Martinez's smile spreads across his face like oil on water. "Miss Rose. Always the professional, aren't you?"
"I take my job very seriously, Senator." The words taste like ash, but muscle memory kicks in and I deliver them with a practiced confidence I do not feel. I feel nothing, actually, there’s a great whole of emptiness where feelings should be inside of me.
Wyatt's eyes flicker with a plea, an apology, a warning. But I can't afford to look into his eyes right now. I can’t afford to show him sympathy or even acknowledge he’s standing there, or I’ll crack open.
Everything we’ve worked for hangs in the balance. We need the senator’s commitment to our cause tonight.
"Beautiful event," Martinez continues, gesturing toward the crowd with his bloodied handkerchief in an effort to get me to notice it. "Though I have to say, the entertainment tonight has been... unexpected."
Blood on a senator's face. At my event. With two hundred possible witnesses and heaven knows how many cell phone cameras. I’ve got to play his game or pay the price. "Senator, are you hurt?"
"I'm fine." His tongue darts out to test his split lip. "There's no problem here, is there, Wyatt?"
Wyatt's jaw works, muscles jumping beneath sun-weathered skin, but he doesn't speak.
"Good. Good." Martinez folds his handkerchief with deliberate precision, every movement calculated. "I think it's time I gather my family. Good night, Miss Rose." He turns to Wyatt with the satisfied smile of a man who's just closed a profitable deal. "I'll be in touch about our discussion."
He walks away, leaving us standing in the wreckage of whatever just happened.
"Wyatt," I start, but a few guests glance our way—curious looks, raised eyebrows. They sense drama but can't quite place it. Thankfully not everyone saw what just happened. The band plays on, couples still swaying on the dance floor. Life moving forward while something fundamental just shifted beneath our feet.
"What did he say to you?" Brook asks her brother. She puts her hand on my arm in a show of support.
Every line of Wyatt's body screams barely controlled rage. His shoulders bunch beneath his suit jacket, knuckles still red from the impact. The muscle in his jaw works overtime, clenching and unclenching like he's biting back words that would only make things worse. When he finally looks at me, his eyes hold the kind of wild edge that comes from being backed in a corner—the same look I've seen in theseconds before he nods for the chute to open, when there's no way out but through.
"Nothing."
"Don't," I rasp. “We both know that's not true—you don't split a senator's lip over nothing." I'm shaking and I'm scared, but I need to know what's happening. "Don't lie to me. Not tonight."
Wyatt exhales but doesn't say a word. He's not about to tell me or Brook anything.
The anger hits me like a flash flood—sudden, overwhelming, and safer than the alternative. Anger I can handle.
"You’ve ruined everything." My voice stays level, controlled, but each word carries the edge of someone who's truly furious. "I'm trying to save the ranch and you're punching the man who could save your future."
His eyebrows come together, and he looks at me, hard. "You mean—our future."
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" My mind catalogs the damage like an autopsy report—Martinez's influence with federal agencies, the guests who might have seen something, the potential media nightmare if this gets out. "He could destroy your family."
Brook sucks in.
"And you hit him." I shake my head. "I'm not sure how I'm going to fix this."
Wyatt senses that I'm not just talking about the land. He grabs my arms, his grip firm but gentle. "I love you."
Three words. Simple. Desperate. True.
I stare at him in shock, my breath catching painfully in my chest. The party fades around us as my skin burns wherehe touches me. My mother's voice echoes in my head: Men say what they need to when they're cornered.
But this is Wyatt.
He loves me, I can’t be that wrong, can I? The image of his hand on Brittney's stomach flashes before my eyes, a stark contradiction to his declaration.
Something cracks inside me—the last of my defenses, maybe, or just the final fracture in my already broken heart. My throat tightens as I swallow down all the things I want to scream. How dare he say those words now, after everything that's happened? After I've seen the truth with my own eyes?
"It doesn't matter," I blurt, my voice barely steady.
"Excuse me. I need to …" Brook walks away. I don't blame her. I don't want to be here either.