Aunt Ruth sits alone at a corner table, methodically collecting pearls from her broken necklace. Each one drops into her crystal water glass with a soft 'plink' that somehow carries across the tent. Her gloves are still pristine white, despite everything.
She hasn't looked at me once since the bikers left.
I stand at the edge of the tent, one foot on grass, one on the parquet, caught between worlds like always. Marcus is ten feet away, but it might as well be ten miles.
I check my watch for the third time in ten minutes. How long will Legion wait at the silo? Is he already gone, assuming I've made my choice? Three years is a long time to hold onto hope. Even for him. Even for us. Time becomes cruel when someone you love is waiting on the other side of a choice you're afraid to make.
When I glance up, Marcus is watching me check the time, his eyes narrowing with the particular brand of suspicion that comes from wanting someone you don't trust.
I force my arm down casually, like I was just adjusting the diamond tennis bracelet he gave me for Christmas. The one that matches the ring that suddenly feels too tight on my finger.
A donor's wife approaches—Mrs. Halloway, or Hollister, or something with an H—her silk dress rustling like dry leaves as she moves.
"Such excitement earlier!" she gushes, pearls bouncing against her throat. "Was that some kind of... planned entertainment? So authentic!So Montana!"
I give her the Eleanor smile—lips curved just enough, eyes completely empty. Mama taught me this one before I learned to read.It's not lying if you never actually speak the lie, Savannah Rose.
"Just some local color," I say, the words tasting like dust in my mouth. "Montana traditions, you know."
Over her shoulder, I picture the way to the dry creek bed, It’s miles from here. Miles and miles from here. But I could find my way blindfolded, that’s how well I know the way.
Mrs. H-something nods like I've said something profound, then drifts away to collect more gossip for whatever charity luncheon she'll attend next week.
I move mechanically through the motions I was trained for since birth. Thanking people for coming. Accepting congratulations that feel like condolences. Each smile costs me more than the last, like I'm spending pieces of myself I'll never get back. Each handshake is another second ticking away, another moment Legion might decide I'm not coming.
I imagine him at the silo, leaning against the weathered tin, watching the moon rise over the eastern ridge. Waiting. Patient as stone. His shoulders would be relaxed but his jaw tight—the way he always looked when he was trying not to hope for something. The image is so vivid I almost gasp out loud, earning a strange look from Wyatt's latest girlfriend.
Marcus appears at my elbow like a leash, materializing from the shadows at the edge of the tent. His fingers circle mywrist with practiced casualness—a grip that looks affectionate to observers but feels like a shackle against my pulse.
"We need to talk," he says, voice low enough that the remaining guests can't hear, but tight enough that I know it's not a request. "The library. Now."
His breath smells of expensive scotch and barely contained rage. The combination makes my skin crawl, but I nod like the well-trained Ashby girl I am. Always agreeable. Always accommodating. Always aware of watching eyes.
Except for tonight.
Eleanor really would be turning over in her grave if she heard my outburst.
But Legion's appearance wouldn't bother her.
She would've loved it.
Not him and I together, mind you.
Justhim.
