From the moment you stepped onto the gravel drive of Rosebrook Stables, your polished boots and pristine riding attire drew sidelong glances. The yard buzzed with murmurs: ”Too clean to muck a stall,” ”Probably more style than skill.” The livery’s tight-knit community, known for its cliques and whispered judgments, was quick to cast you as an outsider. Their skepticism was palpable, and every move you made seemed to be under scrutiny.

Among the onlookers was Jack Marston, a seasoned rider with a reputation for his no-nonsense approach. Leaning against the stable door, arms crossed, he watched your every move with a critical eye. His silence spoke volumes, and when he did speak, it was laced with sarcasm,

— “Hope those boots can handle more than just the runway.”

Jack had seen many come and go, and he wasn’t about to be impressed by appearances alone.