2. Delilah
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Delilah
Present Day - Seven Years Married
The morning sun barely touches our bedroom curtains when Lucas’s hands find my waist.
Two weeks. He’s been gone two weeks in Tennessee for meetings, and now he’s finally here, finally touching me like he used to. His body curves around mine from behind, warm and solid, and I feel the familiar weight of him settling against me like coming home.
“Missed you,” he murmurs against my neck, his voice still rough with sleep.
I arch into him without thinking, my body responding before my mind catches up.
God, I’ve missed this. Missed him. My fingers tangle in his hair as he pulls me closer, his body hard against mine - already thick, already straining against my ass through the thin silk of my nightgown.
Heat pools low in my belly, immediate and aching.
His mouth opens on my throat, sucking just hard enough to make my breath hitch, and his hand slides up my thigh, pushing my nightgown higher until the cool air kisses bare skin. I feel every callus on his palm, every deliberate inch of his fingers trailing fire across my hip.
“Please,” I breathe, pressing back against him. “I need you to-”
His phone rings.
The sound slices through the room like a blade.
“Ignore it,” I say, turning my head to catch his mouth with mine.
He kisses me deeper, his thumb tracing those same merciless circles on my hip while his fingers stay where I need them, teasing, promising. The phone stops.
Then starts again.
“Lucas-”
“One second.” He reaches for the nightstand, his body already shifting away from mine. “It might be the investors.”
And just like that, the heat dies.
I lie there, watching him answer. Watching him swing his legs over the side of the bed, the sheets pooling at his waist. Watching the muscles of his back flex as he stands and walks to the window, already talking about numbers and projections and quarterly returns.
The silk of my nightgown feels cold against my skin now. I pull it down, covering myself, and stare at the ceiling while my husband conducts business three feet away from the bed where he was just inside me.
This isn’t the first time. Not even the fifth.
I’ve lost count of the mornings that started with his hands on my skin and ended with his voice in someone else’s ear. Lost count of the times I’ve lain here wanting him, needing him, while he paced by the window discussing things that apparently couldn’t wait.
When he hangs up, he’s already pulling on his jeans. The buckle of his belt catches the morning light, and I watch his hands - those hands that were just on me - fasten it with efficient, distracted movements.
“Get ready for tonight’s rodeo,” he says, not looking at me. “All the important investors will be there.”
Not good luck, baby. Not I know how hard you’ve trained. Just investors.
I’ve spent months preparing for tonight.
Stella and I run the barrel pattern in our sleep at this point.
Seventeen-point-two seconds in practice, my personal best. Mr. Velez says I’m riding the cleanest I’ve ridden in years - my turns are tighter, my instincts are sharper.
I’ve dropped eight pounds of muscle weight to match Stella’s stride length, and I can feel the difference in every run.
We move like one body now, her legs and my brain, no gap between the thought and the motion.
This was supposed to be the night I proved I’m not just the wife on the billboards. That I’m still the rider who built this thing.
And Lucas doesn’t even mention it.
I shower alone. The water runs hot enough to sting, and I stand under it until my skin turns pink, trying to wash away the feeling of being half-finished. Half-touched. Half-seen.
I dress alone. A simple cotton dress for the morning, something practical for walking the grounds before tonight’s event.
I walk outside alone.
And freeze.
He’s standing by the stables with her. Aimie Lawson.
Her hand is on his elbow, her head thrown back laughing at something he said.
The morning sun catches the auburn in her hair, makes it glow like copper wire.
She’s wearing riding clothes - fitted pants, a tank top that shows off toned arms - and she looks fresh and eager and young in a way that makes me suddenly aware of every year I’ve spent on this ranch.
Lucas looks comfortable. Relaxed. His posture is loose, his smile easy.
The way he used to look with me.
I march over before I can think better of it, my boots kicking up dust with every step. Something territorial rises in my chest, something I don’t want to examine too closely.
“Delilah!” Aimie’s smile is all teeth when she sees me coming. Too bright. Too quick. “I was just telling Lucas about the new training technique I saw in Colorado. It’s revolutionizing barrel times on the amateur circuit.”
“Is that so.”
My voice comes out flat. I don’t care. I plant myself next to my husband, close enough that my shoulder brushes his arm, and watch Aimie’s eyes flicker to the point of contact.
They keep talking. About horses. About the circuit. About training schedules and competition strategies - things that used to be ours. Things we used to discuss late at night in bed, our voices low, our bodies tangled together.
Aimie and I go way back. Same amateur circuit, same competitions in our twenties.
I always beat her. Always. But she was good - good enough that when we needed riders for the Montoya team, Lucas hired her without consulting me.
She’s here for tonight’s rodeo. Not competing yet, but training to start.
I never fully liked her. There was always something sharp underneath her smile, something watchful in the way she looked at what I had.
And I don’t like the way they’re talking now.
Even with me standing right there, they keep going. Lucas angles his body toward her, nodding along as she explains some technique involving weight distribution. His hand gestures as he asks a follow-up question. For a few seconds, I’m invisible. A ghost in my own yard.
When did talking to my husband become so hard? When did we stop laughing together?
Why is he laughing so easily with her?
I open my mouth to interrupt - to say something, anything, to remind them both that I exist - when a voice cuts through the morning air.
“Mommy!” Allana barrels out of the back door, still in her pajamas, bare feet slapping against the porch. She crashes into my legs with the force of a small hurricane, and I scoop her up, breathing in her little-girl smell - strawberry shampoo and the strawberry cereal Rosa gives her for breakfast.
“There’s my girl.” I press my nose into her hair, letting her weight ground me. “Did you sleep good, baby?”
“Good! Can we paint horses today? I want to make mine purple.”
“Purple’s the best color for horses.”
She giggles, then notices the woman standing with us. Her small face scrunches with curiosity.
“Who’s that?”
Before I can answer, Aimie crouches down with a practiced smile - the kind of smile people wear when they want children to like them. Her voice goes soft, sweet, conspiratorial.
“I’m going to be your new auntie.”
My blood turns to ice.
I feel the words land like stones in my chest. New auntie. Like she’s already family. Like she belongs here, in our home, with our daughter.
I look at Lucas.
He says nothing.
His face is carefully neutral, that business expression I’ve seen him wear in a thousand meetings when he doesn’t want to commit to anything. He doesn’t correct her. Doesn’t explain. Just stands there while another woman claims a place in my daughter’s life that she has no right to.
Allana looks at me, confused. “Mommy? What’s an auntie?”
“It’s-” My voice catches. I force a smile that feels like broken glass. “It’s someone who loves you very much, baby. Like family.”
“Oh.” Allana considers this with the gravity only a five-year-old can muster. Then she looks at Aimie. “Do you love me?”
Aimie’s laugh is light, easy, perfectly calibrated. “I’m sure I will, sweetheart. We’re going to be great friends.”
“Okay.” Allana loses interest immediately, the way children do, and squirms in my arms. “Mommy, can I go see the horses?”
“In a minute, baby.”
I set her down, and she runs toward the stable, her bare feet kicking up dust. I watch her go, this perfect little piece of my heart running across the dust.
When I turn back, Lucas is checking his phone.
“I have to take this,” he says, already walking away. “Aimie, we’ll finish discussing the training schedule later.”
“Of course.” Aimie’s voice is honey and warmth. “Whatever works for you.”
He’s gone before I can say anything. Before I can ask what the hell that was about. Before I can demand to know why he let another woman call herself our daughter’s aunt and didn’t say a word.
I’m left standing in the dust with Aimie, who turns to me with that same bright smile.
“He’s so dedicated,” she says. “The way he works. It’s really inspiring.”
“Yes. He is.”
“You must be so proud of everything you’ve built together.” Her eyes sweep over the ranch - the stables, the arena, the house on the hill. “All of this. It’s incredible.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m just so grateful to be part of it now.
” She reaches out and touches my arm, a gesture that’s probably meant to be sisterly but feels like a brand.
“And I’m looking forward to tonight. It’s going to be amazing watching you ride.
Lucas talks about you constantly, you know.
How talented you are. How you’re the heart of this whole operation. ”
I want to believe her. I want to hear those words and feel reassured.
But there’s something in the way she holds my gaze a beat too long. Something in the curve of her smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I should go check on my horse,” I say. “Excuse me.”
I walk away before she can respond. My heart is pounding too hard, my thoughts spiraling in directions I don’t want them to go. I’m being paranoid. Lucas hired her because she’s good. She’s being friendly because she wants to fit in.
I’m going to be your new auntie.
The words echo in my head as I push open the stable door.
Stella nickers when she sees me, her dark eyes soft and knowing. I press my forehead against her neck and breathe in the familiar scent of horse and hay and home.
“It’s just me being crazy,” I whisper to her. “Right, girl? I’m just being crazy.”
Stella huffs warm air against my shoulder. She doesn’t answer. Horses never do.
But somewhere deep in my gut, in that place where instinct lives, I know.
Something is wrong.
And tonight - under the lights, in front of thousands of people - I’m going to find out just how wrong it can get.