Well. No. Not even slightly. Now that he said it out loud, the image of him demonstrating how to mount from the left felt like something that would’ve been cut from a romance movie for insulting the audience’s intelligence.
“She booked her lessons at the same time as mine. Quit after a couple of days. Dawn isn’t ideal if you hate horses.”
His response was like clean air handed to her in the smog. She bit her lip, trying—and failing—not to look too pleased.
Watching the Catherine Myth collapse in real time? Unspeakably satisfying. Even if she were the only one with access to the behind-the-scenes footage. Even if everyone bought Catherine’s director’s cut.
Perhaps even better was the reminder that Gage never made her feel small. Not even whensheknew she was being petty.
“Anything else you need clarified?”
She shook her head. No further questions, Your Honor. The prosecution rests. The defendant is excused.
She wanted to thank him, but knew she didn’t need to.
Because it wasn’t just that he’d reassured her, it washowhe had. Straight truth, like she had a right to it.
“Okay,” he said, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. “I’ll see you on the lawn in an hour. Can you get back to your room?”
“I’m not a kid.” She smiled. “I’ll work it out.”
Probably.
They walked out the door. Gage turned left. She turned right.
She had memorized the route from her room: straight, left at the angry portrait, down the staircase, then head toward the light. Now, she just had to do it in reverse.
She’d barely made it past the corridor arch before Georgina intercepted her, hair immaculate, lips glossed in a shade only money could name.
“My mother is having a wardrobe meltdown,” she announced. “Naomi’s going to come grab you in an hour. Be ready. The next part is myfavorite.”
Bea walked with Naomi across the lawn, heels sinking into the earth, hem of her sundress catching the breeze. Naomi looked like aVogueeditorial in motion beside her.
“Do you remember the rule about the sheet-shaking?” Naomi looped an arm through hers.
Bea gave her a sideways look. “None this weekend.”
“Repeat it to yourself. Like a prayer. Because Gage is about to turn into your personal human power fantasy.”
Bea snorted softly. “You’re unwell.”
“I’m accurate.” Naomi smirked. “This whole morning is a setup.”
“Setup for what?”
They rounded the hedge, past the orchard fence.
Bea stopped cold.
The lawn split like a fable.
On one side: the soft civility of generational wealth—buffet tables gleaming with raspberry tarts and chocolate éclairs, waiters offering drinks, parents lounging in scattered chairs.
Girls in linen glanced at her like they might miss a car crash in slow motion. Horrified, but unwilling to look away in casethey missed the worst part. Waiting for the next scene after yesterday’s confrontation with Catherine.
She tried not to care about the scrutiny. Which, today, was oddly easy.
Because on the other side of the lawn: war.
