The cool night air hits me as I step outside. I walk to the parking garage, my heels echoing in the concrete structure. My silver sedan sits where I left it this morning, gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
As I drive home through the city streets, I allow myself a small smile. I like being a lawyer. I like the structure, the rules, the clear expectations.
When I first left Muddy Creek, I spent two years trying to make it as a chef. I thought cooking would be my passion, my escape. But the chaos of the kitchen, the unpredictability, the constant mess—it drove me crazy. I found myself organizingthe spice rack alphabetically and counting the number of basil leaves in each dish.
Law gives me order. It gives me stability. It gives me control.
The house Richard and I share is in a quiet suburb, all manicured lawns and matching mailboxes. I pull into the driveway, cutting the engine. The house is dark, which means Richard isn’t home yet.
I let myself in, dropping my keys in the designated bowl by the door. Everything has its place here, just like in my office. The couch cushions are perfectly fluffed, the magazines on the coffee table arranged by date, the remotes lined up precisely.
I text Richard:Just got home. Miss you. Hope your meeting went well.
Then I head upstairs, shedding my work clothes as I go. By the time I reach the bathroom, I’m down to my underwear. I turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature until it’s just right.
Steam fills the room as I step under the hot spray, closing my eyes. The water cascades over my shoulders, easing the tension that’s been building all day. I’ve been working so hard lately, between the will and the new merger case at work. I need this break.
But even as the water washes over me, my mind drifts back to the will. To Meadowlark Ranch. To the life I left behind.
I haven’t been back to Muddy Creek since the day I drove away in my mother’s truck. Eight years ago. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime. Other times, it feels like yesterday.
I can still see Boone standing by the barn as I drove away.
I often wonder what happened to him. If he’s still working at the ranch. If he ever thinks of me.
Probably not.
I shake my head, water flying everywhere. I need to stop thinking about the past. It doesn’t matter anymore. I have a life here. A good life. A structured life.
And yet... the will sits in my briefcase downstairs, a connection to a world I thought I’d left behind forever.
I turn off the shower, grabbing a towel. As I dry off, I catch my reflection in the foggy mirror. For a moment, I see a different face—younger, freckled, with wild red hair like my mother’s. But then I blink, and it’s gone. It’s just me again. Saramaria Angelina Cruz, lawyer. Structured. Controlled. Exactly who I’m supposed to be.
Exactly who I need to be.
I wrap myself in the plush white robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. My phone is on the counter, and I pick it up, scrolling through my calendar. Tomorrow is packed with back-to-back meetings, but I make a mental note to call my stylist first thing in the morning. My roots are starting to show, and I can’t have that. Not when I have a deposition on Friday.
The house is quiet as I walk to the kitchen, my bare feet silent against the hardwood floors. Richard and I keep our fridge meticulously organized—fruits and vegetables in the crisper drawer, dairy products on the middle shelf, meats on the bottom. It’s one of the many things I love about him. He understands the need for order.
I pull out leftover grilled chicken from last night, a container of cooked brown rice, and some mixed greens. My knife glides through the vegetables as I chop them—cucumber, cherry tomatoes, bell peppers—each piece uniform in size. I toss everything in a bowl with a light vinaigrette I made over the weekend, the aroma of lemon and herbs filling the air.
I serve myself a portion on one of our good plates, the one with the blue rim that matches the kitchen backsplash. After eating, I wash the dishes immediately, placing them in thedrying rack with precision. No messes left overnight. That’s our rule.
The sitting room is my favorite part of the house. Rich cream-colored walls, dark wood furniture, and shelves lined with law books and classic novels. I sink into the deep sofa, pulling a soft throw blanket over my legs. The TV flickers to life, and I scroll through the channels until I find what I’m looking for—The Philadelphia Storyis just starting. Classic romance movies are my guilty pleasure, a small rebellion in my otherwise structured life.
I’ve just finished my salad when my phone buzzes on the coffee table. It’s Richard.
Miss you too. Sorry, but I have to finish up some work. Will be home late.
A frown touches my lips. Late again? This is the third night this week. The thought of my Alpha, my Richard, eating cold takeout in his office while I’m here in our perfectly organized home makes something uneasy curl in my stomach.
I remember our first night together, after we’d both been working late on the Peterson case. The office was empty except for us, the city lights twinkling outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. One minute we were reviewing documents, the next his hands were on my waist, his mouth claiming mine. He’d bent me over his desk, papers scattering everywhere, and it had been so fucking hot. So spontaneous. So unlike either of us.
Between our demanding schedules, we haven’t had sex in over a week. The realization hits me with surprising force. We’re usually so in sync, but lately... lately we’ve been like two ships passing in the night.
An idea forms in my mind, bold and impulsive. I can surprise him at the office. It’s only 11 p.m. I could be there by midnight. A smile spreads across my face. It would be perfect.
I hurry back to the bedroom, shedding my robe and pulling on the little black dress that Richard loves so much. It hugs my curves in all the right places, the fabric soft against my skin. I spray on my perfume, the one with notes of vanilla that enhance the natural sweetness in my scent. The thought of him undressing me, maybe bending me over his desk again, has my heart racing.
