"Ladies and gentlemen, that concludes the fourth chukker of this afternoon's match. As our players and ponies take a brief intermission, we kindly invite you to join us on the field for our long-standing tradition—the stomping of the divots. Please watch your step on the grass, keep an eye out for any remaining moisture, and enjoy the hospitality at the club pavilions."
The static click of the public address system had barely faded before the grandstands emptied. A privileged crowd flooded the lawn, a tidal wave of Christian Louboutin red bottoms, sleek Jimmy Choos, and butter-soft leather loafers stepping onto the battered earth. Almost every hand held a crystal champagne flute or a sweating wine glass, liquid sloshing gently as the spectators drifted outward.
The tradition of "stomping the divots" invariably turned the polo field into a rolling sea of linen, silk, and whispered indiscretions. It was the ultimate high-society mixer—a chance to bridge the gap between the high-stakes silence of the match and the unfiltered gossip of the grass. Hundreds of people moved across the field, pushing patches of torn earth back into the ground.
A pristine, hand-burnished John Lobb Oxford sank slightly into a soft patch of mud, its owner nudging a dislodged clod of clover back into place. The gentleman adjusted his sunglasses, his conversational flow as fluid as the horses had been moments before, a mingling of high fashion and low politics.
"I swear, Luvia Fashion Week cannot come soon enough," a woman beside him murmured, adjusting a wide-brimmed straw hat as she copied his movement.
"Fashion Week is the least of our worries if Mr. Slater gets his way," he replied, his voice dropping into a harsh, patrician sneer. A chorus of quiet, venomous agreements rippled through their immediate radius. The rising popularity of the liberal politician was a dark cloud over the afternoon; the mere mention of his name curdled the champagne. "The man is a lunatic. A 60% taxation! He won't be satisfied until he removes each brick from our estates to fund his little socialist experiments."
"He's a charlatan playing to the galleries," another man spat, viciously grinding a chunk of dislodged clay back into the soil with a bespoke heel. "The country's wealth is centralized in Springbrook. The jobs we create are essential across the country, yet Mr. Slater wishes to treat us like criminals simply because we have the good sense and fortune to be wealthy."
A few paces over, the heavy political dread melted into a different kind of calculation. A trio draped in pristine, unblemished designer labels—sharp cuts and stiff fabrics that practically shouted their recent acquisition—moved with a hyper-vigilant sort of grace. They were trying desperately to look like they belonged, but their eyes were too active, scanning the crowd like scouts mapping a battlefield.
Margo, a striking woman in a tailored silk dress that was just a shade too vibrant for the old-money crowd, fluttered a glossy polo program in front of her face. The rhythmic click-clack of the heavy cardstock masked her hushed, razor-sharp voice.
"Look left," Margo murmured, barely moving her lips. "By the white marquee. What about him?"
She subtly tilted the edge of her pamphlet toward Koda, who was effortlessly commanding the space he stood in. As she did, Margo discreetly rolled her shoulders, trying to dislodge a nagging discomfort beneath her arm. Internally, she cursed the blistering afternoon heat; the tiny, clear plastic baggie containing the dress's spare button—carefully tucked away to hide the pristine designer tags—had begun sticking to her sweaty skin. The dress was bound for a return counter on Monday morning, provided she didn't spill champagne on it today, and the constant fear of ruining the carefully chosen disguise plagued her mind.
Felicity, positioned perfectly between Margo and their handsome companion, didn't even look up from her champagne flute. She already had the entire registry memorized. "Koda. Middle child of the Beckford dynasty. Net worth is deep in the billions. Single, but he's a career player. High short-term yield, zero long-term security. He's definitely not the type to bring you home to his mother, Margo."
Chad, adjusting the cuffs of a Tom Ford blazer that still possessed its razor-thin showroom creases, shifted his gaze across the lawn. He nodded subtly toward a gathering a few yards away.
"What about her? The redhead," Chad asked, his voice low and hungry.
Felicity's eyes narrowed just a fraction as she evaluated the target. "Carrie. Head of the Wilson Group. Newly separated, if the morning wires are to be believed. She's firmly in the billionaire club, but her stock is taking a temporary beating because of the drama. She could be looking for a rebound, and she historically prefers structured relationships and older men. You might struggle to fit the profile there, Chad. You lack the... gravity she usually favors."
Chad offered a smooth, dangerous smile. "Desperate divorcees are my specialty."
Insulated from the political grumblings by her own pending divorce proceedings, Carrie moved through her circle with a fragile but defiant grace. The sky blue dress she wore swirled gently around her shins in the light afternoon breeze.
"I appreciate the support, really," she said, her voice bright despite the strain on her smile. Feeling suddenly overwhelmed by the absolute lack of judgment from her closest friends, she hid uncomfortably for a brief second behind a heavy curtain of her auburn hair.
"You know we're all here for you, Carrie," Mimi said gently, using her knuckle to carefully adjust her thick, black-rimmed glasses. Her thin legs, clad in a sleek, ash gray pants suit, shifted as she pressed a loose piece of dislodged divot back into the earth with a comfortable leather loafer.
"We've got your back. No matter what. There's no way we're going to let that scum Peter—" Natalia, who easily towered over the rest of the women in the circle, nodded in firm agreement.
She cut herself off mid-sentence as her thin stiletto heel sank deep into the soft grass. Harrison, her husband, instantly caught her waist, lifting her effortlessly back out of the sinking turf. They shared a sweet, private look, and Natalia leaned up on her toes to give him a soft kiss on his cheek. He squeezed her waist ever so slightly in return. Reaching up, she adjusted the oversized shades pushed up into her rich, chocolate brown hair.
Sensing the heavy atmosphere settling over them, Koda stepped forward. His pristine white suit caught the blinding sun, making his dark skin seem to possess an ethereal, polished glow. He held a crystal champagne flute loosely in his hand, taking long, casual sips of the amber liquid while offering smooth, distant nods to passing business acquaintances.
"If you want, we could all come over tonight," Koda suggested, a cunning, charming smile starting to play on his lips, putting his pearly whites on full display. "Make it a rager."
The rest of the group exchanged a flurry of glances, a mixture of sudden excitement and mild apprehension flashing through the circle. A couple of them began to murmur over one another.
"Yeah, we should totally do that!"
"Come on, say yes."
"It would be fun, Carrie. You need some fun right now."
Carrie offered a half-hearted smile, a small laugh bubbling to the surface as their looks of growing excitement nearly infected her as well. Though she could still smile and laugh on the outside, she simply wasn't in the best place for a rager.
"I don't think I'll be great company," Carrie said, looking around the circle. "I'm actually... I mean, I'll probably just go home and cry." She said it as if it were a joke, but there was an edge of seriousness to her words that made everyone worried.
An awkward, somber silence threatened to swallow the group. Unaffected by the growing heavy tone, Gigi unexpectedly was the first to break it. Her luminous blonde hair swayed brightly against her shoulders as she spoke. She was dressed in her signature color—a soft, delicate pink—and the tight, strapless dress hugged her chest so perfectly it made her silhouette look almost surgically enhanced.
"I bought a new tiara recently," Gigi announced blithely. Internally, she smiled; she hadn't found a single worthy reason to wear her new prized possession yet, and this was the absolute perfect excuse—especially now that her body was back in peak form.
The entire group snapped their heads toward her, startled and profoundly confused, entirely unsure what her weekend shopping trip had to do with being there for Carrie.
Rolling her eyes at their blank expressions, Gigi continued with a triumphant smile, "Let's have a party. You bring the tears, the rest of us have tiaras."
Despite herself, Carrie burst out laughing, thoroughly amused by the sheer absurdity of the idea. As she laughed, her nose reddened slightly, making the faint dusting of freckles along her face stand out beautifully against her skin. The rest of the circle nodded in quick, relieved agreement. It felt like the perfect blend—a space that allowed Carrie to ugly-cry if she wanted to, while the rest of them dressed like absolute fools in hopes of cheering her up.
"I promise to bring the most glorious tiara you've ever seen," Fuhad announced, puffing out his chest with theatrical bravado. He was still fully decked out in his dirt-stained, sweat-dampened polo gear—padded knee guards, heavy boots, and white breeches—which made his grand, aristocratic proclamation look hilariously out of place on the grass.
Nala gave her brother a sidelong look before punching him playfully in his padded arm. "Stay out of my jewelry room," she warned, though her laughter softened the threat. She fanned herself with a silk fan as the brutal afternoon humidity was already working on her natural hair, causing her rich black coils to bounce beautifully with every sudden movement.
Standing just a few paces behind Nala was Jiho. As they walked, he casually rolled up the crisp cuff of his shirt sleeve just a fraction, a jagged hint of dark black ink peeking out from the edges of his wrist. He was close enough to catch a faint, intoxicating whiff of Nala's perfume and the warmth of her smile, but he purposefully kept a careful distance between them. Jiho certainly wasn't immune to Nala's striking beauty, but it did nothing to change his firm stance on wanting to remain stubbornly single.
From his perspective, he watched the way her white dress fanned out beautifully at her hips with every step, the bright, architectural fabric making him think, for some poetic reason, of a wild orchid opening in the heat. But he stayed back. Cognizant of his best friend's discomfort with their new reality, Jiho knew that Fuhad, like himself, was actively grappling with the silent, agonizing fact that his best friend was now about to join his bloodline.
Further down the field, Warwick leaned in toward Conrad. For once, the normally playful man had dropped all of his defensive, blustering charm; he spoke to Conrad as one father to another.
"Those two seem quite comfortable," Warwick noted, his voice a low hum. But as he watched the two walking incredibly close, he wondered if Vivian knew that she was engaged to the man she seemed to be getting rather familiar with. He feared what it would do to their relationship for her to be caught off guard. "Does she know?"
Conrad waved the question off with a dismissive flick of his wrist. He wouldn't concern himself with his daughter's emotional regulation; she was cold and dignified. "No need. My daughter is very compliant." Yet, although he had faith in the lived experience of his daughter's obedient nature, he wasn't eager to test where her hidden rebellion might come from. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned in, his words a low murmur. "Forewarned is just an excuse for theatrics."
He wouldn't allow himself to be dragged into a childish tantrum. Though his face remained stoic, Warwick felt unsettled, but not enough to openly question Conrad's paternal knowledge.
"You know best," Warwick conceded, nodding slowly. "She is not yet our family. It wouldn't be appropriate to get involved in your family's... dealings?"
Before her feet could even hit the field, Orlando caught Aubrey by the waist just as she began to drift toward the young ones who seemed to be gathered in a lively conversation.
"Do not go over there. Leave them alone," Orlando chided, his arm a firm but loving barrier.
"I just want to hear what they're saying," Aubrey protested, leaning her weight back against him. Her brown hair fluttered around her shoulders from the sudden stop, shifting the small, exquisite pearl-and-diamond fascinator pinned to her head. She tilted her head back, her big brown eyes staring up at him as her gloved hand came to rest gently against his chest. "Can a mother not show interest in her son?"
"Aubrey, he's a man. For all you know, they're talking about bumping uglies."
"Oh, do not be so crass!" she hissed, though a bright flush crept onto her cheeks and a smile played on her lips. Looking out toward the grass, her eyes tracked her son, Gunner, as he shared a conversation with Vivian. Staring at the two felt as if she were being transported directly into the past; the easy way in which they spoke and even exchanged a simple, familiar touch reminded her so much of Orlando and how they were when they were young—and of his devastatingly handsome good looks that still hadn't left him to this day. Turning away from them, she looked up at her husband. "My son is a perfect gentleman, unlike his father," she said lightly.
Orlando laughed. "Our son is a dog who has duped his mother thoroughly."
Aubrey scoffed, glaring up at her husband as she tried to pull her gloved hand away from his chest, but Orlando was too quick. He deftly recaptured both of her hands, kissing her knuckles sweetly and causing her cheeks to warm even further. He stared down at his wife with the same burning intensity he'd possessed decades ago. "You are as beautiful as you are naive, my dear. But right now, I require your undivided attention."
Aubrey chuckled girlishly, interlocking her fingers tightly with his. "We are in public, Orlando," she teased, but she felt that familiar nineteen-year-old giddiness fluttering in her chest. On the Hill, marriages were often contracts, but what they had built was a masterpiece beyond ink on paper.
"Still running?"
The voice was a low vibration dangerously close to Vivian's ear. She didn't have to turn to know Gunner was right behind her.
"I wasn't hiding. I was evading," she corrected, stomping a divot with far more force than necessary. Internally, she gridlocked; there were simply far too many people she needed to avoid today.
"I'm not going to sit with your family," Vivian continued, refusing to look up as she ran her fingers through her wavy hair. "It would be like telling the entire Hill that we were... I don't know, something we're not."
As she went to aggressively stomp another stubborn divot, her stiletto caught a ridge, and she nearly toppled over completely. Instinctively, her hands reached out, her arms wrapping tightly around Gunner's waist as she anchored herself firmly against his chest.
Gunner let out a low, amused chuckle, looking down at her trapped against him. "Doing something? I mean, we're definitely doing something."
At his words, Vivian quickly righted herself back onto her own two feet, smoothing her posture and throwing him a perfectly bland, unamused stare. "Way to over-exaggerate, Mama's Boy," she joked, masking the spike in her pulse. "I clearly remember us doing very little."
Gunner leaned in even closer, completely unphased. "I should tell you now, I have a kink for foreplay. It'll last for days," he said smoothly, firing back in defense of his previous fumble.
Vivian rolled her eyes, though a hot flush crept up her neck. "Oh yeah, I'm dripping wet with anticipation."
"I think I need to check for proof. Just to confirm my skills are still as sharp as I think they are." Gunner's smile was wide as he gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him.
"But what if your mom calls?" Vivian laughed, slapping his hand away and walking ahead.
"I have a feeling you're never going to forget that."
"Definitely not. I don't think I've ever been cock-blocked by a guy's mother before."
"I'll have you know, it rarely happens," Gunner said, his own face heating up with a rare flash of embarrassment.
Vivian slowed her pace, her thumb brushing the inner side of his wrist—a subtle, intimate gesture that no one in the stands could have parsed. "Don't sweat it. It's sweet that you and your mom are so close. Does she still braid your hair?" She couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up at his expense.
"Oh, you little—"
Gunner didn't hesitate. He hauled her up into his arms, lifting her clean off the grass. Vivian's face went from amused to bright red in a split second.
"People are looking! Put me down! Oh my God, Gunner, put me down right now—my mother is going to freak!"
"Are you going to call me a Mama's Boy?"
"Fuck yes! Put me down!"
Chuckling, Gunner set her back on her feet. Vivian immediately used Gunner's broad frame as a physical shield, subtly stepping backward out of the direct line of sight of their nearby friends, smoothing her vibrant green dress while ignoring the confused, questioning looks vibrating from their group.
"Oh, you're a dickhead," she muttered behind his shoulder, though there was no real heat in it.
"Little bit," he smiled, remaining perfectly unbothered.
"I am so going to get you back."
"Can't wait, babe."
Author's note:
I know I am behind. But this is still chapter 23. I can't believe I made it so big and didn't even notice. And now I'm just trying to piece it together without giving you like a 10, 000 word chapter. I have one more section of chapter 23 to make into these smaller sections. I can't find the next chapter that comes after this one. I have to redo it from scratch. So annoying!