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.

The shadow of the horse fell over her, a dark, terrifying eclipse. Candice was frozen, her mind screaming at her to run, but her feet were rooted to the spot.

A split second before the horse's hooves would have crushed her, a flash of white blurred past her peripheral vision. A polo ball, struck with impossible speed and precision, hit the stallion squarely on its muscled neck.

The stallion shrieked in pain and surprise, its trajectory shifting. It missed a direct hit, but its powerful hind leg caught Candice on the shoulder as it scrambled away.

The force was brutal. She was thrown through the air like a rag doll, landing hard on the grass and tumbling several feet before coming to a stop.

A searing, white-hot pain exploded in her shoulder. The world tilted, black spots dancing in her vision. As she lay on the ground, gasping, her dazed eyes caught a fleeting glimpse of a tall man in a simple black shirt, far across the field, who seemed to melt back into the shadows of the stables. It happened so fast she thought she might have imagined it.

She could hear Etta screaming her name, the frantic shouts of the stable staff.

Through a haze of pain, she pushed herself up on one elbow. A few yards away, two women in expensive dresses were watching, champagne glasses still in hand.

"That's the Luna girl, isn't it?" one of them said, her voice carrying on the breeze. "The one who just publicly humiliated Julius Hansen. Serves her right."

The other woman laughed. "Probably did it on purpose. A little 'damsel in distress' act to win him back. So pathetic."

The words were like needles, sharp and poisonous. The casual cruelty of it all. She remembered this feeling, this constant judgment, this dismissal of her pain.

Etta was by her side now, her face pale with terror. "Candice! Oh my god, are you okay?"

Candice gritted her teeth, pushing her friend's helping hands away. Using her good arm, she forced herself to her feet, a wave of dizziness washing over her.

She stood, swaying slightly, and locked eyes with the two women who had been gossiping. She said nothing, but her glare was so full of cold fury that they both took a step back, their smiles vanishing.

Leaning on Etta, Candice limped toward the on-site medical tent, each step a fresh agony.

The doctor confirmed it: a dislocated shoulder. "This is going to hurt," he said, and without further warning, he grabbed her arm and shoved the joint back into place.

Candice screamed, a raw, involuntary sound, as the bones ground together. Cold sweat drenched her body. She dug the nails of her good hand into the thin mattress of the cot, the pain a clarifying fire.

They gave her a clean shirt, as hers was torn and grass-stained. When she emerged from the tent, she saw the gossiping women were still there, now joined by a group of men. One of them, a hedge fund manager she recognized, was visibly drunk. His eyes roamed over her, lingering on the collarbone visible above the neckline of her new shirt.

"Well, well, look what we have here," the man slurred, staggering toward her. He blocked her path. "Need a ride home, little lady? A strong man to take care of you?"

"Get out of my way," Candice said, her voice low and dangerous.

His face darkened. "Playing hard to get? You can drop the act. Everyone knows Julius Hansen kicked you to the curb." He reached out a hand, aiming to grab her injured shoulder.

Etta tried to intervene, but he shoved her, sending her stumbling to the ground.

His fingers were inches from Candice's skin. She flinched back, a wave of nausea and disgust rising in her throat.

Suddenly, a hand shot out from behind her. It was large, tanned, and moved with impossible speed. It clamped around the fund manager's wrist like a vise.

There was a sickening crack.