PART 1 — Jackson Hole, Wyoming
The ranch garden in Jackson Hole was glowing under soft lights when I arrived—the kind that make everything look prettier than it really is.
White flowers lined the path, expensive blooms I couldn’t name, flown in from somewhere warm and arranged like money had its own fragrance. A string quartet played by the fountain, their music drifting over the low hum of voices, laughter, and champagne glasses kissing.
Everyone looked relaxed and sure of themselves—dressed like they belonged to this world. I felt like I’d stepped into someone else’s life by mistake.
My name is Leila. I’m thirty-one, and I manage Whitmore Ridge Ranch—the land my mom and dad left behind when they passed.
Tonight, I wasn’t here as the ranch manager.
Tonight, I was here as the bride’s younger sister.
Marianne.
My sister.
The woman who used to braid my hair when we were kids. The one who used to swear she’d always protect me.
Standing in that garden, I realized how long it had been since I’d felt like her sister instead of a distant relative she tolerated out of obligation.
Most of the guests were city people—Denver, Boulder, places where everyone talks fast and measures success in promotions and square footage. I recognized almost no one.
Their conversations floated past me like perfume.
Real estate.
Investments.
Travel plans.
Someone laughed about traffic like it was a shared trauma.
I adjusted my dress—simple, modest, chosen carefully so I wouldn’t stand out.
But I stood out anyway.
Not because of what I wore.
Because of what I was.
The ranch clung to me in ways I could never scrub off. The way I stood. The way my hands looked. The way I spoke like the wind and dust had raised me.
I paused at the edge of the crowd and took a slow breath.
If you’re reading this right now, I wonder where you are. Maybe folding laundry, driving home, or holding a cup of coffee that went cold without you noticing.
Me?
I was under a Wyoming sky, surrounded by strangers, about to lose something I didn’t even know could be taken from me.
Marianne looked stunning. I’ll give her that.
Her dress was sleek and magazine-perfect, fitted like it was made for her body alone. Her hair was swept up with every strand disciplined into place. She looked calm—almost regal—like she’d finally become the woman she’d always wanted to be.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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