Page 51 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

catalina

. . .

M y wrists ache from where he yanked me through the door, and my chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. I don’t remember sitting down. My body is on autopilot, but my mind didn’t come along.

Vartan’s voice cuts through the haze.

“You’ll be in fittings by Monday,” he says as he scrolls through his phone. “The photographer for the engagement announcement has already been confirmed. Their family is expecting someone polished, so do us both a favor and look the fucking part.”

He just flips through his phone, spewing shit out of his mouth, about designers, guest lists, and the son I’m being sold to like a fucking antique vase.

I’m not listening anymore.

My pulse starts pounding in my ears, louder than the engines. My breath shortens, causing me to hyperventilate; it feels like I’m breathing through a straw. My vision begins to tunnel, and my throat tightens.

I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe .

The ceiling presses down, my seat pulls away, and the space between my ribs collapses. My heart slams against my sternum like it’s trying to get out. My hands shake, my jaw locks, and my nails dig into my palms, but I can’t feel them penetrating my skin.

I’m spiraling.

Breathe, Catalina. Get through it. You can do this.

I don’t even notice I’m trembling until Vartan looks up from his phone, narrowing his eyes with that same cold disapproval I’ve felt since I was old enough to understand shame.

“For God’s sake, Catalina,” he says, like my panic is an inconvenience. “Stop being so dramatic.” His voice cuts sharply, laced with disappointment and exhaustion, like I’m nothing but a stain on his schedule.

He watches me for a beat, before he moves to the bar cart, like we’re on some goddamn business retreat. He pours a shot of whiskey slowly, the sound of liquid hitting glass louder than it should be.

“Here,” he says, handing me the glass of whiskey. “Have something you’re good at.”

My throat goes dry. I wrap Carter’s flannel tighter around my body, like it can somehow shield me from the venom in my father’s voice.

I stare at the glass in his hand, the amber liquid sloshing around from the turbulence. I look up, staring at the man who calls himself my father. I take the glass from his grasp, tightening my fingers around the textured cup, and slam it to the floor.

The sound of shattering glass echoes through the cabin. Whiskey splashes across the carpet in a golden arc, as the shard of glass scatters at his feet .

He blinks slowly, smiling. “A tantrum?” he muses, his voice dripping with cruelty. “Very unbecoming of you, Catalina. Maybe you should practice obedience before the wedding. Wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself more than you already have.”

I feel my stomach tighten, as if it’s trying to disappear completely. My heart slams against my ribcage so hard that I can’t hear anything else.

The wheels slam into the tarmac, jolting me out of the illusion. My eyes fly open. The world tips sideways as the plane slows, jerking me forward in my seat. My stomach turns violently, and nausea crawls up my throat like it’s trying to suffocate me.

The flight attendant opens the cabin door, her bright smile annoying me.

Vartan stands like nothing’s wrong, straightening his cuffs with mechanical precision. “Fix your fucking face,” he mutters, not sparing me a glance. “We’re home.”

Home. The word makes me want to scream.

I stay seated. I feel like a ghost, a hollowed-out thing sitting in a life that doesn’t belong to me.

All I can think about, over the roar in my ears, over the sharp pain in my chest, is that I want to go home.

Not to the fucking penthouse.

Home.

To Carter. Back to his ranch, to Boots & Bourbon, to Bell’s Books, and the reassurance he would always give me without words. Back to his voice when it’s soft, his arms when they’re the only thing holding me together. His love—the kind that never asks me to be anything but exactly who I am .

That’s home.

And the truth is, I don’t know how to breathe without him anymore.

I can’t fucking breathe in here.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the wall, offering a view of the city’s skyline, littered with clouds of smog.

I sit up straight in a black leather chair that dwarfs me, swallowing me whole. My ankles are crossed, my hands folded neatly in my lap, like I’m auditioning for a role I never wanted.

My father sits beside me in a pristine, custom navy suit that probably cost more than my rent for the year. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are forward. He hasn’t looked at me once since we walked in.

Across from us sits Mike Lanson—a tech mogul, a shark in designer fabric. Every word that comes out of his mouth sounds like a press release. Polished. Rehearsed. Reeking of power. His gold watch glints under the lights, and I think it might be worth more than my father’s business.

But none of them are the worst things in this room. That honor belongs to his shitbag son.

Chase Lanson.

He’s lounging across from me like the world is his waiting room.

One arm draped along the back of his chair, his legs spread wide, even his posture is entitled.

He’s infuriatingly beautiful. His smirk is calculated.

It lingers just long enough to make you wonder if you’re good enough, just long enough to make you hate yourself for wondering .

His black hair is styled neatly, and his suit is black, sinfully fitted, stretching around his biceps.

His jaw is clean-shaven, smug, and sculpted for press photos and manipulation.

I imagine what it’d feel like to slap him, then immediately picture how quickly my father’s grip on my arm would tighten if I did.

I don’t belong in this fucking world anymore. I’m drowning in silence, in expectation, in the weight of a future I didn’t choose. My nails dig into the flesh of my palm beneath the table, trying to ground myself.

But that fucking itch is back.

That familiar darkness, curling like smoke in my chest, whispering in my ear about how easy it would be to make it stop. Just some little white pills, one soft slip back into nothing.

No more pretending. No more performing. No more Chase.

I’m yanked out of the fog in my head the moment my eyes lift, crashing into Chase’s.

He’s been staring at me since the second I sat down.

His dark green eyes fixed on mine, his stupid, smug mouth curved like he’s in on some joke I’ll never find funny.

He hasn’t said a single word, not even a half-assed hello, as he sits there, lounging like royalty, dragging those cold, dead green eyes over me like I’m a product he’s about to purchase.

Mike’s voice echoes in the background, every word another nail in the coffin. “Joint statement goes out Monday. Engagement photos by the end of the week. We’ll also schedule the fittings for Monday as soon as your team confirms Catalina’s availability.”

The word fittings makes me want to vomit, like I’m being prepped for display.

Vartan nods beside me, perfectly calm. He treats this like another merger, another transaction, not the sale of his daughter’s future.

Why was I dealt such a shitty hand in him being my father?

“Of course,” he replies, his tone slick and professional. “She’ll be ready.”

No, I won’t fucking be ready for any of this.

I stare straight ahead, willing myself not to fall apart.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears, pounding louder than the voices around me.

The pressure builds behind my eyes as a knot tightens in my throat.

I swallow hard, forcing it down, but my chest tightens, my breathing grows shallow, and the edges of my vision begin to blur.

My trembling fingertips pick at the hem of my skirt. I can’t break down. Not here. Not in front of them.

One. Two. Three. Breathe. That’s it, baby, breathe.

Carter’s voice flickers in my mind. God, I miss him so fucking much.

My eyes flutter open just in time to see Chase rise from his seat. He moves like he owns the room, and every step toward me makes my stomach twist tighter. He doesn’t walk so much as stalk, oozing confidence in that manufactured, soulless way of a man who’s never been told no.

Shit.

He drops into the chair beside me, his elbows resting on his knees, dead eyes dragging over me like I’m something on a menu.

“So,” he says, finally meeting my gaze, “are you the shy type or just well-trained?”

I blink at him, slowly, my lips pressed into a thin line. I refuse to give him anything.

His smirk widens like I’ve just confirmed everything he thinks he knows about me .

He leans in closer, his breath brushing against my cheek.

God, I’m going to be fucking sick.

“Come on,” he whispers, his eyes glistening with something vile. “You can’t always be this quiet. Or do you only speak when you’re on your knees?”

I let out a sharp gasp. The blood drains from my face, and cold dread sweeps through my stomach. I grip the arm of the chair hard until my knuckles turn white.

His hand slides across the table, landing on my thigh, as he grips it. His fingers curl around the soft fabric of my skirt, pressing down.

“I heard you’ve got an attitude,” he says, digging his fingers into my thigh. “Your daddy said you needed taming. I like that, it gives me something to break.”

I try to pull away, but his fingers dig in harder, locking me in place like I’m something he’s claimed.

A low chuckle slips past his lips. “Don’t be a bitch, sweetheart. Let’s not pretend this is anything other than what it is. You’re not here for charm. You’re here because your daddy signed a deal—and lucky me, I get the prettier end of the bargain.”

His hand inches higher, slowly, like he wants me to feel every inch of his control. My skin prickles, and I have to contain myself not to gag. I shift in my seat, trying to dislodge his grip without making a scene, but he squeezes tighter, his fingers cruel now.

“Look at you,” he whispers, his mouth too close to my ear, as he tightens the grip on my thigh.

“Wearing a tight skirt for a man you’ve never even touched.

Sitting here like a good little girl while your father auctions you off like a fucking car lease.

You’re not a bride, baby. You’re a branded fuck toy. And I’m going to ruin you. ”

I-I can’t. I’m going to be fucking sick.

Breathe, Catalina. Just breathe.

His lips skim the shell of my ear. I wince, but he doesn’t stop.

“Here’s how this is gonna go,” he whispers, inching his hand up my skirt.

“You’ll smile when the cameras flash. You’ll kiss me like you mean it.

And later on, when we’re alone, when I peel off your clothes and put your mouth to good use, you’ll thank me for giving your pathetic little life meaning. ”

I turn to him, my vision blurring with heat, with rage, with red . He grins, and beneath the table, he shifts, grabbing my hand—his thumb brushes over my knuckles with this mockery of tenderness, a twisted imitation of affection.

“Be a good girl,” he says quietly, his lips just a breath away from mine. “Try not to act like you’re just a pretty little hole with a price tag. Be a good wife, yeah?”

I rip my hand away, jerking my head back. The legs of my chair scrape loudly across the polished floor, the sound lashes through the space, violent and impossible to ignore.

Everyone looks up. Vartan gives me one warning glance, his eyes telling me not to fuck this up for him. I swallow the lump in my throat, and I swallow all my emotions down inside me. All the fucking rage, sadness, disgust and the fucking terror.

Chase reclines in his chair beside me, stretching out like this is a casual negotiation, like he didn’t just make me feel like nothing. He laughs under his breath, satisfied.

Mike glances between us, then offers me a thin, diplomatic smile. “Catalina, are you comfortable with the timeline?”

Are you fucking kidding me? Comfortable?

I stare straight ahead, my mouth opens to say something, but nothing comes out .

Carter, I fucking need you.

Vartan clears his throat, smiling like this is all going perfectly.

“She’s thrilled.”