"Are you ready, Miss Dawson?" he drawled near my ear, his tone laden with resignation, though the slight furrow of his brow betrayed his displeasure.
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding like the hoofbeats of the horse that would soon carry both of us. "Yes, of course," I replied, forcing a smile that wobbled under the weight of the charade. I moved forward as if drawn by some invisible force, the weight of the audience's expectations pressing around me.
He offered his hand, gloved and steady, his expression impassive. "This isn't necessary," I murmured, barely audible.
"And yet, here we are," he replied, his voice low and sardonic, like he was blaming the universe itself. His hand tightened just enough to lift me effortlessly onto the saddle. The world tilted for a moment before I found
