He swallows hard, eyes burning.
“Keep running from me, Royal,” I whisper.“But one of us is gonna break.”
I pause, let the chain pull tight, let the silence thicken until he is breathing hard.
“And it will not be me.”
He opens the door because he has to.If he stays even a second longer, he will put his hands on me and finish both of us.The lock clicks.His footsteps fade.
I lie back on the bed, heart steadying.The room feels smaller without him in it.
He thinks I’m the prisoner.
But he is already mine.
And he knows it.
Chapter 20
Sophie
I wake up and the bed's freezing.
Legend used to sleep there.
He rarely actually stayed the night, not officially, not long enough for the pillow to remember the shape of him, but my dreams don’t care about reality.They conjure him anyway.Huge hands on my hips.Hot voice in my ear.The low, sinful laugh he only let me hear.
I blink awake, breath catching in the dawn light spilling through the sheer curtains.The bedroom at Paradise Falls looks too big, too empty.A room meant for a marriage, not a woman sleeping alone with a mere memory.
My fingers drift to the engagement ring on my left hand.Sunlight dances off my mother’s diamond and onto my comforter.Legend put it on me.Biker kissed my knuckles after.
God, how is any of this supposed to work?
Legend running the Kings like a wildfire held together with duct tape and brotherhood.Me set to inherit a horse empire that’s older than Hell, Kentucky itself.Two worlds that never should’ve touched.
But they did.
My thumb brushes the ring again.
“I miss you,” I whisper into the empty room.
It hangs in the air, pathetic and honest.
I sit up with a groan and shove the blankets aside.The cold hardwood stings my feet, but I welcome it.Something sharp to drag me back into the waking world.Because dreams aren’t helpful.Dreams make me soft.And Paradise Falls doesn’t tolerate softness, not in a Montgomery.
By six a.m.I’m out behind the barn, clipboard in hand, hair shoved into a messy bun, still wearing my pajama top under a fleece vest because the temperature in Kentucky does whatever it wants.
“Morning, Miss Montgomery!”one of the stable hands calls as he leads out a bay gelding.
“Morning,” I answer, already checking off his feed schedule.
The farm’s not just a farm.It’s a business.A legacy.The beating heart of Kentucky’s horse world.There are auctions to prep for, bloodlines to track, medical checks, vet appointments, meetings with trainers, PR calls, Derby committees, sponsor dinners, and a million people expecting the Montgomery name to stay polished and perfect.
I jot notes, adjust a medication order, and answer three texts from the farm manager, two from the accountant, and one from a reporter who somehow got my private number.
My phone rings again.
I silence it with a sigh.The to-do list is already a mile long, and the sun isn’t even high yet.Sometimes people think all this money means carefree.
