"Aaaa!"
"Oof!"
"Haaa!"
"Urrg!"
These were the sounds Patricia made every time she failed to catch Speed on the racetrack.
It was high noon, and just like the past four days, Ben had woken her before sunrise and handed her the same grueling task. No sooner had she caught her breath than the other trainers arrived, piling on drills for the upcoming races.
"Urrg!" Patricia groaned, collapsing onto the dusty ground after yet another failed attempt. She'd been close—so close—but that trainer... that devil in disguise always intercepted her before she could grab the reins.
Flat on her back, Patricia stared up at the cloudless blue sky, chest heaving, frustration clawing at her throat.
"Tsk, tsk... I guess you weren't meant for this after all."
The voice sliced through her like a whip. Her stomach tightened with rage.
She opened her eyes slowly and turned her head. There he was—mounted on his fiery brown horse with its cream-colored mane and tail. Unlike his usual casual western chic, today he wore a full derby racing outfit: navy blue with polished black boots. His golden hair was tucked neatly beneath a black helmet, and in one gloved hand he held a sleek black whip.
He looked like a poster boy for equestrian excellence. But to Patricia, he was the devil incarnate. In her mind, she added bull horns to his helmet and imagined his brown eyes glowing red—just to complete the image.
She sighed and turned her gaze back to the sky.
"Maybe you should quit while you still can," Ben continued, voice dripping with disdain. "Otherwise, you'll embarrass yourself at the derby and bring shame to your good old man. Tsk... I expected better."
With that, he stirred his horse and trotted back to the starting line, leaving Patricia sprawled in the dirt.
Her heart clenched. Maybe he was right. Maybe she wasn't cut out for this. If she was, why did she keep failing?
"Oh, Dad... Am I really going to bring you shame instead of victory?" she whispered, blinking back the sting of tears. But she refused to cry.
"Are you okay?"
The voice startled her. She turned to see a man with short black curls, deep-set eyes, plush lips, and a sharply defined nose. His medium-toned muscles filled out a dark green and black derby outfit, his boots dusted but polished.
"Do you need help?" he asked again.
"It's okay, Carlos. I'm fine," Patricia replied, forcing a smile.
She sighed and stood, brushing dirt from her clothes. Carlos handed her a cloth. She hesitated, then took it.
"Thanks," she muttered, wiping herself off as she walked away.
"You know," Carlos called out, "sometimes you don't have to chase something to get it."
She paused, turning to look at him.
"A good mentor once told me," he continued, "that sometimes you just have to wait—but stay in control. What you're chasing might come to you. Speed doesn't always win the cup. Strategy, patience... a little psychology—that's what gets you there."
Patricia opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but Carlos had already started walking away, his eyes flicking toward Ben, who was watching him like a hawk.
"Wait... Carlos!" she called, taking a step forward.
Poom!
The blowhorn echoed across the track, halting her.
"Come on, Miss Milton!" Ben barked. "I'm already being generous by letting you try again. Otherwise, I'd call this off and tell Mr. Saccoth he bet on the wrong person! Now get back to the starting line!"
Patricia's chest burned with fury. She wanted to scream, to hurl every insult she'd bottled up. But instead, she took a deep breath, steadied herself, and marched back toward the starting line.
Ben could already see it—Patricia was riled up, ready to lash out. Her eyes burned with frustration, her body tense with fury. He knew his words had cut deep. But they had to.
She was the first woman daring to take on the thrill of the fame-and-glory track. And that meant the road ahead would be brutal. Narcissistic vultures would circle, waiting to tear her down. She had to be strong—mentally, physically, emotionally. If he didn't toughen her now, they'd break her later.
He was impressed, though. Most men didn't last more than two days under his training. But this woman—this beautiful, stubborn belle—had surpassed his expectations. He could see her nearing the edge, but she hadn't cracked. Not yet.
Still, he couldn't ease up. The path she'd chosen was littered with snakes, thorns, and dung. And she was expected to walk through it. So he'd make sure she was ready. Or she wouldn't last long in the game.
"Mmm…"
Ben snapped out of his thoughts as Patricia cleared her throat.
"Oh, Miss Milton. My apologies—I got lost in my head," he said, dismounting and walking toward Speed.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
Patricia scoffed. "Do you really want me to answer that?"
Ben smirked. "I guess not… Hyaah!"
He smacked Speed's flank, and the horse bolted into a full gallop.
Patricia braced herself to sprint after him—until Carlos's words echoed in her mind:
"Sometimes you don't have to chase something to get it. You just have to wait—but be the one in control."
"Speed doesn't always win the cup. Strategy, patience… psychology."
She stayed rooted, watching Speed disappear down the track.
Ben frowned. "What are you doing? If you want to catch that horse in record time, you'd better start running. Or you'll fail this training completely. Are you willing to take that risk?"
"Actually… I am," Patricia said, stepping forward.
"I'm taking this risk to prove you wrong. That I'm not some pushover. I'm not a weak girl that mere words from narcissistic assholes can just crush my dreams, the ones that I had been working hard for. I am Patricia Milton—the daughter of the world's greatest horse derby racer. I'll give my sweat and blood to keep my family's legacy alive on that track. And I will never give up or give in to scumbags like you who think that just because I have breasts, I'm not worthy of of experiencing the thrill of fame and glory!"
Her voice rose, fierce and unwavering.
"I will race in the derby. I will stand in that winner's circle—whether you want it or not!"
Before Bernard could respond, Patricia turned and whistled—a sharp, distinct sound.
Speed turned mid-gallop and raced back toward her, neighing loudly. He circled her once, then nudged her gently with his nose.
Patricia smiled and took his reins, rubbing his mane.
"Good boy. That's my good boy," she whispered.
Then she turned to Bernard, who stood frozen, astonished.
"I believe I've passed your little test," she said with a smirk. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another training session to prepare for. You might want to see a doctor—looks like your face has been hit hard with a bad case of a crushed ego. Have a good day, Bernard."
With that, she led Speed back to the stables.
Bernard watched her go, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Patricia Milton… what have you done to me?" he whispered, placing a hand over his chest. His heart was pounding like a drum. No woman had ever made it react like this—not even the ones he'd had long-term flings with. And those were always without strings attached.
But this woman… this beautiful belle, she'd already taken more than he bargained for.
"I'm sorry, old man," he murmured. "But that's a fire I'm not letting go. Even if I get burned… I'm going to make her mine."
A nudge from his horse snapped him out of his wild thoughts.
"What? You jealous?" he asked with a grin.
The horse snorted loudly, as if in agreement.
Bernard chuckled. "Come on, Sissy. Let's get you back to the stables."
He turned and led his horse away, heart still racing.
...
Patricia had just finished giving Speed a snack and was now preparing Stella, a fiery brown mare, for her obstacle race training.
She secured the saddle and turned to head back to the house to freshen up—only to nearly collide with Bernard, who was standing silently behind her, arms crossed, watching her work.
"Oh my gosh!" she gasped. "You almost scared the wits out of me! What are you doing just standing there? I can't believe that from being a terror trainer to a jerkass stalker—seriously, you're starting to give me the creeps."
Bernard smirked, clearly amused. "How did you know?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "Was it Carlos?"
Patricia snorted. "None of your business. What, you think I'm not smart enough to use a little psychology? Races aren't just about speed—they're about strategy. Psychology. Isn't that right?"
She brushed past him and headed toward the stable exit.
Bernard followed, close behind.
"It was Carlos, wasn't it?" he pressed.
Patricia didn't answer.
"And here I thought Simon Milton's daughter was some kind of sage," Bernard continued, voice dripping with sarcasm. "That she finally figured it out after failing a hundred times. That her racer instincts finally kicked in and show her that what she was doing was foolish and childish and the only fast way to catch her horse was to call it back.Tsk, tsk… guess I shouldn't have expected much. You've got guts, sure. But I never pegged you as a cheater."
Patricia froze.
Her body tensed, heat rising in her chest. She spun around, eyes blazing, wanting to give the scumbag a befitting reply.
"Listen to me! If you ever think that—whoa!"
She didn't finish. Her foot slipped, and she tumbled forward—
—but strong arms caught her just in time.
She opened her eyes to find Bernard holding her, one arm wrapped around her waist, his gaze locked on her face. Patricia's heart pounded—not from the fall, but from the closeness. She was grateful she hadn't hit the ground… but furious that he was the one who caught her.
Yes, he was handsome. But her heart belonged elsewhere. And she wasn't about to be swayed by a cocky trainer with a smirk and a grip.
She began to struggle, trying to break free.
Bernard smirked and was amused. He liked the fire of denial burning inside of Patricia's eyes and her struggles to get out of his hold. But he didn't heed to them, he was enjoying holding her in his arms for the first time. And he felt the need to tame her by kissing her and taste that fire even if he was going to get burned.
He leaned in to kiss her, but then—
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure standing just a few steps away.
A man with golden brown hair, wearing a brown jacket, jeans, and sneakers. His sapphire-blue eyes burned like twin flames, locked on the scene before him.
Bernard's grip loosened as his gaze fell on the man.
Patricia pulled free, breathing heavily, her eyes still blazing. She wanted to scold him, to demand an explanation for the way he'd held her—but then she saw where he was looking.
She turned.
Isaac stood there, frozen. His face was a storm of confusion and anger.
Patricia's heart dropped.
His expression said it all—he'd walked in on something he wasn't meant to see.
And now?
She had no idea how to explain it.
.....
Meanwhile…
Candles flickered lazily inside a lavish bathroom dressed in white and gold. Steam curled through the air like fog, rising from a grand marble tub in the center of the room. Red rose petals floated across the surface of the water, framing the lone figure reclining inside.
His dark brown wavy hair cascaded down his shoulders and back, damp and glistening. He leaned against the edge of the tub, a glass of wine in hand, eyes closed as if asleep—until the soft creak of the door stirred him.
Another man entered, standing at a respectful distance, a white envelope clutched in his hands.
"What is it?" the man in the tub asked, voice low and lazy.
"My Liege. The results from the lab have arrived," the messenger replied.
Without a word, the man in the tub gestured for him to approach.
The envelope was handed over with trembling fingers. The man tore it open and scanned the contents. A slow smile spread across his face.
"So the legend is true," he whispered. "And I am the one who finally made it happen."
He sipped his wine, savoring the taste like victory.
"Where is the Black Tulip?"
"En route to Brussels, my Liege. Iron Rose and Silver Snake are tailing them."
The man sighed. "Tell Silver Snake to return. I have a more pressing mission for him. I've received word that WFAB agents are sniffing around my business. Find out who they are—and deal with them."
He drained the last of his drink and rose from the tub, water cascading down his sculpted frame, candlelight casting golden shadows across his skin, his godly aura dominating the room.
"Tell Anthony to keep the ranch running. I'm going to visit an old friend… discuss some overdue business. It's been a while since I saw that scumbag."
He stepped closer, voice dropping to a chilling whisper.
"Make sure my departure remains a secret. Otherwise… you will become one. Buried. Forgotten. Is that clear?"
The messenger paled, legs trembling. "Y-yes, my Liege."
The man smiled, slow and cold. "Good."
He took another step forward, eyes gleaming with something darker.
"I'm feeling a bit hungry. Why don't you make yourself useful… and offer something satisfying."
The messenger's breath caught. He had heard the rumors—whispers of what it meant to serve in the belly of the beast. He hadn't wanted to believe them. But now, staring into those eyes, he knew the truth.
There was no escape.
Without another word, he began to undress, eyes fixed on the flickering candles—nearly burnt out. A silent omen.
He was in the mouth of the beast.
And the night had only just begun.