Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
"What. The fuck." Marcus says. His voice crackin’ with rage, his campaign smile nowhere to be found. He digs his fingers deeper into my arm as he scans the empty distance. "You told me this was over,” he growls. “You swore to me that it was over.”
The diamond on my finger catches light as I pull away from his grip. His perfectly manicured nails leave half-moon imprints on my skin, tiny crescents of ownership.
I watch the transformation happen—the public Marcus with his Georgetown charm melting away to reveal something rawer, uglier. His jaw works beneath tanned skin, a muscle twitching with each clenched tooth. This is the face no voter will ever see on campaign posters, the face he saves for closed doors and private disappointments.
I realize with sudden clarity that I've seen this face more often than his smile lately.
Senator White materializes beside us, his voice low and urgent. "Savannah, dear, I need to know if this... display... was expected." His eyes aren't concerned—they're calculating potential donor flight. "The Nolan’s are already leaving. That's forty thousand dollars walking to their car!"
The senator's cologne—sandalwood and money—overwhelms me as he leans in closer, one hand on Marcus's shoulder in warning. The elder White has perfected the art of smiling while threatening, his teeth gleaming beneath the string lights as he scans the crowd for other potential losses.
His signet ring catches the light as he gestures toward another couple edging toward the exit. "The Prestons too—that's another twenty-five. This little stunt might have just cost my son's campaign close to six figures."
He says "stunt" like others might say "murder."
Cash appears, attempting to smooth things over with the senator while Wyatt lurches close, whiskey on his breath. "You're doin’ this on purpose," he hisses in my ear, swaying slightly. "You wanna keep that inheritance all to yourself. You selfish fucking bitch."
He says this as if it wasn't every one of my personal ‘never-private’ childhood moments and teenage years that made this empire what it is.
As if I owed him something.
As if he deserved something.
Wyatt's Stetson sits crooked on his head, the band dark with sweat. He's been drinking since noon—I saw the flask in his back pocket during the family photos. The brother who once taught me to ride, who carried me on his shoulders through the north pasture, now looks at me with eyes glazed by alcohol, greed, and resentment.
His fingers twist in the fabric of my blouse. Behind him, I see Cash watching, his expression calculating. Not helping, not stopping—just waiting to see which way the advantage falls.
Something snaps inside me.
I whirl on Wyatt, finger jabbing toward his chest. "Everything—the entire Eleanor Ashby photography empire, which includes this ranch—was left to ME. Not you. Not Cash. ME." My voice carries across the stunned tent. "And if you don't want me to start thinkin’ about how little the two of you have done to help build this empire, you better shut the fuck up and mind your damn business."
The words hang in the air like the aftermath of gunshots. Conversations stop mid-sentence. Champagne glasses freeze halfway to parted lips. Even the waitstaff pauses, trays balanced on fingertips as they turn to watch the Ashby dynasty fracture in real time.
Wyatt's face flushes crimson beneath his tan, veins standing out on his forehead. Cash takes a step forward, then stops, eyes narrowed as he recalculates. Aunt Ruth, still clutching her broken pearl necklace, makes a small sound like a wounded bird.
I feel the weight of three hundred stares but stand taller under them, my spine straightening with each second of silence. For the first time in years, I'm not posin’ for a camera—I'm standin’ up for myself.
Marcus drags me away from the tent, down toward the small lake where we took our engagement photos. "I thought this was over," he shouts, his perfect hair falling across his forehead. "Was this planned? Did you know they were coming?"
Yeah, Marcus. I planned for seventy-five bikers to crash my engagement party. What fucking world do these people live in? Certainly not the one that suffocated me all through childhood. That berated me into being the perfect lady. That stole every precious moment for a photo op.
I don't even have the will to conjure up a sea of bikers—don't even have the imagination to pull something like this off.
Because I am broken.
I am nothing but a shell of leftover digital pixels that lost their light a decade back.
But I don't respond. Don't even look at Marcus because the water is reflecting moonlight in ripples that remind me of motorcycle chrome.
Legion's words play on repeat in my mind: You know where to find me.
My wrist throbs where Marcus's fingers dig in, but the pain feels distant, unimportant. Behind us, the party continues in fragmented, awkward bursts of conversation. Someone laughs too loudly, trying to pretend nothin’ has happened. A glass breaks.