“According to our sources, he made an unwanted advance on Willa James. At the APBRA headquarters,” Ms. Sterling says, her voice crisp and devoid of emotion. “He was terminated immediately. The board is trying to get ahead of it, but the dam has broken.”
I lean back in my chair, the expensive leather creaking under my weight. Anger, hot and potent, courses through me. This was supposed to be my sanctuary. The Cruz ranch, with its quiet routines and the familiar rhythm of the land, was the place I came to escape the politics, the pressure, the bullshit of the circuit. And now this. The scandal has followed me here, contaminating my safe place.
“What’s being done?” I ask, my voice tight.
“Jack is gone,” Gary says. “The APBRA is releasing a statement condemning his actions and expressing their full support for Willa and all Omegas in the sport. They’re scrambling to do damage control.”
Leo chimes in, his hands fluttering nervously. “We need to discuss the best way forward for you, Knox. Your name is already being dragged into this, by association. You’re one of the top riders on the RRC. The media is going to be looking for comments from all the major players.”
But I’m barely listening. My mind is stuck on one thing. One person. “First things first,” I say, my voice cutting through their corporate-speak. “Is Willa okay?”
Gary’s expression softens, just a fraction. “As far as we know, she is. She’s with her pack. Beau McCrae, Charlie Holt, Jake Dillon... they’re not letting anyone near her.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. I can’t imagine what that would do to an Omega, the violation, the fear. But I’m glad she has them. A pack to protect her, to surround her with their scent and their strength. It’s what they’re supposed to do.
An image flashes in my mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Saramaria. Standing in my shower, wrapped in a white robe, her hair a wild mess, her green eyes flashing with defiance. If something like that happened to her, who would protect her? She’s alone. She has no pack. She has a dog she calls Doggy and a stubborn streak a mile wide. The thought is a painful jab in my chest.
I push it away. Hard. Not my fucking problem. She’s trying to sell my home. She pepper sprayed me. I need to focus on my career.
“Knox,” Gary says, pulling me back to the present. “We need to know if you want to step away from the competition this year. Lay low until this blows over.”
“Absolutely not,” Ms. Sterling interjects before I can even answer. “We would strongly advise against that. Stepping away now would look like an admission of guilt by association. You need to be visible. You need to be seen as part of the new guard, the riders who are moving the sport forward, away from this kind of toxic, old-school behavior.”
She’s right. I hate it, but she’s right. Hiding would only make it worse.
“I need a minute,” I say, rubbing a hand over my face. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.
Leo slides another tablet in front of me. “We’ve already drafted a media statement for you. Something you can post on your socials. It expresses your support for Willa and your condemnation of Jack’s actions, without being overly specific.”
I read it. The words are hollow, a carefully crafted piece of corporate PR designed to protect my brand.“I am shocked and deeply saddened by the allegations against Jack Dalton. I stand in full support of Willa James and all Omegas in our sport. There’s no place for this kind of behavior...”
It feels fake.
“I need to think about whether I’ll even participate this season,” I say, pushing the tablet away. The thought of getting on a bull, of putting on a show for the cameras while this is happening, leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
“Of course,” Gary says smoothly. “Take all the time you need. We just need to know by the end of the week.”
“In the meantime,” Leo adds, “we still have several ad shoots scheduled. The Wrangler campaign, the energy drink endorsement. We should probably keep those. Show that business is continuing as usual.”
I nod, my head starting to ache. “Fine. Schedule them.”
The meeting drags on for another hour, a blur of strategies and talking points and potential PR nightmares. By the time Ileave, I feel like I need to scrub my skin clean. I get in my truck, the engine a comforting, familiar rumble, and pull out into the city traffic.
As I drive, the anger and confusion churn inside me. I need to do something. Something real. Not a media statement. Not a carefully crafted photo-op.
I pass a small flower shop on the edge of town, a bright, cheerful spot in a sea of concrete. On impulse, I pull over.
The bell above the door jingles as I walk in. The air is thick with the scent of a hundred different flowers—roses and lilies and carnations, a sweet, cloying perfume. A woman with kind eyes and dirt under her fingernails looks up from arranging a bouquet.
“Help you?” she asks.
“I need to order several bouquets,” I say, my voice still rough. “To be delivered to the Sweetgrass Veterinary Clinic.”
A small smile touches her lips. “For Willa, I assume?”
I just nod.
“What kind of flowers did you have in mind?”
