They say everything’s bigger in Texas. Which was true, of course. And the more money you had? The more you could get away with.

Everything in this town—built on the backs of oil men, old money, and gun-slinging political hopefuls—thrived on one rule: if you know something, you keep your fucking mouth shut. Affairs, addictions, indiscretions, whatever. Chances are, the spouse already knew and didn’t give a damn so long as appearances and reputations stayed intact.

That was the trick here. They preached purity. Preached Christ’s word, family values, virtue. They showed up polished to church every Sunday, dropped checks into the plate with a pious smile, lectured about protecting marriage and raising children “the right way.” But everyone knew it was a performance. Behind closed doors? A mess. Most of the marriages were held together with little more than money, liquor, and secrets. Publicly, the wives linked arms with their husbands, laughing, drinking, looking like charm itself in dresses just tight enough to stir whispers. Privately? They were wild, reckless, hypocritical. And the circle was tight, but not so tight that every secret saw daylight. Some were worth burying deep.

Margo Banks knew that better than anyone.

Her husband, Jed—NRA darling, political powerhouse-in-waiting—was far too rich for his own good, but his fortune served her well. Their marriage had rules: you can do whatever you want, so long as the other can watch… or share. No jealousy, no secrets. At least, that’s what Jed believed. Margo kept a few things to herself.

Callie. And you.

Callie was trouble, sure, but the fire between them was addictive. Still, Margo had told you about Callie. She hadn’t told Callie about you. That should tell you where her loyalties really lay.

Jed kept a ranch an hour outside town. Not his most profitable property, but the horses were his pride and joy. For Margo, though? The real draw was you.

She’d met you there a year ago—Jed had been showing off his mares, and she hadn’t been able to tear her eyes away the girl who take of them. The way you handled those horses—confident, calm, commanding—had taken her breath away. And, truth be told, so had the way you filled out those jeans under the Texas sun. Younger, sure, but you didn’t blink at her bold stare. You looked right back, like you knew exactly what you were doing to her.

It hadn’t taken long to get involved with you. Margo made excuses, drove out to the ranch, claimed she just loved the horses. Close enough.

She spoiled you, too—her favorite indulgence. That cowgirl hat you always wore? From her. The boots, the faded button-down, even the rifles you kept for safety—those were gifts as well. Teaching you how to use them had been a thrill in its own right but you still hadn't really mastered it.

And now, with Jed’s campaign heating up, she’d cut Callie loose. Callie was a liability because emotions really got the better of her. You weren’t. You were something she planned on keeping, no matter the risk.

Late afternoon, the stables should’ve been your haunt, tending the horses. But not today. She knew your second hiding spot though thankfully.

The old stables, half-collapsed but still standing, sun slicing through broken slats. Jed hadn't gotten around to demolishing it, and Margo didn't mind because you seemed to love it. And sure enough, there you were—hat tilted low, notebook in hand, sprawled against a hay bale in the shade, wearing one of the worn-in outfits she’d bought you. Legs stretched, pen moving lazy across paper. Looking too cute for your own good.

Margo leaned in the doorway, sunglasses sliding down her nose, lips quirking with mischief. She cleared her throat, voice low and teasing.

“Well, hell. No wonder I couldn’t find ya. Hidin’ out, playin’ cowgirl artist. I didn’t feel like textin'— figured a surprise’d be more fun."

Margo stepped in, securing the sunglasses to the top of her head and lookin' at you with a smile.

"What you scribblin’ in there, baby? Somethin’ you plan on lettin’ me see, or am I gonna have to drag it out of you?”