The silence stretched in the opulent room after I stepped forward, my heels clicking softly against the polished wooden floor. I had finally finished putting on the ready-to-wear riding gear provided for the club members. The emerald brooch with its delicate silver chain rested perfectly at my collarbone, glinting subtly in the soft chandelier light. My jacket was sharp, tailored to a younger silhouette, the crisp grey fabric hugging my shoulders and tapering down to the waist. Beneath it, the white shirt and snug breeches tucked into brown boots completed the ensemble. Every detail had been meticulously arranged—yet, somehow, I felt exposed, fragile in my own skin.
"We can go now," I said, attempting a tone of confidence that betrayed itself in the tiniest quiver of my voice. I took a deep breath, trying to anchor myself in the room's elegance, but the tightness of the outfit around my bust and hips was impossible to ignore. I could feel it pressing against me with every inhale, every movement. Despite knowing that the ensemble likely looked stunning to anyone else, to me it felt claustrophobic, almost accusatory.
My companion, the man in the black suit, remained silent. Handsome, severe, and impossibly still, he leaned slightly against the doorframe, his posture so rigid it seemed sculpted. His gaze rested on me—but it was unreadable, detached, cold. The air between us grew taut, heavy with expectation.
Finally, he spoke. The sound of his voice cut through the room like steel: "Change into something else."
My stomach lurched violently. "Why? What's the problem?" My voice cracked slightly, betraying my disbelief. Surely, there had to be a reason—something tangible, logical. Perhaps the outfit was too tight, or maybe its style clashed with what was expected at the club. I braced myself for a critique that would make sense.
He looked away, refusing to meet my eyes. "It's too tigh—" His words faltered, and the sudden, almost deliberate pause struck me like a slap.
Then came the verdict—short, sharp, and utterly humiliating. "It doesn't suit you, so change into another outfit. Something a little looser."
Doesn't suit me?
The words echoed in my mind, ricocheting against every memory of self-assurance I had ever held. My head snapped back, disbelief etched into every muscle of my face. What did he just say? Me? Suit me?
"Change into something else," he repeated, turning as if to emphasize that the conversation was over.
I was stunned into speechlessness, my chest tight. My hands twitched at my sides, clawing for composure that refused to come. "I look terrible? Me?" The thought flashed bright and vicious in my mind, neon letters blazing across my inner vision: You look terrible. It felt almost physical, a punch delivered to my chest by his indifference.
Before I could fully process it, he moved toward the door, the click of his polished shoes against the floor punctuating the room's sudden emptiness.
CLACK!
The door started to open, and my heart skipped. He was leaving? Just like that, leaving me there in stunned humiliation?
"HEY!!!" I practically shrieked, my pent-up shock erupting into a storm of anger. My body lunged forward as if propelled by sheer indignation. "WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!"
He didn't even glance back. He simply held the door open a sliver, the tiniest crack of space separating us, and delivered a final, icy command: "Change."
Then, in a move so deliberately rude it made my skin crawl, he slammed the door shut in my face. The sound reverberated against my ears, sharp, final, and impossible to ignore.
My blood boiled. I stood frozen for a long, terrible moment, trembling with indignation. The room seemed to shrink around me, its gilded walls suddenly oppressive. How could someone—anyone—be so dismissive? So cold? So cruelly condescending?
I took a shaky breath and pressed my hands to my chest, trying to steady the storm of emotion inside me. "I know this is just ready-to-wear riding gear for our members..." I whispered to myself, though the words felt hollow. "But still... THERE'S AN OUTFIT THAT DOESN'T SUIT ME?!"
The absurdity of it clawed at my mind. In all my twenty-two years on this earth, I had never encountered words like these—words that made me feel small, inadequate, scrutinized in a way that burned worse than any insult I had ever received.
And yet, the room remained silent, my own voice echoing against its gilded walls, leaving me alone with the humiliation and disbelief that refused to fade.
"I've never been so insulted in my life..." I muttered under my breath, pacing a small circle in front of the closed door. My chest heaved with the sharp, simmering mix of rage, humiliation, and disbelief. The words he had thrown at me—doesn't suit you—looped relentlessly in my mind. How could someone be so... so dismissive?
"Change into what?!" I yelled toward the solid wood, the sound bouncing off the gilded walls. My voice cracked slightly, betraying my fury. "As I wasn't prepared at all to go on a ride, this is all I have!"
The door opened just a sliver, and his voice slipped through the gap, laced with dry, biting sarcasm. "If you're willing to strip… and give me the clothes on your back, I'll consider it. Unbelievable..."
Unbelievable. He actually had the audacity to suggest that. My face burned hotter than I could have imagined, a furious heat crawling up my neck and settling behind my ears. Mortified and outraged, I took a few stiff steps back, the leather of my riding boots clicking sharply against the polished floor. Each step seemed to echo my indignation, marking my frustration for the entire room to witness.
GRUMBLE. GRUMBLE.
I spun on my heel, letting the words he had thrown at me churn in my mind. Even so, there was no need for him to be that cruel. Not everyone deserved that kind of scorn—least of all me. My gloved hands flew to my temples as I rubbed furiously, trying to massage away the sting of humiliation. Ugh… I panicked and blurted out the first thing that came to mind, an impulsive, foolish retort that now made me want to disappear into the floorboards.
Leaning against the wall, I rested my head in my gloved hand, replaying my own words in shame. That wasn't what I meant to say… but it was too late. The embarrassment lingered like a thick fog.
After a few torturous minutes, I finally left the room, still clad in the same tight riding gear, though I carried myself with a stiff, sulking air. My movements were deliberate, almost theatrical, each step a silent protest against the insult I had endured.
Outside, the group had already gathered. Another couple, also dressed in riding attire, looked cheerful and carefree, chatting lightly among themselves. My companion, standing immaculately in his black suit, straightened and began to issue instructions in his usual calm, measured tone.
"As our staff likely explained while you were changing into your riding gear, all of us will enjoy the lakeside trail together until we reach a fork in the road," he began, gesturing to a map displayed on a stand. The map showed three distinct paths branching outward. "There is a path that continues along the lake, one by the mountainside, and another through a well-manicured garden."
He paused briefly, allowing the information to sink in. "At the fork, we may each choose a path we prefer... though eventually, all paths converge and lead to a square. We will meet again there."
The woman in the other couple clapped her hands together, her laugh bright and melodic. "WONDERFUL! You've even arranged for us to enjoy some private time to ourselves. How thoughtful!"
The man beside her nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I'm quite partial to the Lake Path myself."
"Then let us do that," my companion agreed, inclining his head with measured grace.
The couple's attention shifted toward me, and the woman's eyes widened in genuine surprise. "Oh my... Ms. Serena, I don't think I've ever seen you look less than perfect in any outfit!"
I felt my lips press together, my cheeks heating slightly as I instinctively pouted. The sulkiness I had carried from my earlier humiliation must have been painfully obvious—even strangers had noticed.
Her husband, smiling warmly, nodded toward us both. "What a stylish figure the two of you cut in your riding gear."
I forced myself to straighten, trying to ignore the compliment, though every fiber of me still throbbed with the sting of the earlier encounter. The humiliation clung to me stubbornly, refusing to dissipate, no matter how many polite remarks or admiring glances floated my way.
I found myself perched on the saddle, my legs snugly pressed against the black horse's flanks, and directly in front of my companion. The black steed moved with a calm, measured gait, walking side-by-side with the other couple's white horse. My companion's arms wrapped around my waist, holding the reins with a firm, almost possessive grip.
"Hold on… something isn't right about this," I thought, trying desperately to maintain a rigid composure. I hadn't expected this arrangement at all. I hadn't anticipated being pressed so intimately against him. Our bodies were practically glued together—his chest against my back, his arms encircling me as if I were part of the reins themselves.
The situation was strange, unsettling, and completely disarming. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, a tangible pressure that made my spine tingle and my heart rate spike. I started to fidget, small, involuntary movements rippling through me. My tightly fitted riding pants pressed uncomfortably against the saddle—and, more noticeably, against him. A tiny squirm, a shift of my hips, a barely perceptible adjustment, all done without conscious thought.
His breath stirred the fine hairs near my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. He seemed flustered by my movements, too, a subtle tension running through his shoulders and down his arms.
"You… STAY STILL."
I could hear the gulp, a tiny, audible sound that betrayed his own struggle to remain composed.
Then his grip tightened, his large hands sliding further around my waist until they rested firmly on my lower abdomen.
"STOP MOVING," he commanded, his voice low and edged with strain, leaving no room for argument. "JUST KEEP YOUR BACK PLASTERED TO MY BODY AND KEEP A TIGHT HOLD ON THE REINS."
The unnecessary command made my irritation flare. I flinched slightly, hyper-aware of his presence so close behind me, and acutely conscious that the very outfit he had earlier disparaged now ensured this unavoidable, intimate contact. It was maddening.
Ahead of us, the other couple rode a little further along the path. The man on the white horse glanced back, his expression teasing, a sly smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You're clearly chomping at the bit to begin the ride, sir! Haha. That's right, we won't go easy on you, so make sure you stay on our heels."
My companion didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he leaned in again, his voice dropping to a whisper that was meant only for me. "Also… I doubt the military officers will ride at a leisurely pace."
I suppressed a shiver, fully aware that he was right.
"I won't be able to go slow either, since we want to keep pace," he continued, still whispering, his words brushing against my ear and sending a rush of warmth through me. "We'll be riding at a fast gallop. Tell me if it gets to be too much for you."
A fast gallop. With him pressed so intimately against my back.
The ride had only just begun, yet the tension was already palpable. My body felt both trapped and acutely alive, every nerve ending alert. I could tell without a doubt: this was going to be an ordeal—one that would test not only my riding skills but my composure, and perhaps my patience, to its limits.
The other couple had already set off, their horses surging forward with a lively, rhythmic gallop. Dust kicked up around their hooves as they disappeared slightly ahead, leaving us to follow in their wake.
"Now then… shall we ride?" my companion murmured, his voice low, almost intimate.
I could feel him shift behind me, adjusting his weight and guiding the horse for the upcoming movement. His whispered words from moments ago lingered in my ear: We'll be riding at a fast gallop. Tell me if it gets to be too much for you.
I managed to turn my head just slightly, eyes catching his in the briefest glance. My lips barely moved as I forced out the words: "I'll be fine."
I was too stubborn to admit just how uncomfortable I felt, especially after the earlier humiliation of his insults. I drew a steadying breath, biting down on my bottom lip, a nervous habit that had always surfaced in moments of tension. BITE.
My heart began its heavy, rapid rhythm: BA-BUMP, BA-BUMP. Each beat seemed amplified against the closeness of his body behind me, every motion of the horse sending vibrations through the shared space of the saddle.
The horse started moving, its hooves striking the dirt trail in a steady, rhythmic pattern: CLOP, CLOP… CLOP, CLOP. The gentle sway of the animal pressed us closer together, and as we turned onto a side trail, the forest path revealed itself. Shade dappled the uneven terrain, the earthy scent of pine and soil filling my senses.
The ride was far from easy. The intimate proximity that I had been so acutely conscious of earlier became impossible to ignore. Each jostle from the uneven trail forced us together, pressing me against him in ways that felt intrusive and alarming. I found myself constantly adjusting, tiny, involuntary movements meant to regain a measure of space that simply didn't exist.
After what felt like an eternity of tense silence, he finally spoke again, his voice returning to its usual calm tone. Beneath the smoothness, there was a subtle hint of concern, just enough to make me pause.
She's been awfully quiet since earlier. Did I go too fast when galloping along with the officers? he must have been thinking.
"Are you feeling tired? We're going as slowly as possible," he asked, carefully, almost cautiously, as though testing the waters.
I shook my head stiffly, forcing my gaze straight ahead. "...No," I replied, but the word emerged strained and clipped, betraying my composure.
I pressed my lips together again, biting down lightly—BITE. That wasn't the problem at all. I couldn't articulate the real issue. My chest felt tight, my stomach fluttered, and the warmth of his body against my back made my thoughts scatter.
It was awkward, impossibly so. Alone with him like this, sharing the intimate space of a single saddle just moments after a humiliating confrontation, I felt painfully exposed. Every bump in the trail reminded me of the proximity, of the way our bodies were pressed together, and how vulnerable I had become—not just physically, but emotionally.
Each second stretched on, the rhythm of the horse beneath us mirroring the pounding of my heart, the tension between us a tangible, almost suffocating presence. I wanted to focus on the trail, on the scenery, on anything but the way he hovered so close, so impossibly near, and the memory of his earlier words that still stung sharply in my mind.
The other couple had already set off, their horses' hooves drumming a lively, spirited rhythm against the dirt trail, leaving us to follow in their wake. Dust swirled lightly in their wake, the early morning sunlight catching the flecks in golden beams.
"Now then… shall we ride?" my companion murmured, his voice low, deliberate, carrying a weight that made me acutely aware of his presence so close behind me.
I could feel him shift slightly, adjusting his grip and posture as he prepared the horse for movement. His whispered words from moments ago lingered in my ear: We'll be riding at a fast gallop. Tell me if it gets to be too much for you.
I turned my head just a fraction, careful not to make a show of it, my lips barely moving as I forced out, "I'll be fine." The words felt inadequate, too light for the flurry of sensations threatening to overwhelm me. I was too stubborn to admit just how uncomfortable I truly felt, especially after the earlier humiliation of his harsh remarks about my outfit.
I drew a steadying breath, biting down on my bottom lip, the familiar nervous habit grounding me slightly. BITE. My heart had already begun to hammer in my chest, a quick, urgent rhythm: BA-BUMP, BA-BUMP. Each beat seemed to resonate through the tight space between us, reminding me of the warmth of his body pressed against my back.
The horse began to move, its hooves striking the dirt trail with a steady, rhythmic CLOP, CLOP, CLOP. We left the lakeside path behind, turning onto a narrower side trail that wound into the forest. The path ahead was uneven, dappled with sunlight filtering through the canopy, the scent of pine and earth thick in the air.
The ride was far from easy. Every step of the horse, every subtle jostle along the uneven trail, made our close contact impossible to ignore. My body swayed involuntarily with the motion, brushing against him more than I anticipated. Each bump, each shift of the horse's weight, seemed magnified, forcing me to adjust constantly, tiny, self-conscious movements that only emphasized our proximity.
The silence stretched, heavy and palpable, until he finally spoke again. His voice was calm, smooth, yet carried the faintest hint of concern beneath the surface.
She's been awfully quiet since earlier. Did I push her too hard when galloping with the officers? he must have been thinking.
"Are you feeling tired? We're going as slowly as possible," he asked, his tone cautious, considerate, yet still carrying the subtle authority that made my pulse spike.
I shook my head stiffly, forcing my gaze straight ahead. "...No," I replied, but the word emerged strained, clipped, failing to capture the whirlwind of awkwardness and unease thrumming beneath my composure.
I pressed my lips together, biting down again—BITE. That wasn't the problem. The unease I felt had nothing to do with speed or fatigue. I couldn't articulate what was truly wrong. The sensation was deeper, more intangible. Alone with him like this, pressed so closely together on a single saddle, only moments after a heated, humiliating confrontation, I felt painfully exposed.
Every bump along the trail drove the point home, reminding me of how intimate this proximity had become. The warmth of his body against mine, the subtle movements of the horse, the faint brush of his breath along my ear—it all made my chest tighten, my stomach flutter, and my thoughts scatter. Physically and emotionally, I was acutely aware of my vulnerability, caught between embarrassment, stubborn pride, and a nervous awareness that refused to be ignored.
The horse, Prince—a highly intelligent and noble creature from the royal stables—moved steadily along the forest path, hooves rhythmically crunching against the packed dirt and scattered leaves. His pace was controlled, measured, and elegant, a perfect reflection of the countless hours of training he had undergone. But my mind was far from the serenity of the ride.
Instead, I couldn't shake the memory of what the officer's wife had said earlier. Her words kept intruding, lingering like a whisper in the back of my mind.
I flashed back to that brief moment just after changing into our riding gear, when we had been standing side by side, chatting with the officer's wife. She had looked entirely at ease in her cheerful red riding jacket, the color bold and bright against the muted greens and browns of the stables.
"While couples' horseback riding can be a lot of fun, it's also about connecting with the person you're riding with," she had explained, smiling warmly.
"Connecting? Is that really possible?" I had asked, skeptical, unable to imagine what she meant.
"Of course!" she had insisted. Her smile widened slightly, a subtle smirk playing on her lips. "Sitting c