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 ambroken.
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.
Marcus is still talking—something about appearances, and donors, and how I've embarrassed him—but his words wash over me like water over stones, leaving no impression at all.
All I hear is the phantom rumble of a motorcycle engine.
All I see is the path through the cottonwoods that leads to the old grain silo, where dust motes dance in sunbeams and secrets are kept by the light of the stars.
Where Legion waits, as he always has, for me to choose.
An hour passes like a funeral. The white tent sags at the edges now, half-empty and hollowed out. Crystal champagne flutes sit abandoned on white linen, each one marked with a different shade of expensive lipstick. Coral. Dusty rose. Blood red. Little mouth-shaped accusations left behind by women who smiledto my face, then whispered behind manicured hands about the "unfortunate interruption."
Most of the guests fled after the thunder of motorcycles faded—suddenly remembering early flights, important meetings, and sick children.
The smart ones, anyway.
The rest linger like vultures, pretendin’ they're not watching me unravel thread by thread.
The waitstaff move between tables like ghosts, collecting half-eaten canapés. I hear their whispers—soft and dangerous as rattlesnakes. They've served the Ashbys for generations. They know our secrets better than we do.
"—always had a thing for that Kane boy?—"
"—Eleanor would be rolling in her grave?—"
"—she used to sneak out?—"
Servants remember everything. Employers forget that walls have ears and champagne loosens tongues.
The string quartet packed up twenty minutes ago, their Julliard training not quite preparing them for biker invasions. Now there's just the soft electric hum of generators powering fairy lights that cast everything in a dream-like glow. Like we're all just playing pretend.
And aren't we?
Isn't that what we're doin’ here? Pretendin’?
Because I never wanted this. Marcus knows I don't love him. He's a way for my brothers to get their share of the Matriarchal money.
Well, not Colt. Colt is different.
And I know that Marcus doesn't love me, either. I'm an expedient 'partner'. That, I've learned, is what they call the wives of politicians.
How inspirin’.
He needs a wife for his campaign.
Not just any wife, but one—as he bragged earlier—with a platform that reaches over four million people and an influence in the rural demographic that is unparalleled. Love was never a plank on the campaign platform.
Senator White stands with Cash near the bar, their heads bent together in conversation that looks more like a business negotiation than small talk. Cash's face is carefully blank—the expression he wears when he's calculatin’ profit margins and acceptable losses.
The Senator's mouth is a straight line, his fingers wrapped around a tumbler of bourbon so tightly I can see white knuckles from here.
