"Wait, back up. Bull breeding? Since when—why wouldn't your father and London come to this meeting?" I'm stuttering through my questions as I try to wrap my mind around this news.
"They don't know. My father refuses to give me his blessing, and I'm trying to keep London out of the crossfire. He and my father have their own projects, side hobbies that have become full-blown businesses. They left the horse operation almost completely in my hands. I have my Uncle Baylor keeping thebooks, but for the most part, I'm the one overseeing the day-to-day. It's what I was born into, and I'm not complaining. I've had a good life, considering it didn't start out so great, but that doesn't mean I don't want something for myself. Something I'm passionate about. Something that fuels my soul, something to feel connected to, something that's mine."
I understand this. I sympathize with this. I was born into this life too. It's what my family did, therefore it's what I do. Even if I tell myself I chose to be a vet because it's what I wanted, ultimately it was influenced by what I was born into. I love horses, but I also wanted to please my father, to carry on our traditions, and to continue building a legacy.
"I get that," I say softly. "But bulls… Why? Are you planning to ride again?" I ask, remembering the charity ride I watched him partake in. That night lives rent-free in my mind for countless reasons, but the top one is the way my heart felt like it stopped the second I saw him get kicked.
"I can't say I'll never ride again. There's something about being on the back of such a powerful animal, an inexplicable rush, a high that grounds you even as it lifts you up. You feel big and small all at once. It's a fleeting taste of power, yes, but also a sobering reminder of how small you are, how little control you truly have."
He crosses his leg. "But the plan is to breed them, not ride them. The business model is more sustainable than horse breeding. The selection process is rooted in genetics rather than performance, actual science, not tradition and ego. You studied genetics because you wanted to be a step ahead when picking horses. With bull breeding, that work would actually be quantifiable. You'd be focused on long-term herd improvement and sustainability, not chasing ribbons and reputations. Horse breeding is still decades away from breaking free of its performance-based hierarchy."
He has a valid point. Ironically, it's the same one I've been giving my father for years.Genetics over performance. Data over gut feeling and family names.The horse world won't change in our lifetime, not really. Too much money, too much tradition, too many egos wrapped up in the old way of doing things. But bulls?
I shift in my seat. "You make it sound simple."
I anxiously twist the gold band that now sits on my left hand, and my eyes catch his watching the thoughtless move. The weight of his gaze makes my skin prickle. The night he put this ring on my finger, I'd wondered how it ended up in his pocket, why he had it, who it was meant for, because its current resting place couldn't be where he'd intended it to be. The look in his eyes now seems distant, like he's thinking about the broken plans that now sit on my finger, and I can't take it.
"Whose ring am I wearing?" I ask, my voice sharper than I intend. I need to know what I messed up. I don't want secrets between us. I know I'm not his forever, but I don't need surprises when we get home and whoever this ring was meant for shows up.
"It was my grandmother's," he says, his voice void of any emotion.
That definitely wasn't the answer I was expecting, but it also wasn't the one I was after.
I swallow hard, fingers stilling on the ring. "Let me rephrase that. Who were you planning on giving it to? A man doesn't carry around his grandmother's ring in his pocket unless he planned on giving it to someone."
The air between us feels dangerously charged.
"I think I'll keep that to myself for now." His tone is clipped, final.
Coward.Heat flashes through me—anger, hurt, something I refuse to name. "Trigger, this isn't going to work if you're seeingsomeone behind my back. I have to know how to cover for you, and I don't need to be looking over my shoulder, worried about what woman wants to spill my blood because I took her man."
He shifts toward me slightly, and suddenly the backseat feels impossibly small. "I never said there was someone else?—"
"Then why can't you just tell me why you had this ring in your pocket?" My voice rises despite my best efforts to stay calm.Why does it matter so much? Why do I care?
"I didn't say I wouldn't."
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. I spin the ring again, a nervous habit I'm developing, hating his silence on the subject because I have to stare at the reminder. I lean my head against the seat, and my eyes catch his hand. He's not wearing a ring. Unlike him, I don't carry spare rings for funsies.
"Fine, don't tell me," I say, my throat tight as I take it off. "You're not wearing one, so neither am I."
I hold it out between us.
"Asha, stop playing games." His voice drops lower, and there's an edge to it now that makes my pulse quicken. "You have to wear that ring. You're my wife."
"And you're my husband. I'll wear mine when you wear one."
The challenge sits between us like a lit fuse. His eyes darken, jaw working as he stares at the ring in my palm, then back up to my face. The muscle in his temple twitches.
"You're serious." It's not a question.
"Completely." I don't drop my hand, don't break eye contact.
"You didn't get me one," he bites out, and there's an edge to his voice that makes my stomach flip. "I can wait. You, however, can't. We have a meeting to attend, and that ring needs to be on your finger. It's part of our deal."
Our deal.The words sting more than they should.
"I agree, it's a bad look, but so is you not wearing one. If the Arora family is as traditional as you say they are, they'll expect both of us to be donning rings."
