Chapter 3: Horseplay and Sabotage

After Nathan’s ten-day wedding leave, I rarely saw him during daylight. He left early—supposedly for the office, but I suspected the golf course—and returned late, reeking of bourbon and cigars from endless 'meetings.'

He still made it home by seven for dinner in the formal dining room. We kept up our strange routine: sharing a bed, but only as competitors in every game the estate could offer—music, chess, painting, pool, poker, horse racing, even dice throwing. Our ambiguous closeness was a thrill for him—intimate but not real.

One bright autumn morning, as sunlight painted the leaves gold, I called out to Nathan, “Can I come with you today? I’m bored out of my mind. I’ve reorganized the library twice and mastered three soufflé recipes.”

He hesitated, keys jangling in his hand, but I was already in the car—his Mercedes, not the show-off Porsche. “I’m coming. People will talk if your new wife never appears in public.”

We drove out to Fairfield Equestrian Center, where the air smelled like cut grass and horse sweat, sunlight glinting off silver belt buckles and the polished hoods of BMWs in the parking lot. A crowd had already gathered—men and women, all pedigreed. Rachel Thompson stood out in scarlet, a flash of red in the green paddock.

Nathan helped me down from the car, his hand at my elbow, proper and poised. The chatter stilled—someone even dropped a polo mallet.

Rachel’s glare could have started a wildfire. Bradley Whitman, heir to a pharmaceutical fortune, muttered loud enough for all to hear, “Nathan, what are you bringing an outsider here for? This is a members-only event.”

Nathan stood tall, his voice ringing out, “Emily is my wife. She’s on my membership now.”

Rachel pointed her riding crop at me, sharp as a sword. “Can you even ride?”

“A little,” I replied, keeping my tone mild. In truth, I’d competed in dressage through college, but they didn’t need to know that.

“Compete with me, then. Loser leaves!”

“Fine.”

A ripple ran through the crowd. Someone whispered, “Loser leaves, huh? That’s brutal—even for this crowd.” The stakes were clear, the social pressure thick as the morning fog.

Rachel sneered, certain I’d lose. Nathan tried to step in, offering his Patek Philippe as a consolation prize. “Just sit in the stands if you lose.”

Everyone expected me to fail. Bets were made; the odds stacked against me.

But when the race began, I led from the start. My horse—an elegant Arabian named Midsummer—responded to every subtle cue. Rachel, in her severe red and perfect bun, looked every inch the champion, but I held my ground in a smoke-blue dress, hair flying, looking like I’d stepped out of a period drama.

Nathan’s eyes tracked me, wide with surprise, his drink forgotten and tilting dangerously.

Near the finish, just as victory was in my grasp, my horse suddenly reared with a pained scream. I tumbled from the saddle, grass burning against my skin as I rolled, the world spinning until Nathan’s arms caught me, his cologne sharp and comforting all at once.

Rachel charged past the finish, triumphant, not bothering to check if I was hurt. I stayed limp in Nathan’s arms, feigning more pain than I felt, while Rachel smirked down from her mount.

The trainer approached, his weathered face grim. “This horse didn’t just spook—someone jabbed it in the neck with something sharp. Looks like a hat pin, Mr. Pierce. Went in deep.”

Rachel’s eyes met mine across the paddock, cold and unblinking. In that moment, I knew this wasn’t just a rivalry—it was war.