Chapter 8

Etta pressed a flute of champagne into Candice's hand. "So, spill. Are you and the Ice King of Wall Street really over?"

Candice took a sip, the bubbles fizzing on her tongue. "We were never 'on,' Etta. It was a business deal. And now, the deal is off. Permanently."

Etta's perfectly sculpted eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? But the whole city has a betting pool on your wedding date."

"Let them lose their money," Candice said, setting the glass down. "My life isn't a wager."

Etta leaned in again, her eyes sparkling with fresh gossip. "Is it because of that 'soulmate' of his? Amina Rowe?"

The name made Candice's hand clench. The image of Amina's smug face was seared into her memory.

Seeing her friend's reaction, Etta rushed to comfort her. "Oh, honey, don't worry about her. She's just some political advisor. The Hansens would never let a social-climbing nobody like that into the family."

Candice let out a bitter, silent laugh. If only you knew.

"Where did you hear about her?" Candice asked, forcing a casual tone. She needed to know how far along their timeline was.

"My father mentioned her," Etta said, waving a dismissive hand. "She's working for some senator, apparently. Been seen at a few galas with Julius. Probably just using him for his connections."

The pieces were clicking into place. It was all happening again, just as she remembered.

The horn sounded, signaling the end of the first half of the match. Preston trotted his horse over to the sidelines, his face flushed and beaded with sweat. He dismounted, his eyes immediately finding Candice.

He strode toward them, his riding boots sinking slightly into the soft turf. "Candice. I'm glad you could make it." He handed her a spare polo mallet. "Care to take a swing?"

Before she could refuse, Etta was pushing her forward. "Go on! It's fun!"

Trapped, Candice took the mallet and walked stiffly to the practice area. Preston came up behind her, placing his hands over hers on the shaft of the mallet to guide her swing.

"Keep your arms straight," he murmured, his voice close to her ear. His body was pressed against her back, warm and solid.

The proximity was suffocating. It felt like a cage closing around her. The memory of his possessiveness, his anger when she couldn't return his feelings, made her skin crawl.

She wrenched herself away from him. "Don't touch me."

The movement was so abrupt she stumbled, nearly losing her balance.

Preston looked stunned, his hands frozen in mid-air. "I was just trying to help."

"I don't need your help," she snapped, her voice colder than she intended.

The hurt in his eyes was plain to see. He looked from her to his sister, embarrassed and confused. Etta rushed over, shooting Candice a look. "What is wrong with you?" she whispered, pulling her friend away.

Candice watched Preston walk away, his shoulders slumped. A pang of guilt hit her, but she pushed it down. It was better this way. A clean break. No misunderstandings.

She needed some air. "I'm just going to get some water," she told Etta, and walked away from the crowds, toward the relative quiet of the stables.

The smell of hay and horses was calming. She leaned against a white fence, finally able to breathe.

She was standing near a magnificent black stallion, tethered to a post. As she watched, a stable hand accidentally dropped a metal bucket nearby. The loud clang startled the horse.

It reared up, its eyes wide with panic, front hooves flailing in the air. It let out a terrified whinny and, in its frenzy, its powerful body swung around, directly toward her.