Braving the Storm

Book 2: Crimson Ridge

by Elliott Rose

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Western Romance; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

From international best-selling author Elliott Rose comes a new forbidden-love series.

I’m not supposed to feel this way…

I never wanted to disappear more than while around my family. Briar Lane, the girl only useful for one thing: my surname.

A business handshake and pawn to be traded. My father’s chess piece shuffled between empires. That was my life back in L.A. but all it took was finding the dirty secret stuffed in a jacket pocket, and my entire world unraveled.

So, I fled to the one place I knew they could never find me. Crimson Ridge.

Arriving in this snowy, harsh world, I thought I’d be starting over on my own, but it turns out I couldn’t have been more wrong. The abandoned mountain cabin I inherited isn’t what it seems.

This mountain hides secrets. An ex-pro bull rider consumes this space, and now, my every thought with it... Stôrmand Lane. My father’s adopted brother.

We should never have found ourselves isolated out here in the mountains together, each trying to outrun our pasts.

All it took was one misunderstanding, one line almost crossed, and everything changed.

A girl like me isn’t supposed to know what those tattooed hands feel like, and I’m certainly not meant to feel butterflies anytime that pair of piercing blue eyes land on mine.

He might be my every fantasy, a cowboy I constantly dream about, but he’s a temptation I have to ignore. A man I absolutely cannot find myself attracted to.

Even when he’s looking at me with the kind of hunger that can only spell ruin for us both.

Long, dark nights spent in this tiny cabin can’t be the excuse to step into forbidden territory.

Or can they?

Braving The Storm is an interconnected stand-alone, book 2 in the Crimson Ridge series, and can be read separately. Intended for ages 18 and over.

Release date: April 15, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 460

Sample

Fucking snow.

Living in this part of the mountains is pretty goddamn awesome if you hate people, but it means putting up with being entombed in a grave of white powder and ice for what feels like half the year.

Tires crunch. Gravel sprays. Heavy metal pulses through the speakers. My truck rounds the final bend, and the A-frame peak of my roof comes into view.

How long has it been since I was last here? With one hand on the wheel, my other reaches up to rub the back of my neck as I try to think.

A little too long.

Although, that transient shit has been my entire life before settling in this place. Plus, I don’t mind helping a guy like Colton Wilder out.

He’s about the only person in Crimson Ridge who doesn’t listen to gossip or rumor.

But fuck me, after weeks of taking care of his ranch for him while he’s been away and helping his son out as he prepares for his next rodeo event… I am more than ready to collapse in my own bed.

Pulling up outside the cabin, conifers stand like proud, ominous sentinels around this place. Keeping watch over the only location I’ve ever felt like I can truly rest. Even if there’s no guarantee that will always be the case for a guy like me.

The sky above is mostly clouded over, only partially allowing a faint glow of stars and moonlight to peer down on Crimson Ridge tonight. Drifts of snow are clumped around here and there, glowing an eerie shade of white even through the darkness, and I already know I’ll need to do a thorough check around the property after not being here to see to things throughout the depths of winter.

All of that can wait for the morning.

Right now, I just want a hot fucking shower and a stiff drink.

Grabbing my duffel from the passenger end of the bench seat, I sling it over one shoulder and heave myself out of my truck. It’s only a few strides to cross the gravel and make it up the couple of steps to my front porch. As I shove the key in the lock and step inside, the warm scent of cedarwood floats up to greet me.

Fuck. Can I even be bothered with lighting the fire? Suppose I should, before I throw myself in the shower, at least. The old girl needs time to get some heat into her bones, and right now, it’s as frigid as a nun’s cunt in here.

When I go to kick each boot off, my hearing catches on a noise. The hairs on the back of my neck raise, and my skin prickles. Something moves deep inside the house, and I’m immediately on edge.

Not something… someone.

The distinct sound of shuffling, moving, is human. Not an animal who managed to find its way inside, seeking shelter from the tail end of winter.

Setting my bag down softly, so as not to make a sound, I know exactly where my hunting knife is, but that’s back in the glove compartment of my truck. I also know where my rifle is stashed in my bedroom, but that’s down the hall in the direction of the noise.

Not that I need either of those things to defend myself against some fucking idiot thinking they can break into my place. People don’t scare me. I’ve got a body built off the back of willingly tangling with nearly two thousand pound, angry as fuck creatures. When you’ve sat on the back of a bull that wants nothing more than to toss you and stomp your ribs into the dirt, that shit fundamentally changes your perspective on life.

With a shrug to get rid of my jacket and free up my arms, I roll my shoulders inside my shirt and flex my knuckles. Tattoos and the flash of silver from my rings peer back at me in the gloom. Fitting really, whoever this is can wear a face full of my ink and take an imprint in the shape of my metal bands as a gift when they run their sorry asses back down the mountain.

It’ll be some hillbilly dipshit who married their cousin creeping up here. Fancying that they can poke around my property and find the stacks of gold they all think I’m sitting on after a pro career. Acting like I’m rich or some shit. It won’t be anyone who lives out in these parts. While I might not be friendly with every single person who lives on this mountain, no one from the Peak is dumb enough to pull a stunt like this.

The short hall leading down to the bedroom is almost pitch black, but I see where whoever this is straight away. Soft light and shadows move on the other side of the open bathroom door, and I slow my progress when I realize there’s music softly drifting from within.

Music?

That makes me pause. I’ve crept this far on silent steps, and now my mind is turning the situation over, trying to make sense of whatever is going on.

I hear a feminine sound, a hum, and my eyes squeeze shut. Dragging a hand through my hair, I tilt my head back.

Goddamn, it wouldn’t be the first time a fucking buckle bunny has let themselves in up here.

Even though I’m mildly hacked off that whoever this is has turned up unannounced and uninvited, my dick stirs. The thought of a quick fuck, before I kick them out and send them packing back down to Crimson Ridge sounds pretty damn appealing.

Being stuck up at the ranch and buried in the snow on top of Devil’s Peak for the winter has had my balls on ice. Literally.

The blackened, twisted part of me wants to make this a game. This cunt thinks they can slip into my house and make themselves at home? Well, this is my arena, my rules.

Silently, I inch toward the open entry and keep myself hidden in the heavy shadow as I make my plan to find out who the fuck is in my bathroom and exactly what sweet flavor of pussy is going to be on the menu tonight.

As I watch on with hungry eyes and a rapidly hardening cock through the doorway, the girl inside has her back turned. She only has the small lamp above the mirror switched on to see by. It’s dimly lit in here, like the rest of the house, everything shrouded in shades of black and gray.

With her back still turned to me, she hums along with whatever folky, girly shit plays through the speaker on her phone.

Then she starts to get naked.

This girl is entirely unaware that I’m here, and fuck… it’s the hottest thing.

She isn’t doing a strip tease to try and seduce a pro bull rider. She’s not a girl on a pole shoving her fake tits in my face. She’s not a buckle bunny offering to get on her knees in a filthy back alley at three a.m. to suck my cock ‘til I blow all over her face.

No. This is someone who is sexy and curvy and slowly removes each item of clothing because it’s at her own leisure. Like she’s enjoying all this for no one but herself.

Jesus. My cock is begging to get in there and make a reacquaintance with whoever the fuck this girl is. I’ve fucked my way through life, never doing repeat hookups—even during a regrettable goddamn catastrophe of a time better left forgotten—but I certainly don’t remember her.

If I’m really honest with myself, there’s no way I would.

I don’t remember them.

I don’t remember their faces or their names, and I certainly never kept their numbers that they snuck into my phone contacts when they thought I wasn’t looking.

Her arms tug the cropped sweater she’s wearing over her head, revealing a pair of high-waisted leggings. Fuck. No bra. Just an expanse of smooth, olive skin and a flare at her hips. There’s the tiniest roll over the top of her waistband, and that softness makes my mouth water.

Having a handful of pliant flesh to squeeze and dig my fingers into, leaving a bruise or five in the shape of my grip, is my favorite type of fuck.

The long dark curls hanging midway down her back swish over her skin as she moves. Dragging my gaze down… down to an ass that is absolutely begging to be palmed and spanked and pounded into while I fill this girl’s cunt from behind.

My breathing grows more ragged as I lurk in the shadowed hallway, continuing to devour the sight of the feast preparing herself for me. Because there’s only one reason this girl is in my house, and if she’s here in search of my dick, then I’m going to enjoy every second of playing with my meal.

She strips off the rest of her clothes. Sliding those skin-tight leggings down, panties gone at the same time, revealing even more to me. Humming along to the music, this girl is entirely lost in what she’s doing. Oblivious to her surroundings.

I’m fully hard and have to quietly, carefully readjust myself. The head of my dick has already started leaking at how fucking hot this girl is. Her arm lifts, and I can’t help but notice a small tattoo, fine line text curving around the outer side of her breast. Tits that even from here, from a barely there glance side-on, I can see are heavy and full and just made to be tortured.

As she bends over to fully tug those sinful, fitted leggings off, that’s what breaks me. I catch a glimpse of her from behind. Soft and dusky rose-colored pussy lips peek out at me.

Just at the moment she’s fully naked, still halfway bent over, I strike.

My long stride closes the gap between us in a second. Wrapping one hand around her throat to lock her against my front, my other hand fumbles with my button and fly. As I do so, my knuckles graze against the bare skin at the top of her ass, brushing her lower back. Maybe I’ll paint that part of her later with my cum.

“Darlin’… that’s no way to go about begging for my cock. Kinda rude to be letting yourself in without asking.” I growl, with lips pressed against her ear. “But you’re lucky tonight. I’m feeling generous. So much so, after watching that little performance, I might even let you come.”

She’s rigid as a board beneath me. I feel her throat work frantically below my tattooed fingers. Pulse fluttering in the side of her neck. This girl is short compared to me, barely reaching my chest. Her head tucks perfectly against my torso, and my filthy thoughts are already running wild at the prospect.

“Now, I’m gonna bend you over that counter so I can fuck you into next week… then you’re gonna get the hell off my property.”

She yelps as I relent a little pressure on her throat, easing back off her windpipe ever so slightly. As I do, her hands fly up to pry my fingers away, but I’m not in the mood for anything that isn’t my version of this game. I spin us toward the vanity so that we’re both facing the mirror.

Catching sight of her front-on for the first time, I have to stifle a feral noise.

Fuck, she’s got amazing tits. Hard nipples stare back at me in the reflection and the soft glow of the lamp light, and maybe it’s because I’ve been stuck with nothing but cattle and horses for company this winter; I decide right then and there, I already know there’s going to be a second round to this game. I’m not going to pass up an opportunity to come all over them. Mark her the fuck up and enjoy sliding my dick between that soft valley… then I’ll let her go.

I mean, she is naked and waiting for me in my house, after all.

She really should count herself lucky I’m interested in fucking her more than once to begin with.

As I position her body exactly where I want her, keeping a tight hold over her neck, my other hand shoves my briefs down. Freeing my aching cock, I give it a couple of firm strokes, swiping the pre-cum off the tip. Goddamn, her cunt is right there, and the heat flowing between our bodies makes my head spin with anticipation.

Her hands fly out to brace against the counter as I tighten my hold on her throat, using the leverage to bend her forward. The action makes those perfect tits hang a little lower, full and soft.

But it’s her eyes.

Eyes that stare back at me, wide like a doe’s in the mirror.

Dark eyes that seem somehow familiar. More than familiar.

I was sure I didn’t recognize this girl, but now I’m ransacking my mind, trying to place her.

“What the fuck?” She croaks, sounding panicked and strained. Her voice finally breaks free as she braces herself against the sink with one hand and tries to claw my fingers away from her neck with the other.

“Uncle Stôrmand?”

I go still.

Jesus.

Fuck. Fuck my life.

My hand is on my rigid, leaking cock, and I’m staring at my niece’s nipples.

I’m trembling like a fragile leaf about to blow away in the wind. With wobbly fingers, I make several clumsy attempts to knot the sash around the waist of my silk robe. One that is far too thin, too short, too slinky, and is made for LA temperatures.

In fact, my entire hastily packed suitcase is stuffed full of expensive clothes suited to a blue-skied day in the mid-eighties.

Clothes that he bought, because they were the type of thing I should be seen in whenever I was on his arm.

Not because I actually liked them.

Certainly not the kind of wardrobe suited to mountain survival in some back-of-beyond, snow-covered, frozen cabin. I’m almost positive there are rats in the walls based on the scurrying I heard when I first stepped foot inside.

Yanking the pink sash to make sure it’s secure, I quickly tie my hair up in a bun and do a final check to ensure I’m something approaching half decent before venturing into the living area.

Before I figure out what the fuck is going on.

In twenty-six years, I always assumed I’d be at the greatest risk of a home invasion while living in the Palisades. Not barely half an hour after arriving in bum fuck nowhere Crimson Ridge, and not at the hands of the giant, tattooed man who nearly left a hole in the wall trying to get out of this bathroom as fast as humanly possible.

My uncle.

Technically, adopted uncle. My father’s estranged adopted brother from when they were fostered together. But still… Uncle Stôrmand is the last person I expected to ever see again.

And now? Now I know. I know what it felt like to have his hands on my naked body, and shame coats me in a rapid, clammy sweep down to my cold, bare toes… because I froze.

When he grabbed me, I froze.

When he growled in my ear, I froze.

And up until the moment I finally recognized the man I hadn’t seen in over ten years, I liked what I saw.

Jesus, the fucking mess made by my exploding life over the past forty-eight hours must have taken more of a toll than I realized.

For the briefest moment, all I felt was relief and anticipation colliding with an addictive hit of adrenaline. A temporary moment of insanity fisted my every last brain cell just like his hands grabbed hold and took command of my body.

Guaranteed, a man like that would know exactly how to fuck a woman.

Relief, that even if a purely carnal experience came at the hands of a stranger, I might know what it feels like to give my body what she craves… something I’ve desired for so long, and yet I’ve never had a clue how, or what, that might even feel like.

Oh, god, if I’m even close to allowing those sorts of deranged thoughts to grow roots, then I am most definitely a sleep-deprived, strung-out head case.

My feet carry me on cautious tiptoes, drawing closer to the location where I can hear my uncle crashing around. He sounds like a wild beast who has been set loose indoors. A fearsome creature escaped from his enclosure.

Wrapping my arms around me, I clutch my wafer-thin robe as if I’m at risk of revealing every exposed inch of my flesh to him all over again.

The lighting in here is soft, warm, forgiving on my heartsore, weary eyes. A couple of bare bulbs are illuminated. One hangs over the tiny kitchen space and basin set beneath a narrow window. The other dangles on a wire above the weathered L-shaped sectional positioned in front of a fire.

In LA, they’d call this look rustic-chic.

Here, I suspect it’s less intentional and just the interior of an old, uncared-for cabin.

Uncle Stôrmand crouches in front of the now crackling flames, methodically feeding small pieces of wood in one after another. He doesn’t look my way.

Does he come here often?

I still don’t understand why he’s here.

This week has been a mess, and I’m too tired after a full day of traveling, with that floaty neither-here-nor-there sensation clinging to my limbs. My eyes are scratchy. My head fucking aches.

When I eventually located this address, found the hide-a-key, and let myself in, I’d taken one look at that lifeless, charred fireplace and nearly cried.

I don’t know how to do any of this. I don’t know fires or snow or how to get by without cell phone reception.

This escape plan sounded really cute and perfect, until I arrived, shivering in the dark, and figured out pretty quickly that I was so far out of my depth it wasn’t funny.

Am I a little relieved he’s here to prevent me from drowning in my own inadequacy, or more specifically, freezing to death?

Maybe.

Do I need to stop staring at my uncle’s ass in those jeans?

Absolutely.

I swallow hard and avert my eyes. This is so fucked up.

The man practically forced himself on me without consent ten minutes ago.

He’s my father’s brother.

Adopted, is all my stupid, scrambled brain seems to want to gleefully fixate on.

God. I need a drink. There had better be something to drink in this place.

“Cupboard to the right of the sink. Glasses live beside the stove.” Rich, gritty words drift up from the man intently focused on the fire. It’s the kind of voice I’m so unaccustomed to. Weathered and gruff.

He rests on one knee, with jeans stretched tight over his backside and thighs—a place where my eyes keep wandering back to because I am so much more fucked in the head than I ever realized—while he continues to load kindling into the growing flames.

I turn in place, taking in my surroundings. There’s barely four feet to this entire quaint kitchenette, laughable in comparison to the ostentatious expanse of shiny white marble I ran out of two days ago.

Hooking open the slightly crooked cupboard reveals a few different bottles of liquor with time-worn labels. Whiskey? Yes. Whiskey is the choice my fingers settle on because I am in cowboy country, after all, and I follow that with plucking a glass off the shelf beside the stove.

Do I pour one for him, too?

I’m fucking freezing. I need to dig more clothes out of my suitcase. I need to charge my phone. I need to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.

My uncle doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t try to start a conversation or apologize or anything remotely normal for whatever just happened back there. And I don’t exactly know what to say either.

It’s nice of him to light the fire for me, I guess, but I also am entirely confused as to why he’s here in the first place.

This is—was—my dad’s cabin. He left it to me. Before Dad’s death, he hadn’t spoken to his brother in ten years, not since her funeral.

“Do you want one?” I concentrate on pouring myself two fingers, then decide fuck it and slosh more in the glass. Hopefully, it’ll burn away the memories of the piece of shit I left behind and knock me out so I can get some sleep.

My uncle remains silent. Arms folded over one bended knee as he studies the flames.

Over the top of my glass, as I take a sip, I allow my eyes to roam freely for a second. Dancing streaks of orange and gold lick his rugged face, revealing every sinfully attractive line of ink up the side of his neck, the silver ring in the side of his nose, and flickering shadows highlight his dirty blonde hair. Unruly, almost-curls sit tousled, as if he’s been running his hands through those wild strands.

He’s got a long-sleeved top on. Charcoal colored. A little threadbare, worn, rugged, just like the broody energy he emits. It stretches tight around his broad shoulders, and my mind is going bad, bad places, seeing how big this man is. Sleeves pushed up his forearms reveal a leather cuff on his right wrist and two thick concentric rings of ink on his left. As he tosses a slightly bigger piece of wood into the flames, silver flashes on his forefinger and thumb.

That glint drags my focus to those veined, powerful hands. A grip that minutes ago was fixed around my neck, removing all capacity to form words because the feel of him commanding my body like that did things to me it definitely should not have.

Those hands decorated with inked lettering I can’t quite make out from here match his throat, and as the burn descends low in my belly from the whiskey I’ve hastily gulped down, mixed with another sensation that has absolutely no business being there, I wonder just how much of this man’s skin is tattooed below those clothes.

Briar Indigo Lane, you need to pull yourself together right fucking now.

Uncle. Remember?

He’s your uncle.

How pathetic and touch-starved must I be if the sight of any man, especially my own uncle, makes me feel some kind of way?

Fighting back the teeth-chattering shiver, I want some privacy in order to tear open my suitcase and find warmer clothes. Socks are a priority, at the very least. Shifting in place, I sip, or more aptly, gulp down more whiskey.

However, I’m also hyper-aware of the fact my uncle doesn’t appear to be in a hurry to leave, and this silence between us is so awkward that I don’t know where to even begin.

Part of me is hoping he’ll finish building up that fire and then vanish.

Surely he won’t stick around… will he?

An entirely inappropriate spark flares deep in the recesses of my brain. Something dangerously alluring that whispers all too eagerly, hoping this man might remain here with me in the deepening shadows of the night and the lateness of the hour.

I don’t trust that bitch at all. She’s the queen of poor decisions.

As I knock back another sip, feeling the glow of warmth hit my chest and start to spread along my veins, he heaves himself up.

Eyes widening, I watch him stand tall, then cross the room, and his icy blue eyes flick up to connect with mine as I stare over the rim of my glass.

My uncle doesn’t stop his advance on me. Glaring. Menacing. Each stride forward is hypnotic and dangerous, and, oh, sweet Jesus, makes my body react in a way I don’t want to dare acknowledge. All I can do is flatten myself against the cracked Formica counter, allowing him to do whatever the hell it is he desires at this moment.

When he’s so close, his scent of smoke and citrus and spices rushes over me. My fingers tighten around the glass now clutched against my chest.

I’m wholly trapped in the surge of black coming off him. It feels predatory. Thrilling. Wild.

Tattooed fingers reach past me. The front of his shirt brushes up against my knuckles, and the heavily inked rose covering the side of his neck detailed in black and gray, is so close I see the stubble coming through along the underside of his jaw.

Then, as quickly as he invaded my sanity, he straightens up again and steps back. This time, he’s got the whole bottle wrapped in his fist.

“Bedroom’s all yours.” He grunts. Swigging straight from the neck. Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows heavily.

He turns, long strides carrying him across the room in a blink. One of those tattooed hands collects his jacket before he stoops to pick up a set of black combat boots, then slams out the door into the night.

Leaving me breathing hard and wondering what the fuck any of that was about.

I crack one eye open. My nose feels like it’s about to fall off. This place is like moving to Alaska, not Montana. I had to get up three times during the night to keep adding more clothes.

Feeling a lot like a marshmallow of a woman, I’ve got the covers tucked firmly under my chin and have no desire to drag myself out of this warm cocoon.

Dread fills me at the thought I’ll have to try and figure out how to light that stupid fireplace on my own. I’m also going to have to get myself back down the mountain to Crimson Ridge without managing to plunge over the edge of the ravine and die in a fiery crash in the process.

I think the only reason I survived getting here last night was a cocktail of anger, desperation, and exhaustion.

My tiny rental car has supposedly been fitted with winter tires, but even I know it’s not suited to a remote, mountainous location like this.

Driving in nose-to-tail traffic on highways and crawling through suburban rush hour does not equip you for gravel or ice or the constant terror that a wild creature might bound out onto the road in front of you at any moment.

At least for now, I’m safely hidden here amongst the pines and the snow. I left without telling a soul where I was going, and fortunately for me, I’ve got a credit card in my name that none of them can trace. Maybe someone might eventually connect the contents of the will with my disappearance, but in all honesty, they only want me back for one reason.

And fuck them, I’m done being someone’s pet.

I’m done living a lie and being kept inside a glass cage.

They can go screw themselves and take their little power games and corporate empires and shove them.

No wonder my uncle cut ties and didn’t look back.

Perhaps there was a reason he chose never to reunite with my father after their rift. I know I certainly have no intention of ever speaking to my family again, if I can help it.

Stôrmand Lane is so completely unlike any of them. He’s different, in so many ways…

No.

No, Briar. You need to shut that shit down. There is nothing your silly little brain needs to start fixating on or obsessing over in this set of unusual circumstances.

What happened last night was clearly a misunderstanding of planetary proportions on his part, and what happened, what he did, was an accident. As soon as he recognized who I was, he nearly broke his neck to get out of there. While I have no idea why he turned up in the first place, the only explanation I came up with as I lay in bed wide awake at three a.m., compulsively overthinking everything, was that he maybe used this cabin for his hookups. Had he been expecting to find some other woman awaiting him in the dark?

God, I need to stop thinking about his hands being on me. How a split-second of him being rough and demanding turned my insides molten with desire.

It’s wrong. Immensely so.

Maybe I can find a cute cafe in this one-horse town and hope there is cellphone reception, or WiFi, and I’ll get myself on one of those dating apps. I’ve never used one, but now is absolutely the time when I need to learn.

I’m not heartbroken, I’m pissed off, and my pussy deserves some attention. It’s been a long, long time, with only my vibrator for company.

Which, of course, explains why I reacted the way I did last night. Nothing more.

I scrunch my fingers in the thick blanket. The room is barely big enough to fit a double bed, which is entirely unlike the California King I’m used to sprawling in all by myself. If two people were to sleep on this mattress, you’d practically be on top of each other.

Maybe that’s the point.

Casting my gaze around the gray morning haze, I take in the room. Simple, functional finishes. A tall dresser and a freestanding wardrobe both in wood. A mirror facing the end of the bed is the only thing approaching decoration. Total log cabin vibes.

Nothing here suggests who might have last used the place; it certainly wasn’t my father. Erik Lane’s taste was much more Malibu waterfront and Michelin Star restaurants where he could shake hands with self-important people. I doubt he ever set foot here, but for whatever reason, this property wound up in our family, and he left it to me. At least he left it solely under a trust listed in my name in the will. If that was the only good thing he did for me, it gave me a place to escape and hide out when my whole world imploded around my ears.

God. I can still see the sight of her neon purple satin underwear stuffed in his suit pocket burned into my retinas.

My skin crawls.

Turns out, once I knew what I was looking for, it only took me about ten minutes to uncover just how much of a cheating douchebag Antoine is. He also had the absolute audacity to make no attempt to hide what he was doing.

Did he want to get caught? Or did he just think I was so pathetic I would never find out, or would be too much of a wet blanket to confront him if I did?

Did he just expect me to roll over and look the other way?

Ugh. I can’t believe I ended up being someone who was cheated on.

Even worse, is that I allowed myself to be in a relationship with a guy, who, now that I look at it, was always going to be that asshole.

I’m so disappointed in myself.

Huffing out a breath, I decide to face the day.

Wallowing is not going to solve the fact I allowed myself to be involved with a guy named Antoine Montgomery III. Or, more to the point, that I allowed my asshole family to push me into a relationship with someone on the pretense of connections and business. The Montgomerys are the type of people my father loved to golf with and name-drop into conversation. Somewhere in amongst it all, Antoine was someone who I tried to convince myself I could grow fond of. When you’re gaslit enough times into believing there’s no such thing as love or soulmates, it’s only business and connections and the passing on of a legacy built on generational empires, you start to sip the Kool-Aid when you’ve been worn down for long enough.

My sister is the one who typically loves to hit the emotional wounds, and really drive the knife home at every opportunity. It’s a small sacrifice after what you did.

Meanwhile, my father only ever saw dollar signs in the Montgomery media empire, and Antoine’s family saw power in being aligned with Lane Enterprises.

A shudder passes through me, how I managed to go through three years of being under the same roof as that prick. Of pretending to be the perfect ornament to compliment his life. Even