Chapter 4

Desperate to reclaim her status, Charlotte made a bold announcement.

She claimed the spirit of our family's legendary matriarch, the "patron saint" of our horse-breeding dynasty, had "called" to her in a dream.

She would compete in the "Founder's Derby."

This wasn't a normal race. It was a sacred family trial, a test of worthiness to lead the estate. It hadn't been held in generations.

Success, according to legend, granted the winner the matriarch's "blessing" and solidified their claim as the true heir.

It was a desperate, theatrical gamble, and the entire Southern equestrian society bought into it. They were hungry for a story, for a legend reborn.

The day of the Founder's Derby arrived. The estate was packed. The air was heavy with anticipation and the scent of old money.

Charlotte, dressed in pristine white riding gear, led Maverick to the center of the grounds. The stallion had recovered, but he lacked his former fire. He moved with a slight hesitation, his spirit diminished.

She stood before the marble statue of our great-great-grandmother, the first matriarch.

"I answer your call, Grandmother," Charlotte proclaimed, her voice echoing in the silence. "I am here to prove I am your worthy heir."

She mounted Maverick and began the trial. The first part was a series of complex dressage movements, which she and Maverick performed adequately, if without brilliance.

Then came the final challenge: the "Matriarch's Leap," a notoriously difficult sequence of five towering jumps that no one had successfully cleared in a century.

She urged Maverick forward. He cleared the first jump. The second. The third.

The crowd held its breath.

She pushed him toward the fourth jump. He cleared it, but just barely, his hind legs clipping the top rail. He landed hard.

Only one jump remained. The highest, the most treacherous.

Charlotte kicked him, screaming for him to go.

Maverick galloped toward the final obstacle, but at the last second, he refused. He skidded to a halt, throwing Charlotte from the saddle.

She landed in a heap in the dust.

A wave of stunned silence, then derisive laughter, rippled through the crowd. The prodigy had failed. The "chosen one" was a fraud.

Humiliation hung thick in the air.

That was my cue.

I urged Ash forward. He moved with a quiet, powerful grace that commanded attention. We stopped before the statue.

I didn't speak to the crowd. I spoke to my mother, my voice a low, firm whisper meant only for the spirit I knew was listening.