marigold whispered, too softly for anyone to hear.

9 - 10

A memory flashed through Marigold's mind — three nights ago, in their shared apartment. She had returned late from rehearsal to find Magnolia sitting at the kitchen island, casually scrolling through her phone.

"You're working too hard, Mari," Magnolia had said, not looking up. "How's Rowan handling your absences?"

"He understands," Marigold had replied, setting down her dance bag. "This is important to both of us. He’s the one encouraging and funding it after all."

Magnolia had smiled then — that same smile she wore now.

"Of course it is. Oh, by the way, I saw him today while you were at the studio. Poor man seemed...uncertain about something."

"Uncertain?" Marigold had frozen, water glass halfway to her lips.

"Probably nothing," Magnolia had waved dismissively, her sunset-orange eyes finally meeting Marigold's. "Just remember, dear sister, not everyone is built for the spotlight's shadow."

Now, backstage, the pieces snapped into place like a dislocated joint being reset. The pain was immediate and searing.

"She was with him yesterday too," came a whisper from one of the corps dancers nearby, not realizing Marigold could hear. "His assistant said they had lunch for hours at Bellini's."

Marigold's hand to do everything to afloat and not crumble at the heaviness of all these unexpected instances that were piecing together the grand puzzle.

Bellini's.

Our restaurant.

Now that we were away from the grand audience, what a perfect time for her to speak loud and clear.

"You always had everything handed to you," Magnolia said, loud enough for Marigold to hear across the space between them. "The talent. The attention. The perfect Alpha. I just helped him see what I've always known…you're not worth the pedestal they put you on."

The remaining audience members nearby fell silent, their expressions a mixture of shock and morbid fascination.

Why? When? How… long has all of this been going on?

"How long?" Marigold asked, her voice steadier than she felt. "H-How long have you been planning this?"

Magnolia's freckled cheeks flushed with something like pride.

"Since the day they chose you for principal dancer instead of me. I was always the better strategist, Mari,” she declares with immense pride, her eyes twinkling with pure delight. Cunning and full of gleeful deceit. “ You just twirl better."

She turned away then and there, slipping through the side exit — the same door Rowan had used, leaving her to stand their like a complete fool./

A doll used until its peak of admiration and tossed for the next best thing…

Not content to live in the penumbra of Marigold's success, Magnolia had set out to eclipse her completely. And now, under the unforgiving scrutiny of an audience that once adored her, Marigold grappled with the full weight of her sister's treachery.

Marigold's legs — legs that had carried her through countless performances, that had been strong enough to execute perfect fouettés and grand jetés — suddenly felt foreign beneath her.

She swayed slightly, her normally impeccable posture crumbling from the center outward. Her shoulders, always positioned with ballerina precision, curved inward as if to protect what remained of her heart.

"Careful there, dear," said a stagehand, reaching for her elbow.

Marigold flinched away, her dancer's poise abandoning her completely.

Her hand fluttered to her throat, where the delicate silver necklace Rowan had given her on their first anniversary seemed to tighten like a collar. With trembling fingers, she yanked it off, the chain breaking with a soft snap that somehow echoed in her ears.

"I don't understand," she whispered, more to herself than anyone. "Everything we built..."

The theater lights, once warm on her skin, now felt like interrogation lamps exposing every flaw, every na?ve belief she'd held. Her knees buckled slightly, and this time she couldn't prevent the stagehand from catching her arm.

From the auditorium came the unmistakable sounds of a scandal unfolding — hushed exclamations, the rustle of programs being used to hide whispered conversations, the electronic chirps of messages being sent.

The news would be across social media within minutes.

"Did you see her face?"

"I can't believe he would do that here?—"

"The sister, though! I always thought they were close?—"

"The company will have to recast Giselle now?—"

An older woman in the front row stood up, her face lined with concern rather than judgment.

"Shame on you all," she said loudly, silencing the nearest chatter. She looked directly at Marigold. "Hold your head high, girl. Some of us remember what real grace looks like."

But the kindness only made the pain sharper.

Marigold's vision blurred, the stage lights fracturing into prisms through her unshed tears.

"The press is waiting in the lobby," someone whispered urgently to the stage manager. "Should we take her out the back?"

"No," Marigold managed, finding her voice despite the tightness in her chest. "I won't... I can't..."

The whispers crescendo around her, a dissonant symphony of sympathy and scandal. Suddenly, the weighing truth fell upon her shoulders, making her realize she couldn’t face the press, for it would shift from praise of what she accomplished to what just occurred.

The rejected ballerina falling from grace.

Marigold inhaled deeply, straightening her spine the way she had been taught since she was four years old. Every muscle remembered the discipline, even as her heart shattered.

"I'm leaving," she said quietly, her voice steadier than she felt.

"Ms. Everhart, please wait—" The company director rushed forward, his bow tie askew. "This doesn't have to?—"

"It does."

I need to run.

I need to leave…

Everything…everything I built…we built…is all tumbling down.

She turned away from him, from the gawking stagehands and dancers crowded in the wings. Her movements, once fluid with emotion, now resembled the mechanical precision of a music box ballerina — technically perfect but devoid of soul.

One foot in front of the other.

The steps more familiar than any choreography she'd mastered.

"Marigold!" A junior dancer called after her, brave enough to use her first name. "Where will you go?"

That was the real question, where should I go?

Where does one go when their Alpha rejects them before the world for your sister — twin sister at that – and chances are, there’s nothing left for me to go home to?

If Rowan boldly did that before the world, it meant he had the approval of the others in our pack. If I went back home, what would be awaiting me was more embarrassment.

Press all gathered before the gates, waiting to watch the theatrics of my Alphas throwing away what little things I had before through the windows with not a hint of remorse.

I couldn’t possibly face such torment.

This is enough…

She didn't answer, couldn't answer.

The backstage door felt miles away, her legs leaden despite their strength. Behind her, the audience continued their murmuring, the sound like insects crawling across her skin.

"Rebuild," she whispered to herself, the word a quiet vow that steadied her trembling spirit. The decision carved itself into her being, as indelible as the roles she had danced across stages worldwide.

Now, she would seek a quieter form of grace, one not dependent on the fickle hearts of an audience, but on the strength she carried within.

An Omega rising from the ashes of her own story.