Chapter 5
For years, I’ve dreamed of this rumble. I’ve pictured a grand entrance that comes with a grand gesture. The kind of thing that only happens in movies.
But that’s all it was. A dream.
Never—ever—did I imagine Legion Kane might rock my world by showing up on his bike at the Ashby Ranch during my engagement party.
But he’s here.
Across the tent, Colt catches my eye. My brother's lips curl into a half-smile, subtle enough that only I would notice. He raises his champagne flute slightly, a private toast between conspirators.
The gate should have been closed hours ago.
Security was Colt’'s responsibility. He hired ex-military men with earpieces and dark suits to patrol the perimeter. No unexpected guests. No paparazzi. No motorcycles.
But Colt must know me better than I thought. Because I am truly, truly surprised.
He left the gate open for Legion on purpose.
One of the security guards reaches for the radio on his shoulder, face tight with panic as the motorcycles come through the gate. Colt glides over and places a hand on the man's shoulder. He whispers something. The guard hesitates, then nods, stepping back.
My smile reaches my eyes. I love Colt.
The growl of engines builds to a roar. Not one bike.
Not five. Dozens. More, I think. There’s too many to count, that’s for sure.
So it’s… the entire Badlands MC, I guess.
Or somethin’ very close to it. They roll onto Ashby land like a leather-clad army.
Pourin’ down the driveway like floodwater breaking a dam.
Chrome gleaming under the fairy lights, leather cuts emblazoned with patches, faces hard as a Montana winter.
The engines scream defiance against our crystal and silk, against Marcus's political ambitions, against everything this party represents.
"What the fuck?" Marcus hisses beside me, his fingers digging into my elbow.
I don't answer. Can't answer. Don’t care to answer. I just keep smilin’. Oblivious, or maybe just indifferent, to the reactions all around me.
The vibrations rise up from the ground and enter my bones. A second heartbeat inside me, skippin’ and stutterin’ to life after years of hibernation.
The air changes instantly. The scent of expensive perfume and cologne is drowned out by gasoline and leather. The smell of real men, not these political puppets in bespoke suits.
A woman clutches her Birkin bag to her chest like it might protect her. A state senator backs into a waiter, sending a tray of tiny crab cakes crashing to the floor. Nobody stoops to clean it up. All eyes are fixed on the leather invasion drawing closer to the white tent.
Their headlights cut through the darkness like the glowing eyes of a predator.
Searching and hunting.
For me.
The bikes execute a perfect formation around the circular driveway in front of the big house. Wheels churnin’ up gravel that pings against imported cars parked along the edges. Probably leaving little star-burst fractures in their perfect paint jobs.
The bikers go round and round and round. Their ranks in this formation growing, swelling as more, and more bikers flow into the circle. When they are finally all here in front of us, between the house and the tent, they stop, still roaring, revving their engines.
“What do they want?” someone yells.
Marcus growls into my ear, “Yes, Savannah. What do they want?”
I don’t answer him because I’m watching Aunt Ruth, standing frozen by the gift table, as she clutches her pearls so tightly the string snaps. White beads scatter across the wooden parquet floor like expensive hailstones, rolling under boots and heels.
No one moves to help her collect them.
Legion sits on his black Harley, no helmet, just that wild blond hair of his blowin’ around his face like it’s alive. His blue eyes lock with mine as we find each other across the haze of exhaust, the smell of gasoline, and the distance of years.
I don’t even have to try. I could find this man in the pitch black of space.
His lips move, forming words only I can read: You know where to find me.
That’s it. A simple six-word statement from a not-so-simple man.
I study him in a rush. Desperate to memorize everything because I know this is over.
He’s gonna leave any second now. So I drink him in, burning the details into my mind.
He looks different. Harder, leaner, his jaw shadowed with blond stubble.
New tattoos climb up his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.
But his eyes—those eyes that have haunted my dreams since I was twelve—remain unchanged.
The kind of blue you only find on the shore of a Caribbean beach.
Then, as suddenly as they arrived, they're leaving—a reverse avalanche of thunder and smoke. The motorcycles peel away in formation, leaving gashes in the gravel in front of the house.
The silence afterward feels unnatural, like the moment after a lightning strike before the thunder follows.
A child breaks the silence with delighted applause, quickly hushed by embarrassed parents.
Unexpectedly, I laugh. Applause, indeed.
Glasses clink as trembling hands reach for liquid courage. The string quartet tentatively resumes playing, flustered and out of time.
In the distance, the roar of engines fades like a storm moving across the valley, leaving destruction in its wake.
I exhale slowly, my chest aching with something that feels dangerously like hope.
"What. The fuck." Marcus says. His voice crackin’ with rage, his campaign smile nowhere to be found. He digs his fingers deeper into my arm as he scans the empty distance. "You told me this was over,” he growls. “You swore to me that it was over.”
The diamond on my finger catches light as I pull away from his grip. His perfectly manicured nails leave half-moon imprints on my skin, tiny crescents of ownership.
I watch the transformation happen—the public Marcus with his Georgetown charm melting away to reveal something rawer, uglier.
His jaw works beneath tanned skin, a muscle twitching with each clenched tooth.
This is the face no voter will ever see on campaign posters, the face he saves for closed doors and private disappointments.
I realize with sudden clarity that I've seen this face more often than his smile lately.
Senator White materializes beside us, his voice low and urgent. "Savannah, dear, I need to know if this... display... was expected." His eyes aren't concerned—they're calculating potential donor flight. "The Nolan’s are already leaving. That's forty thousand dollars walking to their car!"
The senator's cologne—sandalwood and money—overwhelms me as he leans in closer, one hand on Marcus's shoulder in warning. The elder White has perfected the art of smiling while threatening, his teeth gleaming beneath the string lights as he scans the crowd for other potential losses.
His signet ring catches the light as he gestures toward another couple edging toward the exit. "The Prestons too—that's another twenty-five. This little stunt might have just cost my son's campaign close to six figures."
He says "stunt" like others might say "murder."
Cash appears, attempting to smooth things over with the senator while Wyatt lurches close, whiskey on his breath. "You're doin’ this on purpose," he hisses in my ear, swaying slightly. "You wanna keep that inheritance all to yourself. You selfish fucking bitch."
He says this as if it wasn't every one of my personal ‘never-private’ childhood moments and teenage years that made this empire what it is.
As if I owed him something.
As if he deserved something.
Wyatt's Stetson sits crooked on his head, the band dark with sweat.
He's been drinking since noon—I saw the flask in his back pocket during the family photos.
The brother who once taught me to ride, who carried me on his shoulders through the north pasture, now looks at me with eyes glazed by alcohol, greed, and resentment.
His fingers twist in the fabric of my blouse. Behind him, I see Cash watching, his expression calculating. Not helping, not stopping—just waiting to see which way the advantage falls.
Something snaps inside me.
I whirl on Wyatt, finger jabbing toward his chest. "Everything—the entire Eleanor Ashby photography empire, which includes this ranch—was left to ME.
Not you. Not Cash. ME." My voice carries across the stunned tent.
"And if you don't want me to start thinkin’ about how little the two of you have done to help build this empire, you better shut the fuck up and mind your damn business. "
The words hang in the air like the aftermath of gunshots. Conversations stop mid-sentence. Champagne glasses freeze halfway to parted lips. Even the waitstaff pauses, trays balanced on fingertips as they turn to watch the Ashby dynasty fracture in real time.
Wyatt's face flushes crimson beneath his tan, veins standing out on his forehead. Cash takes a step forward, then stops, eyes narrowed as he recalculates. Aunt Ruth, still clutching her broken pearl necklace, makes a small sound like a wounded bird.
I feel the weight of three hundred stares but stand taller under them, my spine straightening with each second of silence. For the first time in years, I'm not posin’ for a camera—I'm standin’ up for myself.
Marcus drags me away from the tent, down toward the small lake where we took our engagement photos. "I thought this was over," he shouts, his perfect hair falling across his forehead. "Was this planned? Did you know they were coming?"
Yeah, Marcus. I planned for seventy-five bikers to crash my engagement party. What fucking world do these people live in? Certainly not the one that suffocated me all through childhood. That berated me into being the perfect lady. That stole every precious moment for a photo op.
I don't even have the will to conjure up a sea of bikers—don't even have the imagination to pull something like this off.
Because I am broken.