The train swayed beneath me, its rhythmic clacking a metronome for my shattered heart. I stared at my phone, the screen blurring through my tears as I scrolled through the contacts. Mom. Such a simple word for someone who had shaped my entire life around the promise of becoming a Mitchell. My thumb hovered over her name as the Montana landscape rushed past the window, endless and somehow comforting in its vastness.

I had to do this. I had to end it.

The call connected after two rings. "Rose? Sweetheart, where are you? We expected you home yesterday."

"I'm on the train back to Montana," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "Mom, I need you to do something for me."

"Of course, honey. What is it?"

I closed my eyes, Javier's casual cruelty echoing in my mind: *She'd jump off a cliff if she thought it would make me happy. The girl's pathetically devoted.*

"I need you to contact the Mitchells," I said, gripping the phone tighter. "The engagement is off."

Silence stretched between us, punctuated only by my mother's sharp intake of breath.

"Rose Hayes, what on earth are you talking about? This is... this is not something to joke about!"

"I'm not joking." A tear escaped despite my resolve, sliding down my cheek. I brushed it away angrily. "I can't marry him, Mom. I won't."

"But why? What happened? You've been in love with that boy since you were children!"

The landscape blurred as more tears came. "That's the problem. I've been in love with someone who doesn't exist. The real Javier..." My voice broke. "He sent me away, Mom. He sent me to Montana so I wouldn't be around for the design competition. So I wouldn't overshadow Sabrina."

"Sabrina? The housekeeper's daughter?" Mom's voice rose with disbelief. "Rose, I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding—"

"I heard him," I cut in, the words like broken glass in my throat. "I heard him laughing about it with his friends. About how pathetic I am, how devoted. How I'm his 'practice round' while Sabrina is his future."

"Oh, sweetheart..." Her voice softened with pity, which somehow hurt worse than her disbelief.

"Please just do this for me," I whispered. "I can't live a lie anymore."

"Come home," she pleaded. "We can talk about this. You and Javier can work through—"

"There's nothing to work through." I straightened my spine, staring out at the endless sky. "I'm going back to Montana to finish my studies. I'm building a life that's mine, not one that revolves around Javier Mitchell."

"Rose—"

"Please tell them, Mom. I need this to be over."

After we hung up, I turned off my phone and pressed my forehead against the cool window glass. For the first time in my life, I was choosing my own path. The realization was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

* * *

Thomas Mitchell's study had always intimidated Javier. Even now, at twenty-five, he felt like a schoolboy called to the principal's office as he stood before his father's massive oak desk.

"This is ridiculous," he said, pacing the Persian rug. "Rose doesn't just break engagements. She doesn't make waves. This is completely out of character."

Thomas Mitchell's expression remained grave. "Margaret Hayes was quite clear. Rose has formally requested the engagement be dissolved."

Javier ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up in a way Sabrina would have scolded him for. "She's upset. She's emotional. You know how women get."

"What exactly did you do?" his father asked, eyes narrowing.

"Nothing!" Javier protested, too quickly. "This is just... it's a tantrum. She'll come back once she gets over herself."

"And if she doesn't?"

Javier laughed, the sound hollow even to his own ears. "Dad, this is Rose we're talking about. Where else would she go? Her entire life has been built around becoming a Mitchell." He straightened his shoulders, confidence returning. "Trust me, she'll be back. She always comes back."

As he left his father's study, Javier pulled out his phone to text Sabrina. The situation was inconvenient but manageable. Rose would realize her mistake soon enough.

After all, no one walked away from Javier Mitchell.

The workshop smelled of leather and sage, wood smoke and something indefinably ancient that seemed to seep from the very walls. I'd been here three weeks now, throwing myself into the craft with a desperation that bordered on obsession. My fingers were permanently stained with dyes, my palms calloused from tools, and for the first time since returning from that devastating night at the Hendersons', I could go hours without thinking about Javier's laughter.

Maria Crow Feather moved around the workspace with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent seventy years perfecting her art. Her silver hair hung in a long braid down her back, and her dark eyes missed nothing—not the way I gripped my awl too tightly when I was fighting tears, not how I worked past sunset every night as if I could outrun my own thoughts.

"You're pushing too hard," she said quietly, settling beside me at the workbench where I was struggling with a particularly intricate beadwork pattern. "The leather can feel your anger."

I looked down at the piece in my hands—what should have been a delicate medicine pouch was warped and uneven, the beads sitting wrong no matter how many times I'd tried to correct them. "I'm not angry," I lied.

Maria's weathered fingers touched the edge of my work, and I saw her wince slightly. "This piece is full of pain. Full of fighting against what is." She met my eyes with gentle understanding. "Sometimes we must lose ourselves completely before we can find who we're meant to be."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I set down my tools with trembling hands, staring at the ruined beadwork. "What if there's nothing left to find?"

"There is always something left," Maria said softly. "But first, you must stop running from the breaking."

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and carefully set the damaged piece aside. Tomorrow I would start over. Again.

The next morning brought an unexpected interruption. I was struggling to lift a heavy roll of buffalo hide from the supply shed when strong hands appeared beside mine, taking most of the weight.

"Careful with that," a warm voice said. "Maria will have both our heads if we damage her best leather."

I looked up into kind blue eyes set in a face that belonged in some outdoorsman magazine—all sharp cheekbones and sun-weathered skin, with dark blonde hair that looked like he'd been running his hands through it. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing work clothes that had actually seen work.

"I can manage," I said quickly, trying to take back control of the hide.

He didn't let go, just smiled. "I'm sure you can. I'm Huxley Payne. Maria mentioned she had a new student."

"Rose," I said reluctantly. "And I really don't need help."

"Noted." But he still helped me carry the hide to the workshop, his movements easy and practiced. "I work with Maria sometimes. Leather carving, mostly."

I wanted to tell him to leave me alone, that I wasn't here to make friends or chat with handsome strangers. Instead, I just nodded and focused on arranging my workspace, hoping he'd take the hint.

He didn't leave. Over the next week, Huxley appeared every morning like clockwork, always finding some reason to help—carrying supplies, adjusting my workbench height, bringing me coffee when I forgot to eat. He never pushed for conversation, never asked personal questions, just existed in my peripheral vision like a steady, reassuring presence.

I told myself his attention was annoying. I told myself I didn't need his quiet kindness. But I stopped flinching when he appeared.

The breaking point came on a Thursday evening. I'd been working on a leather journal cover, something simple that should have been well within my abilities. But my hands wouldn't cooperate, my stitches were uneven, and the design I'd planned looked childish and wrong.

Frustration built in my chest like steam in a kettle until suddenly I was sobbing, great ugly tears that I'd been holding back for weeks. The journal cover fell from my hands as I buried my face in my palms, my whole body shaking with the force of emotions I'd tried so hard to suppress.

I heard footsteps, then felt the workbench creak as someone sat beside me. Not touching, not speaking, just present. Through my tears, I saw Huxley's work-roughened hands resting calmly on his knees.

"I used to build corporate empires," he said quietly after my sobs had quieted to hiccups. "In Seattle. My family expected me to take over the business, marry the right woman, produce the right heirs. I was suffocating under the weight of what everyone else wanted me to be."

I lifted my head, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. "What did you do?"

"I ran." His smile was rueful. "Came here to learn something real, something that was mine. Maria taught me that sometimes we have to disappoint everyone else to find ourselves."

I stared at him, this man who'd walked away from everything expected of him. "Weren't you scared?"

"Terrified," he admitted. "But less scared than I was of becoming someone I didn't recognize." He glanced at my tear-stained face. "You're not alone in feeling trapped by others' demands, Rose."

For the first time in weeks, the tight knot in my chest loosened slightly. Maybe Maria was right. Maybe I had to lose myself completely before I could find who I was meant to be.

And maybe I didn't have to do it alone.