13. Delilah
— ? —
Delilah
The house has become a geography of avoidance.
The creak of the back stairs means he slept on the office couch again. The slam of his truck door means he’ll be gone until dark. The silence at dinner means Allana will eat with Rosa in the kitchen.
Days blur together in a haze of physical therapy appointments and sleepless nights.
I’ve stopped counting how many times I’ve reached for my phone to call him, then set it down again.
Stopped counting how many meals I’ve eaten alone, how many nights I’ve lain awake listening to the wind rattle the guest room windows.
We pass each other in hallways like ghosts. Conversations that don’t go beyond “Has Allana eaten?” and “The farrier’s coming soon.” Words stripped of everything that used to make us us - the inside jokes, the casual touches, the way he used to say my name like it was a prayer.
He’s been home maybe three nights since the fight. And even then, he’s not really here. Just a presence I sense in other rooms - the shower running at odd hours, the office light bleeding under the door, the coffee cup left in the sink that tells me he was up and gone before dawn.
We haven’t touched. Haven’t looked each other in the eye for more than a second. The bed in the guest room feels enormous even though I’m the only one in it - or maybe because I’m the only one in it.
Tonight, the house is quiet. Allana’s already asleep. Lucas is… somewhere. The arena, maybe. Or his office. Or God knows where.
I lower myself onto the couch, my leg aching from the physical therapy session I pushed too hard.
The therapist said I’m ahead of schedule, that my determination is impressive.
She doesn’t know that I’m not determined - I’m desperate.
Desperate to walk without crutches, to ride again, to reclaim some small piece of the life that’s been stolen from me.
The TV remote feels heavy in my hand. I shouldn’t turn it on. I know what’s airing tonight - Rosa mentioned it this morning, her voice careful, her eyes not quite meeting mine.
“There’s an interview tonight. Eight o’clock. Just… thought you should know.”
I should go to bed. I should read a book. I should do anything other than sit here in the dark and torture myself.
I turn on the TV.
The screen flickers to life, and there he is.
My husband. Sitting in a studio chair, camera lights making him look polished and perfect - that jaw I used to trace with my fingers, those shoulders I used to fall asleep against, the easy confidence that made me fall for him all those years ago in a dusty paddock with a broken horse.
He’s wearing the blue shirt I bought him. The one that makes his eyes look like the sky just before a storm.
The interviewer - some blonde with too-white teeth and a practiced smile - leans forward with manufactured concern.
But she’s not alone in that chair across from him.
Aimie sits beside Lucas. Close. Too close.
Their chairs are angled toward each other, knees almost touching.
She’s wearing emerald green - the exact shade I wore to our first investor gala, the night we announced our engagement to the rodeo world - and it makes her auburn hair glow like fire under the studio lights.
She’s stunning.
The word cuts through me because it’s true. Because I’m sitting here in sweatpants I’ve worn for days, my hair unwashed, my leg wrapped in an ugly compression bandage, and she’s on television looking like she was carved from marble and candlelight.
The Cartier necklace glints at her throat.
Of course it does. Of course she’s wearing it. She probably planned her whole outfit around that necklace, around the opportunity to display it on camera for anyone who’s paying attention.
I’m paying attention.
“The accident at the Montoya Rodeo shocked everyone,” the interviewer says, her voice dripping with practiced sympathy. “How is your wife recovering?”
Lucas shifts in his seat. I know that shift - it’s the one he does when he’s uncomfortable, when he’s about to deliver bad news to investors or fire an underperforming trainer. My heart clenches.
“She’s doing well. Thank you for asking.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Delilah’s a fighter. She always has been.”
A fighter. Like I’m a headline, not his wife. Like he’s describing a character in someone else’s story.
Aimie nods beside him, her expression perfectly sympathetic. Her hand rests on the arm of her chair - inches from his. I watch the space between their fingers like it’s a bomb about to detonate.
“And the financial fallout?” The interviewer’s eyes sharpen with predatory interest. “We’ve heard rumors that several major investors pulled their support after the incident.”
Lucas’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. I might be the only person in the world who would notice it - or I used to be. Now I wonder if Aimie has learned to read him too, if she’s cataloged all his tells the way I once did.
“Every business faces challenges,” he says carefully. “We’re fortunate to have incredible talent on our team.”
He pauses. Glances at Aimie. And something passes between them - gratitude, maybe, or understanding, or something that makes my stomach turn.
“Aimie Lawson, for instance.” His voice warms when he says her name. Actually warms, like he’s talking about something precious. “Her performance at the Houston qualifier was remarkable. She’s really stepped up during this difficult time.”
Difficult time. Like I’m a natural disaster he’s weathering. Like our crumbling marriage is just another business obstacle to overcome.
Aimie ducks her head in a perfect imitation of modesty. The movement makes the necklace shift against her collarbone, catching the studio lights.
“I’m just grateful to be part of the Montoya family.” Her voice is honey-sweet, humble and earnest and completely false. “Lucas and Delilah have built something incredible here. I’m honored to help carry it forward.”
She says my name like she knows me. Like we’re friends. Like she didn’t stand in my barn and tell me my husband was replacing me, like she didn’t wear that necklace into my kitchen while cooking waffles for my daughter.
The interviewer beams. “Yes, we’ve been hearing wonderful things about Miss Lawson. Some are calling her the new face of Montoya Rodeo.”
The new face.
I remember when that was me. When magazines ran features about the up-and-coming trainer who was revolutionizing breeding programs across the state.
When Lucas would clip the articles and frame them in his office, when he’d introduce me at galas as “my partner, my wife, the real brains behind this operation.”
Now I’m the wife people ask about out of politeness, the footnote in someone else’s success story.
Lucas smiles. A real smile this time - the one that crinkles his eyes, that makes him look younger, that I used to think was reserved for me.
“She’s certainly earned that title.”
Aimie laughs softly, and Lucas laughs with her. They lean toward each other, just slightly, just enough that the camera catches it. Just enough that everyone watching can see what I see.
What everyone will see.
The interviewer’s eyes gleam. She smells blood in the water, the promise of drama that will drive ratings and social media engagement.
“You two certainly have wonderful chemistry.” She says it like a compliment, but it lands like an accusation. “I imagine that helps in the arena?”
“It does.” Aimie’s voice is smooth, confident. “Lucas has been an incredible mentor. So supportive. So generous with his time.”
Her fingers drift to her collarbone, touching the necklace with deliberate casualness. Like she’s making sure the camera catches it. Like she’s making sure I catch it.
“I couldn’t ask for a better partner.”
Partner.
The word detonates in my chest.
I watch my husband sit there and let another woman call him her partner on live television. I watch him smile at her, watch him nod along, watch him do nothing to correct the implication hanging in the air like smoke.
Not once does he defend me. Not once does he mention my years of work, my contributions, my sacrifices. Not once does he say actually, my wife built this breeding program from the ground up or Delilah designed every training protocol we use or even just I miss her.
Just Aimie. Aimie stepped up. Aimie earned it. Aimie, radiant and whole, sitting where I should be sitting, smiling the smile I used to smile.
They show a clip from the Houston qualifier.
Aimie on horseback, fearless and fluid, the crowd screaming her name.
She’s wearing the Montoya colors - my colors, the deep burgundy and gold I chose because they looked striking under arena lights.
She rides like she was born for it, all grace and power, and the audience roars their approval.
When the clip ends, Lucas is looking at her with something like awe.
“She’s extraordinary,” he tells the interviewer. “Truly. We’re lucky to have her.”
The interview ends. Credits roll. Cheerful music plays over a frozen frame of Lucas and Aimie, their heads tilted toward each other, looking for all the world like the power couple everyone wants them to be.
I turn off the TV.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I sit in the dark, the remote still clutched in my hand, and I let the anger cool into something harder. Something crystalline and sharp-edged. Something that feels almost like clarity.
He didn’t mention me once. Not really. Not in any way that mattered.
I could forgive the dancing at the gala.
Could almost forgive the necklace, the morning waffles, the thousand small cuts of being replaced.
But this - watching him erase me on live television, watching him build a new narrative that doesn’t include our history, our partnership, our love - this is something else entirely.
This is choosing.
He said he wouldn’t choose between us. He said Aimie was just business. But I just watched him choose her in front of thousands of viewers, watched him lift her up while I sat alone in the dark, forgotten.
The walls feel like they’re closing in. I need air. I need to move. I need to do something other than sit here and drown in my own humiliation.
The house is already quiet and most of the lights are off, but there’s a glow coming from Lucas’s office at the end of the hall. He must have come back from wherever he went after the interview.
I don’t know what I’m planning to say. Don’t know what words could possibly capture the magnitude of what I just witnessed. But my feet carry me forward anyway, toward that light, toward the man who used to be my whole world.
I’m almost to the door when I hear voices.
Not Lucas and Aimie - that’s something, at least. Lucas and someone else. A man. Dario, I realize, recognizing the slight accent that creeps into his voice when he’s concerned about something.
“-worried about her,” Lucas is saying. “She’s been different since the hospital.”
I freeze. My heart stops beating, then restarts at twice the speed.
“Different how?” Dario asks.
“Paranoid. Suspicious.” Lucas sighs, and even through the crack in the door, I can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “She was fighting with me before and telling me to choose between her and Aimie. For God’s sake. I don’t know what’s going on with her, but it’s like living with a stranger.”
My hand finds the wall. I need it to stay upright.
Paranoid. Suspicious. Like living with a stranger.
This is what he thinks of me. This is what he tells people - not that he danced with another woman at my gala, not that he bought her jewelry, not that he praised her on national television while I watched alone in the dark. No. I’m the problem. I’m the one who’s changed.
“Maybe she needs time,” Dario offers. “The accident was traumatic.”
“Maybe.” Lucas’s voice wavers. “It’s just… our relationship isn’t the same. I don’t know how to…”
He trails off, and I’ve heard enough.
I don’t want to hear how that sentence ends. Don’t want to know what he doesn’t know how to do - fix things, reach me, love me anymore.
I retreat silently down the hall, my crutches muffled against the runner carpet. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip the handles.
Our bedroom is dark when I reach it, and I make a decision.
No more waiting. No more hoping. No more crying in a guest room down the hall from a man who calls me paranoid when he thinks I can’t hear.
I slide my wedding ring off my finger. The diamond catches the lamplight, throwing tiny rainbows across the wood of the nightstand. I set it down.
Beside it, I place a note:
I heard everything. I’m tired of choosing someone who can’t choose me - not at home, not in public, not anywhere. For Allana’s sake, I’ll stay close. The old foreman’s cottage. Don’t follow me tonight.
-Delilah
I gather my things. The photo album from our wedding that I couldn’t bear to leave behind. Allana’s first pair of baby shoes, which I kept on my dresser as a reminder of everything good we built together.
The walk to the cottage is cold. The stars are out, scattered across the sky like spilled salt, and I remember our first night on this property. We’d camped in the field, lying on a blanket and tracing constellations with our fingers, making promises about the future we would build.
You’re my partner in everything, he’d said. Always.
Always turned out to be shorter than I thought.
The cottage door creaks when I open it. I set down my bag and stand in the middle of the room, looking at this space that will become my refuge and my prison all at once.
On the nightstand, my phone glows with a notification. I ignore it.
Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed and I think about lawyers. About divorce. About what it would mean to dismantle everything we built, to divide our assets and our property and our daughter’s time between two separate lives.