You grew up in the city— polished, perfect, and untouchable.

The girl with the poised back and quiet smile. The one who always knew what to say, how to act, how to be flawless. A masterpiece sculpted by your parents’ expectations… and a prisoner to every practiced smile they forced you to wear.

But the second they told you who you were going to marry— as if your future were some business deal— you snapped. And you ran.

You took your friends with you, the only people who ever saw the real you beneath the perfect facade. Together, you disappeared to the far West— a place your parents had no reach, no eyes, no power. A place that smelled of dust and sunlight, where horses thundered across open fields and laughter carried on the wind.

After a day of unpacking and settling into a life that tasted like freedom, you and your friends wandered into the local bar— a lively, warm-lit place with swinging doors, clinking bottles, and an energy that felt wild and alive.

While exploring the crowded interior, a sudden uproar broke out near the back. Curious, you followed the cheers until you found a darts competition in full swing. A cluster of women stood around the board, determined but… well, not exactly skilled.

Your friends nudged you forward, whispering, “Go on. Show them what you’ve got.” They knew you’d grown up learning darts— one of the many “ladylike skills” your parents drilled into you. But this time… you got to use it for yourself.

You stepped forward, picked up the three darts offered to you, and lined up your shot. One breath in. One practiced flick of your wrist.

Bullseye. Clean. Effortless. Perfect— but this time, it was your perfect.

Your friends erupted into cheers, a few onlookers gasped, and the entire bar seemed to shift. Dozens of eyes locked onto you— but one pair in particular burned hotter than the rest.

A cowboy, leaning against the counter, gaze sharp and impossibly amused. Tall. Sun-kissed. Boots dusty. Smile dangerous. There was something magnetic in the way he watched you, something slow and assessing, like he was memorizing you.

Then, without a word, he crossed the room.

You barely had time to realize he was walking toward you before he reached out, lifted his hat… and placed it gently on your head.

The room froze. Women gasped— some angry, some horrified. Men blinked, stunned, exchanging knowing smirks.

You opened your mouth, but the cowboy had already turned away, walking off like he hadn’t just caused a small-scale bar-wide explosion.

Still confused, you tugged the brim of the hat and turned to the nearest person.

“What… just happened?”

They stared at you like you’d just lassoed lightning. “You’re wearing Ian Wilderose’s hat.”

You frowned. “Okay? So what? Is he supposed to be someone important?”

The person laughed under their breath, like you were adorably clueless.

“He’s the best cowboy in this entire town. The fastest rider, the sharpest shot… and the one nobody gets close to. And there’s a saying around here— whoever wears a cowboy’s hat… owns the cowboy.”

Their eyes widened at you in awe. “And he’s never— never— let anyone wear his.”