The shadow of the horse fell over her, a dark, terrifying eclipse. Candice was frozen, her mind screaming at her to run, but her feet were rooted to the spot.
A split second before the horse's hooves would have crushed her, a flash of white blurred past her peripheral vision. A polo ball, struck with impossible speed and precision, hit the stallion squarely on its muscled neck.
The stallion shrieked in pain and surprise, its trajectory shifting. It missed a direct hit, but its powerful hind leg caught Candice on the shoulder as it scrambled away.
The force was brutal. She was thrown through the air like a rag doll, landing hard on the grass and tumbling several feet before coming to a stop.
A searing, white-hot pain exploded in her shoulder. The world tilted, black spots dancing in her vision. As she lay on the ground, gasping, her dazed eyes caught a fleeting glimpse of a tall man in a simple black shirt, far across the field, who seemed to melt back into the shadows of the stables. It happened so fast she thought she might have imagined it.
She could hear Etta screaming her name, the frantic shouts of the stable staff.
Through a haze of pain, she pushed herself up on one elbow. A few yards away, two women in expensive dresses were watching, champagne glasses still in hand.
"That's the Luna girl, isn't it?" one of them said, her voice carrying on the breeze. "The one who just publicly humiliated Julius Hansen. Serves her right."
The other woman laughed. "Probably did it on purpose. A little 'damsel in distress' act to win him back. So pathetic."
The words were like needles, sharp and poisonous. The casual cruelty of it all. She remembered this feeling, this constant judgment, this dismissal of her pain.
Etta was by her side now, her face pale with terror. "Candice! Oh my god, are you okay?"
Candice gritted her teeth, pushing her friend's helping hands away. Using her good arm, she forced herself to her feet, a wave of dizziness washing over her.
She stood, swaying slightly, and locked eyes with the two women who had been gossiping. She said nothing, but her glare was so full of cold fury that they both took a step back, their smiles vanishing.
Leaning on Etta, Candice limped toward the on-site medical tent, each step a fresh agony.
The doctor confirmed it: a dislocated shoulder. "This is going to hurt," he said, and without further warning, he grabbed her arm and shoved the joint back into place.
Candice screamed, a raw, involuntary sound, as the bones ground together. Cold sweat drenched her body. She dug the nails of her good hand into the thin mattress of the cot, the pain a clarifying fire.
They gave her a clean shirt, as hers was torn and grass-stained. When she emerged from the tent, she saw the gossiping women were still there, now joined by a group of men. One of them, a hedge fund manager she recognized, was visibly drunk. His eyes roamed over her, lingering on the collarbone visible above the neckline of her new shirt.
"Well, well, look what we have here," the man slurred, staggering toward her. He blocked her path. "Need a ride home, little lady? A strong man to take care of you?"
"Get out of my way," Candice said, her voice low and dangerous.
His face darkened. "Playing hard to get? You can drop the act. Everyone knows Julius Hansen kicked you to the curb." He reached out a hand, aiming to grab her injured shoulder.
Etta tried to intervene, but he shoved her, sending her stumbling to the ground.
His fingers were inches from Candice's skin. She flinched back, a wave of nausea and disgust rising in her throat.
Suddenly, a hand shot out from behind her. It was large, tanned, and moved with impossible speed. It clamped around the fund manager's wrist like a vise.
There was a sickening crack.
