Page 2 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

catalina

. . .

G od, I need Advil and a fucking lobotomy.

Or, a full-blown life reset. Both sound like good fucking options.

Sunlight spills through the porthole of my father’s private jet, warm and golden like the universe has the nerve to pretend everything’s fine. It kisses my skin and mocks me all at once.

My skull pounds with each pulse, every heartbeat a jackhammer pounding my temples. My mouth tastes like regret and tequila, and my stomach? Empty—except for the poison I willingly dumped into it last night.

Nausea swirls in my gut, but it’s the anxiety that knocks the wind out of me. It curls around my ribs, squeezing like a vice as I remember exactly where I’m going.

I groan as I push myself upright, every limb stiff and sore like I performed manual labor instead of partying for eight hours straight.

My fingers scrub at my face, smearing my mascara as I blink up at the monitor overhead.

The screen glows soft blue, blurry at first, then sharpens into something that makes my stomach twist tighter .

Thirty minutes until we land in Los Angeles.

Shit .

I swallow, but my throat is dry and tight. He can’t be that mad.

Right?

I mean, I’m his daughter. His only daughter. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve purposely set a six-digit fire to his bank account.

My gaze drifts out the narrow window, watching as white clouds wrap around the jet like silk. It’s quiet up here, and of course, that’s when she creeps in—the memory I can’t outrun no matter how high I fly.

My mother.

She was my center of gravity. The one steady thing in a world that constantly tried to pull me in every direction at once.

She saw every side of me—messy, moody, emotional—and never judged or ran away.

She listened when no one else did, believed in me even when I couldn’t look myself in the mirror, and she made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I was worth something beyond the money tied to my last name.

She used to tell me I had a future bright enough to blind me, and for a while, I believed her.

Until she was gone.

Cancer took her three years ago, and nothing’s felt steady since. One day, she was in the kitchen making her famous horchata, humming along to her favorite song, and the next, I was standing in that same kitchen, alone, surrounded by a silence that never let up.

I stopped pretending I was okay after that. Slipped into the nightlife like it was a lifeline.

Parties, pills, anything to blur the ache.

I called it living my life, but everyone else called it depression .

But what do I have to fucking complain about, right?

I’m rich, aren’t I?

Except I’m fucking not, my father is.

I’m just the ornament in the glass case, dressed up and trotted out when it suits him.

The headlines say privilege, I say it’s fucking prison.

I don’t want the money, I want fucking meaning.

I want someone who looks at me and doesn’t see an investment or a liability.

I want to be loved without having to earn it.

I want to make something of my life and call it my own.

My father never had time for love. He filled the house with whores and called it moving on. Women who wore her jewelry and sat at her table like they belonged there.

I scoff, pressing my forehead to the cool glass of the window as the pilot’s voice crackles through the speaker.

“Thank you for flying JetLuxe today. Welcome to sunny Los Angeles. The current temperature is seventy degrees. We hope you enjoy your stay.”

Yeah, so fucking pleasant.

Coming back here was a fucking mistake. I should’ve ghosted the entire city, dropped off the face of the Earth, and let everyone assume I ran away. I don’t know why I expected anything different. Of course, Vartan Ajemian wasn’t waiting for me at baggage claim like some normal-ass dad.

Whatever. Thank God my car’s parked here, pass paid, tank full.

Needing him? Not a fucking option .

I pause outside the terminal, arms wide open, already pulling Layla and Amelia into a hug that has me swallowing a lump as big as my ego.

Layla makes a dramatic sniffle against my shoulder. “Don’t get murdered by your dad, okay?”

Amelia leans in close, squeezing me tighter. “Text us the second he starts his manipulative bullshit. I’ll come over there and fuck him up myself.”

“You bitches are so dramatic,” I mutter, my grip tightening. “If I go missing, don’t look for me. Just know I’m either buried in his wine cellar or finally thriving in federal prison.”

Layla pulls back, squinting. “Are you seriously wearing that sweatsuit to spite him?”

I glance down at my soft gray Alo set, tugging the waistband. “Layla, honey, it’s called being a bitch. Which is why I bought it in three colors.”

Amelia smirks, smoothing my messy ponytail with a hand that’s way too gentle for the snark on her face. “Text us when you get there.”

I give them one last squeeze, slipping my sunglasses back over my eyes, shielding the tears forming behind them. Without another word, I turn on my heel and begin to walk toward the parking garage, the sting in my throat rising with every step.

The smell of exhaust and hot pavement clings to the air as I dig out the damn parking ticket, I swipe my card at the kiosk, paying for the stupid fee.

My phone won’t stop fucking buzzing. It rattles inside my bag, lighting up every few seconds with another call from his assistant, what’s-her-face with the nails and the personality of a parking cone, probably reminding me for the third goddamn time that Daddy Dearest is expecting me at the house.

Not a home, not even fucking close . It stopped being that the second my mom took her last breath. What replaced her is a cold, empty house with gut-wrenching silence.

I toss my Louis Vuitton duffle into the backseat of my matte black G-Wagon with a little more force than necessary, the thud echoing throughout the car. I climb in, slamming the door shut, taking a long, sharp breath through my nose, already regretting everything about this.

The engine roars to life beneath me, a deep, growling purr that vibrates in my chest. I scroll through my phone, thumb hovering over a dozen playlists before landing on the only one that ever does the trick—filthy drops, loud, upbeat house music.

The kind of shit that rattles my brain enough to shut everything else out. Bass floods the car, and I throw it into drive. Tires screech as I peel out of the lot, and for one brief, blissful second, I feel in control.

Then I hit the streets. Of COURSE there’s fucking traffic.

A honking, sun-baked, bumper-to-bumper shitshow of metal, rage and people who should’ve lost their driver’s licenses in two thousand and seven.

Classic fucking Los Angeles.

I slam my palm against the wheel as traffic comes to a dead stop. “Why the fuck are all these idiots stopped!”

Sitting in this bumper-to-bumper of piled-up cars, it forces me to rethink every choice I’ve made in my life. And right now? That choice was hopping on a plane to Ibiza to see my favorite DJ perform, blowing through my dad’s black card .

Spoiler alert: It wasn’t limitless.

Double spoiler: He’s fucking pissed.

Triple spoiler: I don’t give a flying fuck.

Well, I do and I’m shitting my pants.

My fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel, the brand-new leather warm under my palms from the sun baking through the windshield. My sunglasses might be designer, but they do jack shit to hide the tension in my face.

Every time I glance at the ETA crawling forward, bile rises in my throat.

I’m getting closer. To him. To the house. To the tight, suffocating walls where my grief still lingers.

The sounds of Los Angeles bleed through the crack in my window—revving engines, some asshole laying on his horn like it’ll make traffic move faster, a siren wailing down Sunset Boulevard, and a half-naked guy on the corner shouting about the end of days while holding a yoga mat and a green juice.

You know. The fucking usual.

I shift in my seat as I finally turn onto his street.

Everything here feels fake and polished.

Wide pavements with no potholes, palm trees lined up, their trunks trimmed and perfect, just like the rest of the people in this godforsaken zip code.

The iron gates come into view, all black, gleaming, and stupidly intimidating.

I roll my eyes as I tap the code in.

The moment they slide open, my stomach turns into a knotted mess.

Not butterflies. Not nerves. Just dread—and the sour taste of tequila still clinging to my tongue.

I finally pull into the driveway, winding around the manicured hedges and the fountain that looks like it’s been stolen from a luxury hotel .

The house stands tall at the top of the hill, all black and white concrete and floor-to-ceiling windows like it’s trying too hard to be impressive.

It’s so goddamn ugly.

An unsettling stillness hangs in the air as I stare up at the house.

I square my shoulders as I climb out of my car. My grip tightens on the strap of my Louis Vuitton duffle as I march straight through the front door without knocking, because why the fuck would I? He owns the house, but I still have a set of keys.

I spot him exactly where I knew he’d be—behind the sleek, overpriced bar in the living room, pouring two fingers of scotch like this is just another day for him.

His back is to me, his shoulders tense beneath one of his many perfectly tailored Armani suits. His dark brown hair is slicked back with a precision that can only come from a personal grooming team.

“I was wondering when you’d finally grow a fucking conscience.” His voice cuts clean through the silence, too calm for someone who just watched his daughter burn through almost three hundred thousand dollars.

I drop my duffle onto the leather couch, crossing my arms over my chest, arching a brow.

“I didn’t come back for a TED Talk, Dad. Just slap me on the wrist and let’s get it over with. I’ve got shit to do. Erewhon’s probably out of my twenty-dollar smoothies already.”

The corners of my lips twitch as my hands shoot up to stifle the laugh bubbling in my throat, because this whole situation is fucking ridiculous. He’s been throwing black cards at me for years as if they’re chew toys, all to make sure I’d stay far away and never ask for his time .

But now he wants to play Dad of the Year?

“You think this is a lecture, Catalina?” he says, turning to face me as he swirls the scotch in his glass. “A lecture would imply I expect you to fucking listen.”

Oh.

I push the tears back down, swallowing them like poison, just as I’ve done a thousand times before. My chin lifts, even though my throat burns.

“Don’t act so shocked,” I snap. “You act like this is my first offense. So what, I drained your precious account again? Boo-fucking-hoo. What’s your issue this time?”

His jaw flexes. But like always, he smooths it out with a slow, calculated sip of his overpriced scotch, the kind of move he probably learned in boardrooms and behind closed doors with people who never tell him no.

“There’s a difference,” he says, his voice low and calculated, “between taking care of your daughter and funding a grown woman’s bad habits.”

I don’t flinch, but something in me stirs.

“Catalina,” he says, like my name’s something bitter on his tongue. “After last night’s stunt, I pulled your financial statements. Do you have any fucking idea how much you’ve spent in the last three months?”

His tone is calm, but that kind of calm is worse. He starts listing shit off like it’s a grocery list.

“Five-star hotels, designer clothes, overnight jet trips to Ibiza, alcohol, and whatever the fuck else you think you need to survive.”

I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.

Because I don’t fucking know.

I’ve never once checked the totals. I swipe. Tap. Spend. Filling the void with things that sparkle, taste good, and make me forget the grief that I’m living with .

His smirk curves into something cold as he brings the glass of scotch to his lips. “Exactly.”

God, I hate him.

He wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, he was a real fucking dad—the kind of dad who let me sit on his lap during meetings, who brought my mom flowers for no reason, who looked at me like I mattered.

But that version of him vanished the moment his business took off.

When he reached billionaire status, he didn’t just change—he became consumed by it.

Money turned into his religion. Power became his obsession.

And my mother? She was the only thing that kept him even slightly human, until he started treating her like shit too.

When she died, whatever emotion he had left died with her. Now, all he cares about is his net worth, his image, and the carousel of bleached-blonde bottle girls he cycles through like he’s collecting broken Barbies.

I straighten my shoulders, trying not to shake as I spit the words out. “So tell me, why’d you even bother having me fly back here? Was this just a chance to throw bank statements at me and call me a disappointment to my face?”

He sips his scotch like I’m an inconvenience interrupting his curated life.

“Catalina, you’ve been a disappointment.”

That single word hits me like a tidal wave.

“All you do is spend my money like it’s Monopoly cash, with zero accountability,” he continues. “I’m done cleaning up after your fucking mess. I’ve made arrangements for you to stay with my friend, Carter. He owns a cattle ranch in Tennessee, and you, my dear, are going to fucking help him.”

I blink. Carter who?

He takes a slow step forward, adjusting the cufflinks on his suit. “You think life’s some endless vacation I’m footing the bill for?” he sneers, shaking his head. “That shit ends now!”

He jabs a finger in the air, voice rising. “I’ll pay for this fucking flight to Tennessee, and you’ll haul your ass there, work on that ranch, and finally learn what it’s like to earn a dollar instead of bleed me dry.”

He turns his back on me for a beat, pacing, before spinning around with venom in his eyes.

“No more cards, no more staff, no more playing heiress while you spiral.” His voice drops low, measured, and cold.

“You want food? Figure it out. You want gas? Earn it.” He steps closer, lowering his voice to a vicious whisper. “You’re cut off, Catalina.”

His lip curls. “You’ll be stuck there for six months, dealing with whatever shit you’ve got going on. And if you don’t come back with some fucking maturity?” He leans in, gaze sharp as a blade. “Don’t fucking come back at all.”

My mouth opens to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. For a second, I stare at him as I toy with the sleeves of my sweatshirt, swallowing the tears that are threatening to escape. There’s no point in arguing about this arrangement.

The further away I am from him, the better.