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WILD EQUESTRIAN STEPSISTERS ROMANCE STORY 🐎🐎🔥🌶️❤️‍🔥 START READING NOW & GO FROM VANILLA TO WILD HOTNESS LEVEL: 4/5 ⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️ CHAPTER 1 "What the fuck, Dad?" There was a silver Range Rover in the driveway with two strangers climbing out of it, and my father was fixing his cufflinks like he hadn't just blown up my entire life via text message. Twenty minutes earlier, he'd texted me. Coming home with Sage and her daughter. They'll be staying with us. No call, no explanation. Just a notification. As always, I don't even deserve proper notice. Through the window I could see them — a blonde woman in a black dress dabbing her eyes with a tissue, and a girl about my age in ripped jeans and a messy bun. She wasn't even looking at the house. Her head was already turned toward my stables. Don't you dare look at my stables like they're yours. "Language, Zara." "You got married?" My voice cracked and I hated myself for it. "Without telling me?" "Sage and I have been seeing each other for a few months. She lost her husband recently — we kept the ceremony small, out of respect for her mourning." Out of respect for her mourning. But not for your daughter, who found out by text twenty minutes ago. "Her daughter rides dressage," he went on, like we were discussing the weather. "Maxine. She is eighteen, just your age. Candidate for Master of Sport." The ground slipped from under my feet. Another rider. In my stable. Under my father's roof, where every win I'd ever earned hung framed in the hallway and still wasn't enough to hear I'm proud of you without a but stapled to the end. Just don't tell me that because of her I'll have to try even harder to win my father's favor. The front door opened. Sage walked in clutching her purse with both hands, looking like someone who'd been told to smile at a funeral. Then the girl stepped in behind her, took one look at the ceiling, and whistled loud enough to echo off the walls of my foyer. "This place is insane." She spun in a slow circle. "Mom, are you seeing this? There's an actual chandelier." A chandelier. She's losing her mind over a chandelier. I had an Olympic bronze medal upstairs that my father walked past every morning without a glance — but sure, let's all get excited about the light fixture. "Zara. This is Sage. Your stepmother. And this is Maxine." Maxine stuck her hand out. Full arm extension, big grin, the whole deal. "Hey! Call me Max. Everyone does." Maxine’s POV What an arrogant, stuck-up, ice-cold bitch. That's what ran through my head as I followed Zara toward the stables with the biggest smile I could manage. She'd thrown my nationals score at me like a weapon, looked at me like I was dirt on her precious floors, and now she was three steps ahead acting like I’m unworthy of her. Message is clear: I should be grateful she was letting me breathe the same air. I wanted to grab her by that perfect ponytail and ask her who the hell she thought she was. Instead I kept smiling, because I couldn't mess this up. Not this time. After my dad died, I stopped eating for a week. Stopped talking. Stopped going to the barn. But the real problem wasn't me — it was my mom. I found her on the bathroom floor at three in the morning a few days after the funeral, not crying, just sitting there staring at the tiles like she'd forgotten how to stand up. She said she'd handle it. She didn't. For about two months it was just me in a quiet house with a woman who forgot to buy groceries and sometimes forgot I was there at all. Then she met Ben. And suddenly she had a reason to get dressed again, to smile, to put on lipstick before leaving the house. When she told me we were moving to his ranch, she held my face in both hands and said, "This is our fresh start, baby. Please — just try to make it work. For me." She'd lost enough. If this fell apart — if I picked fights with Ben's daughter, if I gave anyone a reason to push us out — my mom would go back to that empty house and that bathroom floor. I couldn't let that happen. So the plan was simple. Be warm, be funny, be so relentlessly nice that nobody could find a reason to send us away. Smile big enough and people eventually smile back. But Zara Walsh was not smiling back. She was three steps ahead of me on the gravel path with that ridiculous posture — straight spine, chin up, every muscle in her body knowing exactly where it belonged. Even the way she walked looked like dressage. I jogged to catch up. "This property is unreal. How many acres is it?" "Sixty." "Sixty, wow." I looked out past the paddocks toward the treeline. The sun was low and everything had gone gold and warm. The kind of light my dad used to stop the car for so he could take a picture on his phone. My chest ached just thinking about it. "My dad would've loved it here." Zara didn't respond. Didn't slow down. Didn't even turn her head. Like I hadn't said anything at all. Okay. Different angle. "So the Harrington Classic — are you competing too? Maybe we could train together sometimes. I know you're way more advanced than me, but—" "It would be weird." She still didn't look at me. "I don't train with amateurs." I swallowed that one and smiled through it. "Fair enough. But if you ever change your mind—" "I won't." We passed a second paddock where two dark horses grazed side by side. I wanted to stop and look at everything — this place was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen — but Zara moved through it like wallpaper. "Can I ask you something?" "You're going to anyway." "What's Ashton like as a trainer? He seems really—" "Oh my god, stop." She spun around so fast I nearly walked into her. Her jaw was clenched, nostrils flared, and those pale green eyes were cutting right through me like I was made of glass. "Stop asking me questions. Stop trying to be my friend. Stop acting like we're going to braid each other's hair." I opened my mouth but she wasn't done. "If you think you're staying here long, prepare to be disappointed." Her voice was shaking, and not from fear. "My father has gone through five wives. Five. Pretty soon he'll realize he doesn't need your mother either, and you'll be packing that suitcase again." My smile dropped before I could catch it. For a second I just stood there, stunned, like she'd actually hit me. "That's a really cruel thing to say." "It's an honest thing to say." She tilted her head, almost curious. "You should be thanking me. Nobody else here will tell you." Be nice. You promised Mom. If you fight with this girl, you lose everything — the ranch, the horses, the chance at Harrington. And Mom goes back to the bathroom floor. "Your mother seems sweet, by the way." Zara's voice had gone light, almost casual, which somehow made it worse. "Very… accommodating. I'm sure she was accommodating with the last man too. Some women just need someone to lean on." My throat closed up. "Don't talk about my mom." "Why not? She married a stranger three months after burying your father. That's not grief, that's—" "Stop." "—desperation." Something snapped. The nice-girl rope I'd been white-knuckling just broke clean in half. "At least my mother knows how to love someone." My voice came out low and hard, nothing like me. I thought about the foyer — how her father hadn't touched her, hadn't looked at her, hadn't said one warm word. "At least I had a parent who actually wanted to be in the same room as me." Zara's whole face changed. The ice cracked and for half a second I saw something raw underneath — something young and startled and terrified — before she sealed it shut again. She moved so fast I didn't register it until my back hit the wooden beam. Her hand was on my throat, not squeezing but pressing, pinning me against the post like I was a horse she was backing into a stall. Her face was inches from mine and I could smell her — sweat and something clean, expensive soap or lotion. Her eyes were locked on me and they weren't cold anymore. They were burning. My brain short-circuited. Because when a girl who looks like Zara Walsh puts her hand on your throat and pins you to a wall, your body doesn't fight and doesn't scream. It goes warm. What the hell is happening to me. "Do you want to know what your future looks like?" Her voice was low and controlled, almost a whisper. I could feel her breath on my mouth. "You're nobody. You'll spend a few months here riding my father's horses, dreaming about a championship you're not ready for." I tried to speak and nothing came out. "I watched you in that stable." Her thumb shifted against my pulse point. My heart was hammering so hard she had to feel it. "You couldn't stand still for thirty seconds. You touched three different things before anyone spoke to you. You fidget, you ramble, you lose focus mid-sentence." She leaned closer. "Dressage is about control. You don't have any." My eyes burned. She was right — she was right about all of it. I wanted to shove her off me but I couldn't move, and her hand was warm on my neck, and this was the most confusing moment of my entire life. "So here's my advice." She let go and stepped back, smoothing her jacket like nothing had happened. "Forget about the championship. Enjoy the stables, enjoy the view, take some pretty pictures for your friends back home, and fuck off." She turned and walked toward the door without a single glance back. "Enjoy your little vacation, Maxine." The stable door shut behind her. I stayed pressed against the beam with my throat throbbing where her hand had been and my legs barely holding me up. A tear rolled down my cheek and I wiped it away hard. She was wrong. She had to be. I wasn't a nobody — I was here because I'd worked for this since I was seven years old and my dad put me on a horse and I never wanted to get off. Okay, Zara Walsh. You don't want to be my friend. You want a war. I wiped my face one more time and stood up straight. Fine. But I'm going to make you like me anyway. And that's going to be so much worse for you. CONTINUE READING>>>>>>

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