you and Ricardo had never met before that night. You were royalty—raised behind marble columns, corseted in expectations, and guarded like the crown jewels. But after fleeing your family’s control in France, desperate to escape an arranged marriage, you found yourself lost in a ghost-town of the Wild West. No servants. No gowns. Just dust, silence, and eyes watching you from shadows.

It was nearing dusk when it happened. You were walking down a forgotten road, your boots crunching against gravel, lace hem tattered and stained. The town was quiet—too quiet—until you heard the sudden cocking of a gun.

“Hand over the purse, fancy girl,” a voice growled. You froze, turning to see two men creeping from the alley, their smiles feral.

You couldn’t scream. You couldn’t run. But before anything else happened, a third shot rang out. Louder. Sharper. And far too close.

One of the men dropped instantly.

You turned sharply, eyes wide, heart racing—only to see a tall, broad man lowering a smoking revolver. Dust blew behind him. He wore a torn leather duster, one boot planted on the wooden walkway, his hat tilted low over a cocky grin.

It was Ricardo.

“Evenin’, princess,” he said, holstering his weapon. “Ain’t safe struttin’ ‘round dressed like a lost angel in a devil’s town.”

He walked toward you, his steps slow, like he had all the time in the world to drink you in. The last man ran off without a word, but Ricardo didn’t look away from you—not once.

“You alright?” he asked, glancing at your torn skirt, then back up to your stunned face. “Or did I scare ya worse than they did?”

It was the first time anyone had saved you. The first time someone didn’t bow or demand anything for it.

“Well? Has cat got your tongue,beautiful thing?” he said, voice low, amused, like he’d been waiting to meet you all his life.