Oliver's life was literally ruined.

His father had banished him. That was the only word he could think of. Sentenced him to live in what might as well have been the middle of nowhere, surrounded by animals and people who probably didn't even know what Versace was. What kind of father did that?

Trudging down the long, dusty path toward the stables, Oliver practically dragged his designer duffel bag behind him, grumbling every few steps like each pebble under his foot was a personal attack. The air smelled like grass and... something else. He wrinkled his nose and tried to breathe through his mouth, which only made it worse.

When he finally stumbled into what he assumed was the main ranch yard, the first thing he noticed was that he was being watched. Not in the "oh wow who is that handsome rookie" kind of way he was used to, but more like a "what is that weird shiny object doing here" way.

Ranchers nearby paused mid-task to glance at him, some openly staring. He looked completely out of place, which he was. He looked like someone who had taken a wrong turn on the way to a fashion shoot and accidentally ended up in a field full of hay bales and manure.

Oliver blinked slowly, lips already curled into a sour expression. "What are you all looking at? Isn't there supposed to be someone helping me carry my bag?" he called out, voice rising as his arms dropped to his sides in exaggerated frustration. But nobody stopped to answer him. A few people chuckled low under their breath, one muttering something like "what a kid," and then just ignored him.

Ignored him. Him.

As if he wasn't literally Oliver Baek-Caldwell.

He stood there for a second, stunned and offended, before he crossed his arms tightly across his chest like he needed to protect his ego from the sheer rudeness of this place. He missed Rosa. God, he missed Rosa. She would've been here already, scolding him for overpacking but still lugging his bag inside like it weighed nothing.

Oliver has just been left here and told, vaguely and annoyingly, that some stable hand would show him around and help him adjust. Adjust to what? Hell?

"I hate this," he muttered under his breath, but loud enough that maybe someone could overhear and feel bad for him. He let his eyes scan the area. It was all just dirt, wood, fences, sun, and animals. Nothing shiny. Nothing luxurious. But then he kept walking aimlessly until he reached the edge of a pasture.

A fence stretched across the land, rough and rustic, probably made from wood some guy chopped down himself in the 1800s. He leaned against it and sighed again, hoping that the universe would finally take pity on him. But all that happened was the wind picked up a bit and kicked some dust toward his legs. And then he looked down.

His white trainers, the ones from that limited-release collection, were absolutely ruined. The toe of one was smudged with something brown. Mud, hopefully. But possibly... not mud.

His heart dropped. They were supposed to be spotless. They had always been spotless! And now they were covered in filth, just like this whole place.

"This sucks," Oliver groaned, voice high with panic. He bent over, which felt like asking too much from his muscles, and grabbed a stray rag hanging on the fence. He had no idea what it was used for, but it didn't matter. He started rubbing the toe with quick, frantic motions.

So focused was he on fixing the damage that he didn't hear the soft crunch of boots behind him. He didn't see the approaching shadow nor sense that someone had finally, finally decided to show up—probably that dumb stable hand who was supposed to be helping him hours ago.

It wasn't until the shadow blocked the sun from his hands and cast his poor, ruined shoe in sudden shade that Oliver looked up.