Page 3 of Dallas Rivals

I take a deliberate step back, giving Mrs. Saint-Clair and her daughter room to process the news. Their grief fills the space, and I realize I need distance—not just for them, but for myself. The weight of the moment presses down on me, tightening my chest.

As I retreat, I drag my hands over my face, desperate for relief. The roughness of my palms grounds me, but the ache inside doesn’t fade. Pressing my fingers into my eyes, I squeeze until bursts of light flicker behind my eyelids, stars dancing in the dark. It’s a small distraction from the overwhelming reality, a brief escape before facing what comes next.

Can’t believe this.

Guilt drops heavy and black across my shoulders as their sobs echo down the sterile hallway.

Lucien—my friend, my right hand, the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father—is gonna spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair because he was out there trying to protect my horses.

Not prize animals. Not racers. Just a few rescues I took in because I couldn’t stand to see them put down.

The air’s gone from my lungs, and no matter how hard I try, it won’t come back.

I need to get out.

Need open sky.

Need stars.

Stumbling, I find the elevator and jab the button repeatedly.

“Come on… come on…” I growl, pacing as it creeps down floor by floor.

The moment the elevator doors part, I move quickly, my stride purposeful and unbroken. Each long step pulls me farther from the heaviness inside—past the sterile brightness of the hallway, through the automatic doors, and out into the embrace of the cold night air. Only when I am finally outside do I allow myself to breathe, the chill settling over my skin as the tension begins to loosen its grip.

In for four.

Hold for two.

Out for four.

Again. And again.

Until my lungs stop burning.

My hands rest on my knees, back bent, eyes fixed on the wet concrete as the weight of the world presses down on me.

I’m still breathing hard, but the tightness in my chest has started to ease.

“You feel better?”

The voice comes from behind me. I turn, and there she is, Miss Saint-Clair standing by the door. Arms crossed, eyes swollen and red from crying. That look of raw vulnerability does something strange to my stomach.

I straighten immediately, locking down every trace of weakness. Clear my throat. My tone goes flat and cold again.

“Yeah.” Shouldn’t she be with her mother? What the hell’s she doing out here? “Do you need something, Miss Saint-Clair?”

Read between the lines, girl. Leave.

“Well, um… I need to ask you for a favor.”

She’s shivering, teeth chattering from the cold. I don’t have anything to offer her—not even a damn jacket. I’m standing here in pajamas, talking to a stranger.

“Don’t worry about the hospital bills. I’ve taken care of that.” Now go. Just go.

“Oh, no—that’s not what I meant. Though… thank you. It wasn’t your responsibility.”

“It was,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “What do you need?”