Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
"Well..." I can almost see Destiny's sneer through the phone, that slight curl of her lip that all the Kane women seem to master by puberty. The kind that says they don't need anyone, especially not an Ashby. "Again, appreciate it. But Marigold's gonna be just fine without the Ashby ranch. It was nice talkin' to ya, Savannah. I'm sure, at some point, we'll meet up again. And I would like to say thank you for... you know. Bringing us groceries and stuff while Legion was in prison. And tell Cash thank you too. For putting Mercy in that school. She calls me all the time. She loves it."
I maintain my smile even though she can't see it, caught in the muscle memory of being photographed my entire life.
"You're welcome," I say, voice steady as a show pony in the ring. "It was the least we could do." What I don't say is that I'd have done more—so much more—if Destiny hadn't treated every offering like charity with strings attached. The Kanes and their pride, sharp-edged and impenetrable as barbed wire. Sometimes I admire it; sometimes, like now, it leaves marks.
There's a pause, just long enough for me to hear my own heartbeat, a gallop instead of a trot.
"Talk to ya later. Bye."
And just like that, the call ends. The lit-up screen stares at me for a moment, then, after enough of them pass, it goes dark, reflecting my face back at me—still smiling, still perfect, still performing for an audience that's already left the theater.
"Well," I say out loud. "That was... unproductive."
"What was?"
I whirl around, my hair fanning out in what would've made a perfect slow-motion shot for Mother's camera. Wyatt, of all people, is standing at the threshold to the dining room, one shoulder propped against the carved doorframe like he's holdin' it up instead of the other way around.
He looks absolutely wrecked—bloodshot eyes swimming in pools of yesterday's whiskey, hair sticking up in tufts, face the color of uncooked biscuit dough.
There's something almost vulnerable about seeing him this hungover, like catching a wild animal with its guard down.
"Nothin'," I reply, pushing past him with practiced grace, the fabric of my skirt brushing against his jeans as I move. I can smell the alcohol seeping through his pores.
"I know what you're doin', Savannah."
His words stop me mid-stride, like a well-trained horse hitting an invisible fence line. Something in his tone—a certainty, a weight—makes my spine straighten automatically.
I turn, keeping my expression carefully arranged into polite confusion, the way Mother taught me when photographers asked questions that cut too close to bone. "I don't know what you're talkin' about."
Wyatt's not even looking at me. He's wandered over to the table, picking food from platters with the entitled ease that comes from a lifetime of having things handed to him on silver.
He's stuffin' bacon in his mouth as he turns, chewing it slow and deliberate, like he's weighing his words by the ounce. He reaches for another piece and points it at me, a greasy scepter of accusation.
"I see you, ya know. I always did. Every time you thought you were being sneaky, I was watchin'."
"Were ya."
He smiles, takes another bite. "That's right. All those years you were actin' in your own show, I was in the audience, Savannah. I can read you like a damn book. And I'm not sayin' your plan is bad or nothin'." He pauses to laugh and chew. "But if you think I won't put up a fight—" He points a piece of bacon at me again. "You're wrong."
"Spoken like a true middle son." The insult pours out of me like smooth, expensive whiskey—burning at first contact but leaving that warm, lingering sensation that makes you forget the sting.
I don't even know where it comes from. It's completely out of character for Savannah Ashby, Instagram darling, ranch princess with the perfect smile.
But I don't take it back.
Mostly because Wyatt has always been the middle son. He's grown up with it like a second skin, squeezed between Cash's authority and Colt's charm.
He didn't just try it on for size, he had that label custom-tailored for him decades ago, stitched into every disappointed look Eleanor ever gave him, woven into every chore that wasn't quite important enough for Cash but too dangerous for Colt.
My insult doesn't land hard, like a fist. It floats down slow like silk in the air, settlin' on his shoulders the way snow falls on fence posts—soft at first, then heavy with truth.
"You have always had a high opinion of yourself, Savannah. But here's the thing no one else knows. You didn't come by it naturally. That self-assurance you wear like armor, it was handed to you. Never earned. So I'll say it again, so you take me serious. I won't give in without a fight."