9. Delilah
— ? —
Delilah
I planned this event for six months. Every napkin fold. Every playlist song. Every donor’s dietary restriction memorized and cross-referenced with their spouses’ allergies.
Now I’m hobbling through the crowd on crutches, and no one seems to remember I exist.
The ballroom of the Montoya estate has never looked better - fairy lights strung through the rafters, white tablecloths catching the glow from hundreds of candles, the scent of roses and expensive cologne mixing in the warm air.
I know every detail intimately because I chose them.
The cream-colored napkins folded into rosettes because Sandra Henderson mentioned once that she’d seen them at a wedding in Napa and found them charming.
The jazz quartet playing Coltrane because Bill Henderson proposed to Sandra at a jazz club in the eighties.
The open bar stocked with top-shelf bourbon because that’s what the Whitmores drink, and they’ve been considering a significant investment in our breeding program.
I know these people. I cultivated these relationships. I sat through countless dinners and charity auctions and tedious golf outings, smiling until my face ached, because that’s what you do when you’re building something. When you’re turning a dream into an empire.
And now I’m standing at the edge of my own gala, watching someone else reap the harvest I planted.
Aimie stands at the entrance in a red gown that probably cost more than my first horse.
The fabric clings to her curves, cut low enough to draw the eye but not so low that anyone could call it inappropriate.
Her hair is swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck, and she’s greeting guests like the lady of the house.
“So wonderful to see you!” Her voice carries across the foyer, bright and warm and perfectly pitched. “Yes, I’ll be competing at Houston. Lucas has been such an amazing mentor.”
She touches the arm of whoever she’s talking to - Jim Hargrove, I think, one of our biggest donors - and laughs at something he says. The sound is musical. Practiced.
Then Lucas appears beside her, and my stomach drops.
His hand settles at the small of her back like it belongs there. Like muscle memory. They turn together to greet the next arrival, their bodies angled toward each other, and they look like a team. A couple.
I look like the wife someone forgot to divorce.
The crutches dig into my armpits as I shift my weight.
My leg throbs - a dull, persistent ache that the painkillers only take the edge off - and I’m suddenly acutely aware of how I must appear.
The dress I chose doesn’t fit quite right anymore; I’ve lost weight since the accident, and the bodice gapes slightly where it used to hug my curves.
My hair is down because I couldn’t manage an updo with one hand, and I keep having to push it out of my face.
The crutches make my posture awkward, hunched, like I’m apologizing for taking up space.
But I refuse to stand here like furniture.
I spot the Hendersons by the bar - old friends from our second season.
They invested early, back when the Montoya Rodeo was nothing like now.
I was the one who convinced them, over barbecue and cheap beer at a picnic table behind the original barn.
Sandra had been skeptical. “Honey, I love you and Lucas, but rodeo breeding? That’s a money pit.
” And I’d leaned forward, passionate and certain, and told her about the bloodlines I was developing, the training methodology I was pioneering, the vision I had for what we could build.
She’d looked at Bill, and Bill had looked at her, and they’d written us a check that night.
“Bill! Sandra!” I make my way over, crutches be damned. My leg screams with each step, but I’ve spent weeks learning to hide the pain. To keep my face smooth and pleasant when every movement feels like glass grinding in my bones.
Sandra sees me coming and her face arranges itself into an expression of concern. She hugs me, but I feel the stiffness in it - the way her arms don’t quite commit, the way she pulls back a beat too soon. Bill glances over my shoulder, his attention already drifting.
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Sandra asks. “We were so worried after the accident.”
“Much better, thank you.” I keep my voice bright. Professional. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you about the spring season. I have some ideas for the breeding program that I think could really-”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful.” Sandra’s eyes drift past me, toward the entrance. Toward wherever Aimie is holding court. “Excuse me one second, I think Aimie’s about to make a toast. Bill, come on.”
They leave me mid-sentence.
I stand there with the words still forming on my tongue, watching them walk away. Sandra doesn’t look back. Neither does Bill.
Something cold settles in my chest. Not quite hurt - I’m too numb for that now. Something harder. More brittle.
I try again.
The Whitmores are by the appetizer table, loading small plates with shrimp and prosciutto.
I remember their daughter’s graduation party last spring, how I’d spent an hour talking to their shy son about barrel racing because no one else would give him the time of day.
I remember the thank-you note Margaret Whitmore sent afterward, the one that said You have such a gift with people, Delilah.
We’re so lucky to have you in our lives.
“Hank! Margaret!” I approach with a smile that costs me everything to maintain. “So glad you could make it.”
Margaret’s face does the same thing Sandra’s did - that flicker of concern that doesn’t quite reach genuine warmth. “Delilah, honey, how’s the leg?”
“Getting better every day.” I gesture at the room with one crutch. “Can you believe this turnout? I think it’s our best gala yet.”
“It’s gorgeous,” Margaret agrees. “Aimie was just telling us about the planning process. She said Lucas has been working around the clock.”
Aimie was just telling us.
“Actually, I-”
“Oh, there she is!” Hank points toward the entrance. “Margaret, we should go say hello. We haven’t properly congratulated her on the Houston qualifier yet.”
They’re already moving. Margaret pats my arm as she passes, a gesture that feels like dismissal dressed up as kindness. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart. Rest up.”
And then they’re gone.
I watch them cross the room, watch them join the growing cluster of guests around Aimie.
She’s laughing at something, one hand pressed to her chest in a gesture of mock humility, and I can hear fragments of her voice drifting across the crowd: “…couldn’t have done it without Lucas’s guidance…
” and “…such an honor to represent the Montoya family…”
The Montoya family.
That’s my name. My family. My husband.
I grip the handles of my crutches so hard my knuckles go white.
One more try. Maria Santana - my oldest friend on the circuit, the woman who stood beside me at my wedding, who brought dinners to the house for a week after Allana was born. If anyone in this room still sees me, it’s Maria.
I find her by the French doors that lead to the terrace. She’s alone, nursing a glass of wine, and when she sees me coming, her face does something different from Sandra’s or Margaret’s. It crumples. Like she’s watching something painful unfold.
“Delilah.” She takes my arm, her grip warm and firm. “Honey, what is going on? That woman acts like she’s the wife.”
Relief floods through me - relief and something dangerously close to tears. “I wish I knew.”
“Lucas is letting her run this whole thing. I heard her giving instructions to the caterers earlier. Telling them where to set up the dessert table.” Maria shakes her head. “I’ve known you both since before the wedding, and I have never seen anything like this.”
“I planned this gala.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. Hollow. “Six months of planning. Every single detail.”
“I know, honey. I know.”
The band finishes their current song, and there’s a moment of silence before the next one begins. A waltz. Something slow and elegant, strings swelling in the warm air.
I turn toward the sound, and that’s when I see them.
Lucas is leading Aimie onto the dance floor.
His hand is on her waist - the same place he used to touch me. The same exact spot, low on her back, his fingers spread wide like he’s claiming something. She looks up at him and says something, and he laughs. Really laughs, his head tipping back, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
I haven’t heard him laugh like that in months.
They begin to move. Lucas is a good dancer - I taught him years ago.
We practiced for weeks, stumbling over each other’s feet, laughing at our own clumsiness.
I remember the night it finally clicked, the way his arms felt around me, the way he dipped me at the end and said, “See? We can do anything together.”
Now he’s dipping another woman in the middle of my gala.
Aimie’s red dress fans out as she spins, catching the light like fire.
She’s graceful in a way I never was - all fluid lines and perfect posture, like she was born for ballrooms instead of arenas.
Her hand rests on his shoulder, and from this distance, I can’t tell if her fingers are playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, but I imagine they are. I imagine everything.
Lucas says something close to her ear. She laughs, and the sound carries across the room, and several guests turn to watch them dance with expressions of delight.
Look at them, those expressions say. Aren’t they perfect together?
I can’t feel my hands anymore. I can’t feel anything except the weight of the crutches under my arms and the dull throb of my leg and the sensation of watching my life spin away from me in three-quarter time.
“Honey.” Maria’s hand tightens on my arm. “Honey, breathe.”
I didn’t realize I’d stopped.
The waltz continues. They continue. Spinning and swaying and laughing while I stand frozen at the edge of the room like a statue someone forgot to move.
His hand slides lower on her back. Just slightly. Just enough.
I look away.
The crowd has rearranged itself around the dance floor, forming a loose circle to watch.
I recognize faces - donors, partners, friends.
People who’ve known me for years. People who came to my wedding, who held my newborn daughter, who told me how much they admired what Lucas and I had built together.
None of them are looking at me.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Montoya?”
A photographer appears at my elbow. Young, probably early twenties, with a camera hanging from his neck and an apologetic expression on his face.
“Could you step aside? The sponsors want a shot of Mr. Montoya and Miss Lawson together.” He gestures toward the dance floor. “The new team, you know.”
The new team.
I move. Like a ghost. Like I’m not even here.
The photographer positions himself where I was standing, angling his camera toward the dance floor. I watch him take shot after shot - Lucas and Aimie mid-spin, Lucas and Aimie laughing, Lucas and Aimie gazing at each other with expressions that will look like love in the morning papers.
I should say something. I should march onto that dance floor and remind everyone in this room that I am Delilah Montoya, that I built this dream with my own hands, that the woman in the red dress is a temporary contractor, not the lady of the house.
But my leg hurts. And my arms are shaking from holding the crutches too tight. And I’m so tired. So unbelievably tired of fighting for space in my own life.
The song ends. Another begins. Lucas doesn’t leave the dance floor.
He just pulls Aimie closer and keeps swaying, and I realize he hasn’t looked for me once.
Hasn’t scanned the crowd to make sure I’m okay.
Hasn’t done any of the small, unconscious things husbands do when their wives are recovering from serious injuries.
He’s forgotten I’m here.
Maria is still beside me, her face tight with worry. “Delilah, do you want me to-”
“No.” The word comes out flat. Final. “I think I’m going to get some air.”
I don’t get air.
I leave.
The side door leads to the garden, which leads to the path back to the main house. I take it slowly, my crutches sinking slightly into the gravel, the sounds of the gala fading behind me with each step.
No one calls my name. No one runs after me. No one notices that the hostess of the charity gala has disappeared into the dark.
I stop halfway down the path and look back at the ballroom. Through the tall windows, I can see the silhouettes of dancers still moving. I can see the sparkle of the chandeliers, the warm glow of the candles, the beautiful party I created from nothing.
Somewhere in that light, my husband is holding another woman.
I turn and keep walking.
This is what replaced feels like.
And the worst part - the part that makes me want to laugh and scream and cry all at once - is that I still love him.
Despite everything, despite the humiliation and the hurt and the endless small cruelties of being erased from my own life, I still love Lucas Montoya with every broken piece of my heart.
I hate myself for it.