To make matters worse, I’m fucking broke. Like, terrifyingly, zero dollars to my name kind of broke. Financially cut off. Fully exiled. Tossed from the Ajemian fortune like I’m a spoiled carton of oat milk.
Now I’m flying to Tennessee—yes,Tennessee—to live on some fucking cattle and horse ranch run by my dad’s so called best friend. A man I’ve never met. If I had to make an educated guess, he probably wears Wrangler jeans unironically and thinks the highlight of his day is watching QVC and yelling at the weather.
I’m going to fucking die out there.
What about my shopping sprees? My spontaneous beach trips with the girls? My book hauls and overpriced matcha?
Oh. My. God.
No more music festivals.
Just throw me off the fucking plane now and save us all the trouble.
What the actual fuck am I supposed to do out there? Ride a horse? Clean a stall? Corral cows, and pretend I’m living my Yellowstone fantasy?
No fucking way.
My thoughts spiral so fast that it feels like my brain is going to explode. My fingers are tingling, and my chest feels heavy. I can’t breathe, and I swear I’m going to pass out if I don’t do something. I reach for the remote, pressing play on John Summit’s latest track, Tears. Upbeat techno floods the jet’s cabin, pulsing through the leather seats.
It helps, kinda.
My eyes drift toward the window, the outside world a blur of clouds and soft golden light. My reflection flickers against the glass—long brown hair pulled into a high ponytail, tied back with my signature lavender bow. Mamí used to put bows in my hair when I was little; she said they were my crown. I never stopped wearing them, even after she passed. It’s stupid, but it’s the one piece of her I still hold onto.
The rest of me screams high maintenance, because how else am I supposed to arrive in Tennessee? A fresh spray tan kisses my skin, and a black Louis Vuitton sweat set hugs every curve of my body just right. My black LV slides are still crisp, and I have a fresh pedicure. Both of my wrists are stacked with gold Cartier love bracelets, with rings to match.
I cross my arms tightly across my chest, as my perfectly manicured nails dig into the sleeves of my sweatshirt, to feel something solid beneath my skin. What I wouldn’t give to feel my mom’s arms around me right now, pulling me into her perfume, her warmth, and her soft voice telling me I’m going to be okay.
I blink hard, but a tear slips free anyway, carving a slow path down my cheek.
The intercom crackles, a robotic voice slicing through the cabin. “Thank you for choosing JetLuxe. We’ve arrived in Tennessee. Humid conditions throughout the day. Enjoy your stay.”
The speaker clicks off, leaving only the sound of the bass and my heartbeat roaring in my ears.
Perfect.
The stairs unfoldwith a low mechanical groan, and the second the jet door cracks open, it hits me.
Tennessee.
The air is thick and sticks to my skin like sweat-slicked regret. It’s humid and freaking suffocating. Within seconds, I feel like I’m melting in places I don’t want to talk about.
I tug my black Prada sunglasses down over my face, blocking the sun from burning holes into my retinas. The railing sizzles under my palm as I grip it, taking slow, deliberate steps down the staircase like I’m walking into my funeral. A sleek black rental waits at the curb.
No welcome sign. No flowers. No one is holding an iced matcha latte with my name on it.
Figures.
I offer the driver a tight, fake-ass smile before sliding into the backseat. Cool air blasts my face, and I moan out loud in relief. Thank fuck for air conditioning. I dig into my bag, grabbing my phone, and against my better judgment,shoot off a quick message to my father. Not that he deserves it. But, some toxic little part of me still wants him to care.
Catalina
Made it to Tennessee, headed to the ranch now.
Vartan
My nostrils flare so hard I nearly fog up my sunglasses. A fucking thumbs up emoji? That’s what I get? I could’ve texted him from a ditch and he would’ve sent the same goddamn thing.
I toss my phone back into my purse. It thuds against a tangle of receipts and lip gloss like it’s just as fed up as I am. My whole body tenses. My chest aches with that familiar squeeze that comes in waves—anger mixed with abandonment, stirred with just a dash of ‘fuck my life.’
