My name wasn't mentioned once.
It was like I’d just... evaporated. And the ecosystem of Dallas high society had simply closed over the gap I left without a ripple.
I checked Instagram out of habit. My last post—a photo from two weeks ago at a rooftop party—had the usual thousands of likes. But my DMs? Empty, save for brand partnerships and bots trying to sell me crypto.
The silence from Z was the only thing that actually stung.
I set the phone down, a heavy, uncomfortable feeling settling in my chest. I wasn't sad, exactly. I was... aware. Aware that I was a prop. A mascot. The Sterling heir who made parties fun until he wasn't there, at which point he was immediately replaced by the next available trust fund baby.
My alarm blared—5:30 on the dot. I swiped it off, rolled out of bed, and started the day.
I had a routine now. Shower (hot water lasted exactly six minutes; I had timed it), throw on Wranglers and a pearl snap shirt (I had accepted my fate as a cowboy cosplayer), pull on work boots that were finally broken in enough not to chew my heels to shreds, and head downstairs.
"Mornin', son," Pops said when I walked into the kitchen. He was already fully dressed, reading the news on a tablet that looked incongruously modern in his hands. "Sleep alright?"
"Woke up before my alarm."
He looked up, bushy eyebrows raising. "That so?"
"Yeah. I don't know if I should be proud or seek medical attention."
"Proud. Means your body’s adjustin'. Circadian rhythms and all that." He poured me a mug of coffee that smelled like jet fuel. "Winnie’salready in the barn. Said somethin' about checkin' on a limp she saw yesterday."
Of course she was. Winnie had probably been up since 4 AM, solved world hunger, and broken a colt before I’d even opened my eyes.
I grabbed a biscuit from the container on the counter and headed out into the pre-dawn darkness. The air was cool, crisp in a way Dallas air never was, and the sky was bleeding from indigo to violet at the edges.
The barn was lit from within, glowing warm against the dark. When I walked in, Winnie was in Daisy’s stall, running her hands down the mare’s leg with the focus of a surgeon.
"Morning," I said.
She glanced up, and for a split second, she looked surprised to see me vertical. "You’re early."
"Woke up before the alarm. It was traumatic. I’m still processing."
"Welcome to bein' a functional adult."
"I hate it. Can I go back to being useless?"
"Nope. You’re stuck now." She straightened up, giving Daisy a pat. "She’s fine. Just a stone bruise, looks like."
I walked over to the stall. Daisy immediately came to the door, pushing her velvet nose against my chest, looking for a scratch. I’d gotten more comfortable around the horses—they were basically just thousand-pound dogs with anxiety issues.
"Hey, pretty girl," I said, rubbing the spot between her ears. "You feeling better?"
"Look at you," Winnie said, leaning against a post, a small smile playing on her lips. "Not even scared she’s gonna bite your face off anymore."
"I was never scared. I wascautious."
"You screamed the first time Bandit sneezed."
"He’s intimidating! He has the eyes of a mob boss."
"He’s a gelding, Beau. He eats carrots and naps." She laughed—that real, unguarded laugh that I was starting to crave like a drug—andtossed me a pitchfork. "Come on. We got stalls to muck. Unless you need more emotional bonding time."
"Daisy and I have an understanding. I feed her, she doesn't kill me. It’s a very civilized arrangement."
We fell into the rhythm of morning chores. I was faster now, more efficient. I didn't gag at the smell, and I’d figured out the wrist flick required to not dump manure on my own boots.
