Page 3 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

catalina

. . .

“ C atalina, you’ve been a disappointment.”

That singular word won’t stop playing in my head, over and over, like some sick playlist on repeat that I never asked to hear.

My brain picks it apart, turning it inside out, trying to understand how the fuck he could say that so easily.

Like I haven’t been bending over backwards for years, playing the part of the perfect daughter.

I went to the galas. I smiled on command. I wore the designer dresses and posed like some shiny prop on his arm. I even let him parade me around to potential business partners and their creepy, over-gelled sons, setting me up on fake dates like I was just another one of his strategic assets.

Barf.

The leather seat beneath me is soft and stupidly expensive, buttery smooth under my sweats.

My leg bounces, tapping out a frantic rhythm against the floor of the jet like I’m trying to shake the panic out of my system.

The cabin’s quiet, except for the low hum of the engines and the occasional bump of turbulence I barely register.

My heart on the other hand, it’s losing its damn mind—every beat slams against my chest, trying to claw its way out. My pulse is wild, erratic, and no matter how hard I try to keep it together, I feel like I’m one breath away from a full-on meltdown.

Breathe, Catalina.

I suck in a shaky breath through my nose, blowing it out hard through my mouth, like that’ll make the tightening sensation go away. It fucking doesn’t.

But, I do it again anyway.

My anxiety’s been a shitshow after my mom passed. I tried telling him once that something was wrong, that I wasn’t okay. All he told me that I was being fucking dramatic and said to go lay down.

Classic.

To make matters worse, I’m fucking broke. Like, terrifyingly, zero dollars to my name kind of broke. Financially cut off. Fully exiled. Tossed from the Ajemian fortune like I’m a spoiled carton of oat milk.

Now I’m flying to Tennessee—yes, Tennessee —to live on some fucking cattle and horse ranch run by my dad’s so called best friend.

A man I’ve never met. If I had to make an educated guess, he probably wears Wrangler jeans unironically and thinks the highlight of his day is watching QVC and yelling at the weather.

I’m going to fucking die out there.

What about my shopping sprees? My spontaneous beach trips with the girls? My book hauls and overpriced matcha?

Oh. My. God.

No more music festivals.

Just throw me off the fucking plane now and save us all the trouble .

What the actual fuck am I supposed to do out there? Ride a horse? Clean a stall? Corral cows, and pretend I’m living my Yellowstone fantasy?

No fucking way.

My thoughts spiral so fast that it feels like my brain is going to explode.

My fingers are tingling, and my chest feels heavy.

I can’t breathe, and I swear I’m going to pass out if I don’t do something.

I reach for the remote, pressing play on John Summit’s latest track, Tears.

Upbeat techno floods the jet’s cabin, pulsing through the leather seats.

It helps, kinda.

My eyes drift toward the window, the outside world a blur of clouds and soft golden light.

My reflection flickers against the glass—long brown hair pulled into a high ponytail, tied back with my signature lavender bow.

Mamí used to put bows in my hair when I was little; she said they were my crown.

I never stopped wearing them, even after she passed.

It’s stupid, but it’s the one piece of her I still hold onto.

The rest of me screams high maintenance, because how else am I supposed to arrive in Tennessee?

A fresh spray tan kisses my skin, and a black Louis Vuitton sweat set hugs every curve of my body just right.

My black LV slides are still crisp, and I have a fresh pedicure.

Both of my wrists are stacked with gold Cartier love bracelets, with rings to match.

I cross my arms tightly across my chest, as my perfectly manicured nails dig into the sleeves of my sweatshirt, to feel something solid beneath my skin.

What I wouldn’t give to feel my mom’s arms around me right now, pulling me into her perfume, her warmth, and her soft voice telling me I’m going to be okay .

I blink hard, but a tear slips free anyway, carving a slow path down my cheek.

The intercom crackles, a robotic voice slicing through the cabin. “Thank you for choosing JetLuxe. We’ve arrived in Tennessee. Humid conditions throughout the day. Enjoy your stay.”

The speaker clicks off, leaving only the sound of the bass and my heartbeat roaring in my ears.

Perfect.

The stairs unfold with a low mechanical groan, and the second the jet door cracks open, it hits me.

Tennessee.

The air is thick and sticks to my skin like sweat-slicked regret. It’s humid and freaking suffocating. Within seconds, I feel like I’m melting in places I don’t want to talk about.

I tug my black Prada sunglasses down over my face, blocking the sun from burning holes into my retinas. The railing sizzles under my palm as I grip it, taking slow, deliberate steps down the staircase like I’m walking into my funeral. A sleek black rental waits at the curb.

No welcome sign. No flowers. No one is holding an iced matcha latte with my name on it.

Figures .

I offer the driver a tight, fake-ass smile before sliding into the backseat.

Cool air blasts my face, and I moan out loud in relief.

Thank fuck for air conditioning. I dig into my bag, grabbing my phone, and against my better judgment, shoot off a quick message to my father.

Not that he deserves it. But, some toxic little part of me still wants him to care.

Catalina

Made it to Tennessee, headed to the ranch now.

Vartan

My nostrils flare so hard I nearly fog up my sunglasses. A fucking thumbs up emoji? That’s what I get? I could’ve texted him from a ditch and he would’ve sent the same goddamn thing.

I toss my phone back into my purse. It thuds against a tangle of receipts and lip gloss like it’s just as fed up as I am. My whole body tenses. My chest aches with that familiar squeeze that comes in waves—anger mixed with abandonment, stirred with just a dash of ‘fuck my life.’

I don’t know where the fuck I’m going. All I know is that I’m being dumped on some ranch in the middle of fucking nowhere, owned by one of my dad’s best friends.

My fingers tap out a restless rhythm against my knee.

Tap.Tap.Tap.

How much fucking longer?

I curl my legs up, shifting sideways, my forehead pressed against the cool glass. Might as well get comfortable in this leather-lined prison cell.

Outside, the scenery shifts. The road stretches ahead like something out of a movie, winding through hills with thick clusters of trees that look too green to be real.

Pines sway lazily in the breeze, their needles rustling with gusts of wind.

Every few miles, golden fields appear—soft, wild stretches of grass dotted with little patches of purple .

Pansies.

My lips twitch at the sight of them, and a tiny smile breaks through the exhaustion.

They were my mother’s favorite.

We pass a blur of nothing before finally rolling into the small town of Ruby Ridge.

My eyes move between the buildings, taking in the charm of this small town, so different from what I’m used to in Los Angeles.

I scan the storefronts as we cruise through. Red brick buildings worn soft by too many southern summers, wooden signs that creak with the wind, windows lined with twinkle lights, and dusty flower boxes. There’s a diner on the corner with faded booths and locals out front, sipping sweet tea.

It’s so different from Los Angeles, I almost laugh. No paparazzi. No blaring horns. No one is walking a chihuahua in Gucci loafers—just life.

Quiet, slow, and painfully... normal.

I spot a bookstore, a coffee shop, something that looks like it could be a salon or a boutique if you squint hard enough.

I mentally pin a few of them for later, because apparently, I need to find a job now.

You know, since I’ve been forcibly removed from the platinum princess lifestyle and dumped into rural rehab.

“Five minutes until we arrive at Blue Moon Ranch, ma’am.” The driver’s voice slices through my thoughts, way too calm for the existential crisis that’s brewing in the back seat.

Five minutes?

My stomach drops in my fucking ass. A slow, queasy churn settles low, coiling tighter the closer we get. My palms start to sweat, and I wipe them on my pants like it’ll help .

I try to focus on the road ahead, on the way the hills stretch out and the trees blur past. But everything feels too loud and too quiet at the same time. My heart won’t slow down, and my chest is starting to ache again.

I close my eyes and force myself to breathe.

One. Two. Three. Exhale.