My eyes burn. “Ryder?—”
“No, too fucking late, princess. I can’t do this now.” He steps back, hands raised like he can’t stand to be near me. “I already have too much on my plate.”
He stalks away, his boots kicking up dust with each heavy step. When he reaches the stables door, he yanks it open and slams it behind him.
I remain rooted to the spot. Pulse galloping in my chest. Lungs working too hard for how little air they’re pulling in.
I’ve lost him.
The thought sits cold and final in my gut.
I’ve lost him, and it’s my fault.
A crow calls from somewhere in the trees. The world keeps moving as if nothing has changed. Like my heart isn’t splintering apart inside my ribs.
The sun is still warm, but I’m sweating cold.
The stable door flies open. I jolt as another bang echoes across the empty field.
Ryder storms out, phone in his hand, jaw set. My heart kicks up for a stupid, hopeful heartbeat—has he come back to forgive me? To tell me we can work through this?
But as he eats up the distance between us in long, angry strides, that hope burns out fast.
“I googled you.” He holds up his phone. “There’s no Faye Rose tech billionaire, only a bunch of Instagram profiles.”
All the blood drains from my face. My hands go numb.
I’m afraid what I tell him next might break us apart for good.
“In the industry”—I push the words through a throat that’s closing—“I’m known as Whitney Rose.”
Ryder stares at me. Then he laughs.
His strained chuckles carry no joy. No warmth. They curl in a harsh, hollow sound that makes my skin crawl.
“Faye isn’t even your real name?”
“It’s my middle name.” I’m shaking, with tremors in my hands and legs.
“Your middle name.” He laughs again—jagged, broken. “So you’ve been using a fake identity?”
“It’s not fake.” I’m begging now. I sound desperate. “Everyone who knows me calls me Faye. I’ve always hated Whitney?—”
“But that’s your real name.” His voice is thin, stripped of everything but exhaustion. “Not Faye.”
I nod, unable to speak.
“Well, nice to fucking meet you, Whitney.” He tilts his head in a mock bow. “A rose by any other name smells as sweet and all that poetic bullshit, right?”
“Ryder.” His name breaks in my mouth. “Please?—”
“Save it.” He lifts both hands, backing away. “Just save it.”
He turns and marches toward the stables once more. I watch him disappear inside a second time, every muscle in my body locked tight.
Two minutes later, he kicks out on horseback. Ryder’s jaw is set, eyes trained ahead. He doesn’t even glance in my direction as he rides past.
He leans forward and digs his heels into the horse’s sides, prompting his mount to break into a gallop.
