The words felt sweet on the surface, but they landed heavy.

I swallowed, throat dry. The barn suddenly felt too still, like the whole place was holding its breath.

"I should get her fed," I said, patting Honey's side like she'd asked for the out. "Long ride in the morning."

Maggie didn't argue. Didn't follow. Just nodded once, like she'd been expecting me to pull away.

She turned, slow and graceful, her dress catching the air like it was made to move. The kind of fabric that doesn't wrinkle. Doesn't stain. Money clings to clothes like that.

The click of her heels echoed against the old barn floor—sharp, deliberate. Not boots. Not scuffed-up leather or shit-kicked spurs. Something finer. Expensive. You could hear it in the way they hit the wood.

She paused at the doorway, half in the light, half in the shadow, and glanced back over her shoulder. That same soft smile still hanging on her mouth like it belonged there. But her eyes... her eyes didn't smile at all.

"Take care of that fire," she said. Voice smooth as silk pulled tight across a blade. "It's not meant to burn quiet forever."

And then she was gone.

I stayed in the stall a while after Maggie's footsteps faded—long enough for the hush to settle back in, for the smell of hay and horse sweat to replace whatever perfume she'd dragged in with her. The air felt thicker now, like it had soaked up too many words that hadn't belonged.

I finished brushing Honey with slow, steady strokes, not because she needed it, but because I did. The rhythm kept my hands moving, kept my thoughts from fraying too far out.

But the noise from the arena was growing, rising up from the dirt like a storm brewing just past the ridge. That announcer's voice cracked through the speakers, too loud and trying too hard, until one name cut clean through it all.

Jasmine Morrison.

Of course.

I barely had time to collect myself before a flash of gold streaked into the arena, catching the last of the dying light. Jasmine Morrison. She was a vision atop her palomino stallion, Strike Command, gliding into the space as if the world had been sculpted just for her. Everything about her was too perfect—blonde hair cascading in soft waves, loose and free so everyone could see the way it shimmered like spun silk in the evening sun. No hat, no helmet. She didn't need one. Jasmine wasn't here to protect herself. She was here to be seen.

And she knew how to make you look.

Watching her now, I could feel that familiar twist in my gut—the one that always showed up when Jasmine stepped into a room. It was the way she carried herself, effortless and elegant, like she belonged to something bigger, something grander than this dusty rodeo world. Every movement was deliberate, rehearsed, like she knew exactly what kind of power she wielded and how to use it.

I swallowed hard, feeling that knot in my stomach tighten. Our rivalry was more than competition. It went back years, to a time when we both fought for the same spotlight. High school felt like a lifetime ago, but the memory of it clung to me—the riding team, the way she outshone everyone without breaking a sweat. Jasmine had charm, skill, and the kind of charisma that made people fall in love with her before they even realized they were under her spell.

And me? I was the one always chasing, always trying to prove I belonged there too, that my name wasn't just a shadow of my family's legacy. But then Rem came along—Jasmine's ex, the boy she paraded around like a trophy until he found his way to me. That had added a layer of bitterness between us, a tension that never fully dissolved no matter how much time passed.

Now here she was, and I could feel that familiar burn in my chest as she started her run. It was like watching something from another world, the way she and Strike Command moved together—so fluid, so perfectly in tune that they seemed to blur into one creature. Jasmine wasn't just racing. She was performing, and the crowd lapped it up like it was a gift only she could give. They adored her. They always had.

She hit the first barrel, rounding it with a precision that looked almost too smooth, too practiced. Every step her horse took was deliberate, like they were dancing through the dirt instead of racing against it. I watched, unable to tear my eyes away, even as that uncomfortable knot in my stomach twisted tighter. There was a grace to the way she moved, the way she commanded every inch of the space, that made it impossible not to be impressed.

But it wasn't just about the competition. Jasmine wasn't riding for the win. She was riding for the eyes on her, for the thrill of being watched, admired, adored. Every flick of her wrist, every shift in her body as she guided Strike Command was done with an awareness that went deeper than instinct. It was calculated, precise. She knew exactly what she was doing.

The crowd was already roaring by the time she hit the second barrel, and I could hear their gasps of admiration as Jasmine threw a playful kiss to the stands, like she had them all wrapped around her finger. It was a show, pure and simple. And she played it perfectly.

I felt my hands curl into fists at my sides, my nails biting into my palms. She was good. So damn good. But it wasn't just about her skill. It was the way she made everyone else feel so small, so insignificant, just by being there. Even now, standing here in the shadows, I felt it—the weight of her presence, the way she commanded every glance, every breath, without even trying.

Jasmine and Strike Command tore toward the finish line, and the crowd erupted, their cheers filling the arena like a wave crashing against the shore. She pulled up with a flourish, her golden hair catching the wind just so, her face glowing with that perfect mix of satisfaction and grace. She barely looked winded, barely looked like she'd broken a sweat.

The announcer's voice boomed over the speakers, his tone thick with awe. "WHAT A RIDE! Jasmine Morrison and her stallion Strike Command reminding us all who truly owns this competition!"

The crowd roared even louder, their adoration spilling out into the night air as Jasmine soaked it in. She was glowing, basking in the glory of it all, and I could see the way she thrived on it—the attention, the admiration. She always had.

"Looks like she's still got them wrapped around her little finger," I muttered, my voice sharper than I intended. It was supposed to be light, but I knew the edge slipped through, too raw to disguise. Colt, leaning against the railing with that familiar air of unbothered calm, gave me a look—half amusement, half something else. His smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind that could either settle me or set me off, depending on the day.

"Not a fan?" he asked, his chuckle low and knowing, cutting through the noise like he had already read every thought in my head. He didn't need to look too hard to see the frustration simmering beneath my skin, as obvious as the dirt under my boots.

I shrugged, trying to act like it didn't matter, like the weight of her presence wasn't pressing on my chest. "Fan of what? The performance or the ride?" I shot back, my eyes flicking to Jasmine, still basking in the glow of the crowd's adoration. "She's too loose in her seat, hands too high. She's not riding that horse—Strike Command is carrying her."

Colt didn't respond right away, his gaze lingering on Jasmine as she worked the crowd, as effortless as the golden light spilling over her. He let out a slow breath, one that told me he saw it, too. But it didn't cling to him the way it did to me.

"Maybe," he said at last, his voice easy but with a quiet weight to it, like he was reminding me of something I already knew but didn't want to admit. "But she's got control where it matters most—what people see. You know as well as I do, that's half the battle."

I crossed my arms tighter, trying to shake off the weight that had settled like dust in my chest. "Yeah, well, the show won't keep her in the saddle when things get real."

The words were barely out of my mouth when her voice cut through the space between us—smooth as honey, with just enough bite to remind me she'd been waiting for her moment to slip in. "Lemon, I didn't realize you were giving riding lessons over here."

I didn't turn around right away, lingering in Colt's steady gaze for a second longer, feeling the silent strength he offered, like a thread anchoring me to the present. When I finally faced her, I kept my expression calm, the edges of a smile pulling at my lips. "You know me," I said evenly, though my fingers instinctively tightened around Fiets' reins. "Always happy to help."

The air between us felt charged, a quiet storm that neither of us acknowledged, but both knew was there. Jasmine tilted her head, letting her golden hair fall over her shoulder in perfect waves, as if the world had arranged itself just for her. If I hadn't known better, I might've believed the softness in her eyes, the way they shimmered with that practiced ease she wore so well.

"Well," she said, her voice laced with a sweetness too precise to be accidental, "maybe next time you can give me some pointers. I could always use a fresh perspective."

I almost laughed, but the sound caught in my throat, never making it past my lips. Jasmine didn't need my advice, and she knew it. Her ride had been flawless—at least in the way the crowd saw it. And that's all that mattered to her: perception. She was a master at it, keeping everything on the surface as smooth as glass while the rest of us struggled to keep our heads above the storm.

Her attention shifted, like a beam of sunlight catching a single spot, and it landed on Colt. That sweet smile of hers turned sharper, though only someone who knew her like I did would notice. She angled her body toward him, her eyes catching his with the kind of practiced ease that was too intentional to be natural. Jasmine Morrison didn't do anything without a reason.

"I don't think we've officially met," she said, her voice soft, honeyed in the way that drew people in. She extended her hand, manicured and pristine, like it had never known the feel of dirt or the sweat of real work. "Jasmine Morrison."

Colt took her hand, but only briefly, his grip firm, polite. "Colt Langmore," he said, his voice steady, unbothered, like he had seen right through her charm the moment she opened her mouth. That was the thing about Colt—he didn't play into anyone's games. It was one of the reasons I respected him.

Jasmine, either oblivious or unfazed, leaned in just a little, brushing a perfectly placed strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes sparkled, as if she already knew what kind of effect she was supposed to have. "So, Colt, what'd you think of my ride?"

She didn't wait for him to answer, just flashed that flawless smile again, like she already knew what he'd say. Like she expected him to be dazzled by her performance, just as the crowd had been.

But Colt didn't even blink. His gaze flicked to her, then back to the arena, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at his lips. "Horse did all the work," he said, his voice casual, but with an edge that sliced through her practiced charm. The kind of edge that said he wasn't here to be impressed by tricks or flash.

For a moment, I saw it—Jasmine's smile faltered, just the smallest fraction. She wasn't used to people like Colt, people who didn't fall into the orbit she created so effortlessly. Her eyes darkened, the shine in them dimming as her gaze slid back to me, sharpening into something more calculated.

"Well, aren't you lucky, Lemon," she said, her voice still syrupy, but there was an unmistakable bite now. "Having such well-trained followers, just like your daddy did. Of course, they were his first, weren't they?"

I felt the heat rise in my chest before I even registered the words, a slow burn that crawled up my throat, threatening to choke me. Jasmine knew exactly what she was doing. Most people had the decency to leave Daddy's death out of conversation, at least to my face. But Jasmine? She lived to walk that razor's edge, to press on wounds that hadn't healed just to watch them bleed.

She tilted her head, her hair falling in perfect waves over her shoulder, every movement deliberate, rehearsed. "You're brave, you know," she continued, her voice softening as if she were offering me a secret, something intimate and kind. "To keep going after what happened to him. Bull riding is dangerous... and, well, we both know how that ended."

The words sliced through me, and I could feel the flames of my anger licking at the edges of my restraint. Jasmine's smile was still plastered across her face, sweet as ever, but her eyes glimmered with something darker. She was testing me, waiting to see how deep she could dig before I cracked.

Jasmine's words slid through me, a slow, twisting knife. I could feel the heat rising, that familiar, aching burn that came with the mention of my father, the way his name always hung in the air like a ghost no one wanted to acknowledge. Most people had the decency to leave it alone, to spare me the sting of what he'd left behind. But Jasmine? She lived for moments like this—moments where she could press on the bruises, dig into the places that hadn't healed, just to see how much damage she could cause.

The flames of anger licked at my skin, begging to be unleashed. My mind spiraled back to that day, to the call that shattered the ground beneath me, the voice on the other end telling me that my father had been killed in the ring. I could still feel the weight of the phone in my hand, the numbness that spread through my chest as they explained how the bull had caught him just right, how it had been quick. "He didn't suffer," they'd said. As if that made it better. As if knowing that he hadn't felt the last breath leave his body could somehow erase the fact that he was gone.

Gone. Like Mama. Like Stella. And for what? Some final rush of adrenaline that he couldn't seem to live without. I'd spent so many nights wondering why he couldn't stay, why the rodeo kept pulling him back, pulling him away from us, like we were never enough to fill that empty space inside him.

I blinked, forcing the memories back, shoving them down where they belonged, buried beneath the layers of armor I'd built to keep it all at bay. But Jasmine's words had found the cracks, slipping in, tugging at the fragile seams. I could feel the fire rising again, threatening to consume me. But I wouldn't give her the satisfaction. I wouldn't let her see how much it hurt, how deep her words had cut.

I swallowed hard, locking the anger in place, letting it simmer just beneath the surface. "You know, Jasmine," I said, my voice low and calm, but with an edge sharp enough to slice through the tension. "It must be exhausting, keeping up this performance. You spend so much time worrying about how you look, how the world sees you... I almost feel sorry for you."

Her smile faltered, just for a second, the carefully crafted mask slipping ever so slightly. But it was enough. I didn't need to see her crumble. I just needed her to know that I wasn't going to break, that she hadn't won. Not today.

Jasmine's eyes narrowed, but the smirk was still there, lurking beneath the surface. "Oh, Lemon," she cooed, voice dripping with false sweetness, "You're always such a fighter. I'll give you that."

I didn't respond. I didn't need to. I turned, my hand tightening around the reins as I moved toward Honey, Colt already waiting for me. He didn't say anything, didn't push. Just stood there, steady as ever, offering me the silent comfort of his unwavering presence.

The crowd's cheers were fading now, swallowed by the shadows of the evening. The arena, the stables, even Jasmine's lingering smirk—all of it felt distant, like something I could leave behind if I just kept walking.

As we reached the gate, I paused, glancing back toward the arena one last time, the ghost of Jasmine's words still lingering in the air. But I didn't let them in. Not this time. I turned to Colt, the weight of everything fading as I met his gaze.

"Let's get out of here," I said, my voice steady now, the fire in me cooling to embers.

Colt gave a small nod, his smirk softening into something more—something that felt like understanding, like solidarity. Without another word, we walked into the fading light, leaving Jasmine, the arena, and the ghosts of the past behind us.