Page 56 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

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T he room reeks of roses and hairspray. Too much of both. Artificial sweetness and chemicals thick enough to choke on. It clings to the back of my throat, coating my tongue like poison.

A high-pitched ringing hums in my ears, like my brain is trying to scream its way out of my skull.

I sit motionless on a velvet ottoman, tucked into the corner of the room. I’m drowning in a dress I didn’t choose, waiting to be walked down an aisle I never agreed to.

The gown is stunning, but it isn’t mine.

Layers of stiff tulle scratch at my legs, heavy beading digs into the soft skin of my collarbones, and the off-white satin makes me look pale. The train drags behind me every time I shift, trailing like a leash that won’t loosen.

The makeup? Impeccable.

Contoured cheekbones, glossy lips, and lashes so long they reach my eyebrows.

A perfect face painted onto a crumbling woman.

The old me would’ve eaten this shit up, but, she’s dead now.

Dead and buried somewhere between my mother’s grave and the day I stopped pretending my father could ever love me.

I stare at the mirror across the room, and a stranger stares back at me.

Mascara runs in messy rivulets, bleeding down my face, dragging my foundation with it. No one’s here to wipe them away. Just the absence of a comforting hand, the missing rush of a best friend with tissues, and the aching silence where whispered jokes are supposed to be.

Daddy Dearest wouldn’t allow my friends anywhere near the venue. And since he’s such a loving father, he took my phone away.

God, could he be any more of a douchebag?

I suck in a breath too fast, and it turns into a jagged gasp. My ribs strain against the bodice, the fabric pressing in like it’s trying to crush the fight out of me. I claw at the fabric with trembling fingers, as if loosening it will release the weight pressing down on my chest.

I close my eyes, trying to breathe, but the air in this room feels artificial. The distant memory keeps circulating in my head, and all I can think about is that small, stupid town I swore I hated.

Ruby Ridge.

The quiet little town tucked away in the corner of Tennessee, where the sky stretched wide and the air smelled like sun-drenched grass and fresh earth. I remember sneaking out to the fence line to feel the wind on my skin, as the silence curled around me like a hug I didn’t know I needed.

The sound of his horses neighing in the pasture, and the warmth of the sun baking my arms when I picked wildflowers as he mowed in the distance .

I miss it. I miss him.

I miss Carter’s sideways glances when he thought I wasn’t looking.

The way his strong jaw twitched every time I said something that annoyed him, but his eyes always softened.

I miss the way he looked at me when I was a mess—sweaty, covered in hay, my boots ruined from stepping in horse shit—and still made me feel like the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

God. I actually miss horse shit.

A laugh breaks out of me. It gets caught halfway, tangled with a sob, sticking in my throat like a lump of grief I can’t swallow down.

Because this life? This marble-tiled, cold-silk, air-conditioned cage?

It was never mine.

I rise on unsteady legs, my knees wobbly beneath the weight of the dress and everything it stands for. The lace catches under my heels as I cross the room, nearly sending me to the ground. I don’t steady myself, I keep moving toward the mirror.

I stare at the reflection of a woman I don’t recognize—painted, perfect, polished for a man she doesn’t want.

A stranger draped in white lies and stitched promises she never made.

Tears welled again, carving fresh trails through the foundation caked on my cheeks.

This isn’t me.

A past version of me would’ve killed for a wedding like this—dripping in diamonds, designer names etched into every inch of this expensive dress. It’s fucking beautiful, no doubt.

But it’s not what I want anymore .

I want my life.

I slam my palm against the vanity. A perfume bottle tumbles off the edge, exploding against the marble floor, glass, rose, and destruction spilling across my reflection.

I don’t flinch.

Let it all fucking break.

The door creaks open, and I see the figure appear in the mirror before I even turn around.

Of course. It’s my loving father.

He steps into the room. The tailored black suit clings perfectly to his frame, his tie knotted with surgical precision, and his gold cufflinks sparkle under the soft chandelier light.

His smile is tight, practiced. Just enough to appear calm without revealing the venom underneath.

“Well,” he says, his gaze dragging slowly on the dress he chose. “You look put together. For once.”

I don’t answer.

His eyes drop to the mess on the floor—the glass shards, the dark stain of perfume seeping into the grout—and when he speaks again, his voice is clipped with boredom.

“Was this necessary? The dramatics? The mess?”

I turn to face him. “I’m not fucking doing this.” I take a step forward, the train of my dress dragging behind me. “I’m not marrying him.”

He exhales, the sound laced with irritation.

“The deal is done,” he says, “your whining now changes nothing. So stand there, look pretty, and behave. ”

“I’m not property.”

“You’re leverage,” he replies flatly. “There’s a difference.”

My throat tightens, the words knotting in the back of my mouth. “Why?” I whisper, barely able to push it past the ache rising in my chest.

He tilts his head, like I’ve asked something trivial. “Because I needed a bargaining chip,” he says, unbothered. “And lucky for me, I had a pretty, trainable one with time running out in Tennessee.”

The rage surges up so fast it steals my breath. I want to scream. I want to claw at him, tear something down, make him feel what he’s been doing to me. I want to shatter him the way he’s spent years breaking me into quiet, polished pieces.

“You’re a fucking monster,” I say through gritted teeth.

He steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret meant to wound. “No, sweetheart. I’m a man who built a kingdom. And you?” He smiles faintly. “You’re the toll.”

The breath stumbles out of me, shaky and uneven.

“I hate you,” I say, and this time, my voice doesn’t shake.

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he offers the kind of smile you’d give a misbehaving child—warm enough to seem fatherly, but cold enough to slice. “You always say that when I’m doing what’s best for you.”

Best for me?

The words rattle inside my skull. He’s insane. Delusional. This is what he does—dresses control in care, ties trauma in a ribbon, and sells it as love.

He turns toward the door like the conversation never mattered. He pauses. His hand resting on the doorknob as he tosses one more look over his shoulder. “You’ll thank me someday.” With a dismissive glance over his shoulder, he adds, “Oh. And fix your fucking face. You look like a goddamn mess.”

The door clicks shut behind him, followed by the quiet snick of the lock sliding into place.