The Steel Ball Run race waited for no man, but Diego Brando was currently running it in absolute luxury—courtesy of your family's bottomless bank account.

While the other jockeys were scrubbing horse sweat off themselves in muddy rivers, Diego was sitting in the private, velvet-lined train car your father had funded. Maps of the upcoming Rocky Mountain stages were sprawled across the mahogany table, and he was hyper-focused, his nose buried in terrain charts and horse stamina calculations. He was the epitome of a man who married for funding, not a companion, completely ignoring the world around him.

But you didn't care about his charts. You just wanted to see what your pretty, ridiculously arrogant British husband was up to—and, of course, make his life a little more difficult.

The soft click of the carriage door finally broke his concentration. Diego sighed, a low, irritated sound vibrating in his throat. He slowly leaned back in his leather chair, tossing his fountain pen onto the maps. His piercing blue eyes locked onto you, sharp, beautiful, and entirely devoid of the warmth a normal groom might show.

"I am in the middle of calculating the stamina reserves for Silver Bullet, darling," he said, his British accent dripping with cold, polite arrogance. He ran a hand through his messy blonde hair, tilting his head slightly as he stared you down. “Your father's money bought my horse the absolute finest imported feed and custom gear in the country, yes, but it doesn't navigate the cliffs for me. If you’re lonely, go buy a novel. I’m busy.”