The hot water in the cottage shower wasn’t strong enough to wash away every last trace of Revan Caldwell on her skin.
Beneath the streaming spray, Alesya stared at her own palms.
The burning sensation lingered there.
Not a physical wound but a muscle memory: the feeling of pressing her bare hands to that man’s chest, the wild thrum of his heartbeat beneath his hard, sweat-slicked skin, and the way the muscle in his left bicep had twitched when her fingers pressed into the knot of tension at his shoulder.
“And you?
Are you not broken too, Dr.
Vargas?”
That rough, low voice still echoed in her head, refusing to fade.
Alesya twisted the faucet shut with a sharp, jerky motion.
She hated the fact that her body reacted to him far faster than her mind ever could.
Revan Caldwell was a predator in his own world a billionaire with absolute control, engaged to a renowned heiress, a ticking time bomb ready to go off at any moment.
He was nothing more than her patient.
He had to be.
Alesya wrapped a thick white towel around herself and walked over to the small wooden desk in the corner of the bedroom.
This morning, for the first time in eight months, there was a glimmer of hope.
Phantom had crossed the first ground pole without fear.
It was more than just a small step for a horse; it was proof that her method her approach built on neurological connection and trust, developed over years of work actually worked.
If she could get Phantom to the Grand Prix, her name would be etched into the American equestrian world.
This three-month contract would cover every last cent of her mother’s remaining hospital bills back in Medellín.
She would be free.
Independent.
Untouchable.
With a rare, faint smile touching her lips, Alesya opened her old laptop.
She typed out her detailed daily clinical report, attached a short video clip of Phantom’s progress, and sent it to the only person she trusted in this country: Dr.
Camila Santos, in Ocala.
Subject: Breakthrough, Day 2: Groundwork Baseline Successfully Established.
She clicked Send, then let out a long, slow breath that felt lighter than air.
For a few minutes, she truly believed fate had finally stopped toying with her.
Then her phone buzzed beside her laptop.
Not a text message.
An incoming call from Camila.
Alesya smiled and pressed the phone to her ear.
“Morning, Camila.
Did you see the video?
He responded completely without sedation…”
“Alesya.”
Camila’s voice cut her off.
There was no trace of pride.
No warmth, no familiar laugh.
Camila’s tone was cold, stiff, and heavy with such quiet dread that Alesya’s skin prickled all over.
“Camila?
What’s wrong?”
“Lock your door.
Right now.”
Alesya’s heart gave a strange, hard lurch.
Without thinking, she pulled her towel tighter and glanced at the locked cottage door.
“It’s locked.
Tell me what’s going on.”
A heavy sigh came through the line.
“The official advisory board roster for the Winter Equestrian Festival was posted ten minutes ago, across the university network.”
The blood in Alesya’s veins turned to ice.
“Don’t tell me…”
“He’s there, Alesya,” Camila whispered, her voice thick with bitterness.
“Dr.
Sebastián Montero has been invited as International Honorary Consultant by the WEF central committee.
He’s being sponsored directly by the Ashworth Consortium.”
The world seemed to tilt on its axis, gravity slipping away beneath her feet.
The ground beneath her crumbled, dropping her into a bottomless, dark chasm.
Sebastián.
Here in Wellington.
Sponsored by the Ashworths… Revan Caldwell’s fiancée’s family.
A high, sharp ringing filled her ears.
Memories crashed into her like shards of broken glass: that night in Bogotá when she’d found her laptop hacked; three years of dissertation research vanished without a trace; Sebastián standing in the dean’s office, smiling that cold, cruel smile as he accused her of falsifying data.
The same man who had kissed her forehead and sworn he would make her his equal partner the man who had destroyed her academic career, ensured no clinic in all of Latin America would ever hire her, and published every single one of her equine behavior theories under his own name.
And now that parasite had come here.
To the very place where she was piecing her life back together, one shard at a time.
“Alesya?
Are you still there?” Camila’s voice rose, sharp with alarm.
“Listen to me.
Do nothing reckless.
If you’re staying at Blackstone Estate, you’re far too exposed.
If Sebastián sees you working Revan Caldwell’s horse…”
“He’ll know,” Alesya whispered, her voice tightening in her throat.
“He’ll know the method I’m using on Phantom is mine — the one he claimed as his own.”
“And he has the authority to revoke your temporary Florida license before you can prove a single thing,” Camila warned, clear and firm.
“The Ashworth family holds terrifying political influence over that committee.
You need to be extraordinarily careful.
Or… walk away now, before it’s too late.”
Walk away.
The words tasted like poison on her tongue.
“I can’t walk away, Camila.” Alesya’s voice trembled, then hardened, forged by a deep, ancient anger that burned through her chest.
“My mother needs dialysis next week.
And I will not let that bastard steal my future from me a second time.”
She ended the call, her hand shaking violently.
Her whole body felt ice-cold.
Her breathing came fast and ragged, chest rising and falling sharply beneath the towel.
She gripped the edge of the wooden desk so hard her fingertips blanched white.
Nausea rose, burning hot in her stomach.
She needed air.
She needed out of this small room that suddenly felt like a coffin.
Thirty minutes later, Alesya stood out at the west turnout paddock.
She had changed into a deep red flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, and dark jeans that fit close to her frame.
Her hair was pulled back in a loose, hurried tie damp strands clung to her pale cheeks.
Phantom was grazing beneath the shade of a great oak tree.
But the moment Alesya stepped toward the wooden fence, the stallion lifted his head.