These last few words are like whispers in a nightmare.
I open my mouth, wrap my lips around the fork, pull the pie off as Marcus withdraws. "Mmmm," I hum. "It's really good, Marcus. Thank you so much for thinking of me. For going all the way back to the ranch to retrieve this special dessert."
Marcus smiles. "Your mother always said you had a sweet tooth." He frowns slightly. narrowing his eyes. "But we mustn't let you get fat, darling. You can't come to campaign events ifyou're frumpy. So enjoy, for now. But when we get home there will be rules."
Rules. Oh, my god. How the hell did I ever pick this man as a boyfriend, let alone a future husband? What the hell was wrong with me?
Legion wasn't here, I tell myself. He wasn't here to keep my mind straight. To keep me from wandering into the delusions that my life has always been.
And even though I told myself the last time I woke that there's no way that Marcus talked to Eleanor about me—she's been dead for seven years, for fuck's sake—these things he's saying about her ring true.
Like shemight'vetold him these things, if she had the chance.
I look up at the ceiling beam again. It's old-growth pine, probably harvested from this very property a century ago. My great-grandfather built this cabin himself. How many secrets has it held? How many Ashby women have stared up at that same beam, trapped in different ways?
Maybe all of them get tied up before marriage? Maybe they all realize, too late, that it's just a trap?
Marcus's thumb drags across the corner of my mouth, lingering longer than necessary to wipe away a smudge of cherry filling. His touch leaves a chill I can't shake.
"Your mother did such an exceptional job raising the perfect political wife," he says, casual as discussing the weather. "I knew it the moment I saw those riding photos from when you were seven. The posture, the poise—you were already being groomed."
Thinking of Marcus studying my childhood like a menu is revolting.
"That first professional photoshoot when you turned nine was particularly inspired," Marcus continues, setting the piecontainer aside. "Eleanor positioned you on that white pony with the braided mane. You were wearing the blue dress with the eyelet lace collar." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "It took seventy-eight shots before your mother was satisfied with your smile."
"How do you?—"
"Eleanor's journals are quite detailed."
Ho-lee shit.
He's been reading her journals? "I… I didn't even know she had journals."
"No, of course not. They were secret. And part of the sale."
"Sale?" I swear, I throw up in my mouth.
"The reason she cataloged you, darling. For me. It was all…for me. Our marriage was arranged when you were still in the womb?—"
I stop listening. This isn't true. He's lying. Maybe there are journals and that's how he knows these things, but he's lying. Cash found the journals. Or Wyatt. Somehow, Marcus—or his father—got their hands on them.
There is a logical explanation for this!
Right. There is, Savannah. She did this to you. She turned you into… what? A doll? A wife?
Marcus straightens his cuffs. "She documented everything—your diet, your tutors, which friends were acceptable. Even which boys to keep you away from." His mouth twists. "Though she failed spectacularly with Kane."
No, this can’t be true. She turned me into aproduct.
Something shatters inside me—not my resolve, but the cloudy glass I've been looking through my entire life. Suddenly everything is razor-sharp, brutally clear.
The carefully staged childhood photos. The protein shakes instead of breakfast when I gained five pounds at thirteen. The "chance" meetings with daughters of state officials that Eleanororchestrated. The riding lessons not because I loved horses, but because equestrian outfits are… afetish.
My social media empire wasn't my creation at all—it was just the digital continuation of my mother's project. The staged authenticity. The calculated vulnerability. The perfect lighting on supposedly candid moments.
I was never a daughter. I was prepared for market.
Like a fucking steer.
