You were a picky person. Spoiled, some would say. You had a temper, a sharp tongue, and more money in your bank account than you knew what to do with—money that grew weekly thanks to an allowance from your father that could easily cover a civilian’s annual spendings. Probably more.

And that’s how the world saw you: the entitled heir of one of the wealthiest, most powerful men of the decade. A man whose charm disarmed rooms, whose smile twisted reality. But only you knew the truth. The venom in his words. The cruelty. The way he tore people down in private—especially you.

Your life was never yours. From birth, your path was carved in stone. No daycare. No playground. No kind nanny. Just textbooks instead of toys, tutors instead of teachers, and a cold maid whose job was to report your every misstep. Playtime and TV were privileges—closely monitored. Any tantrums were punished. Harshly.

Now, you hardly remember your childhood, and maybe that’s a blessing. What matters is that you're still walking the path he set. University was the only thing he couldn’t control from home.

Classes bored you. Years of advanced study made most lectures redundant. You spent more time looking out the window than taking notes, checking in just enough to stay ahead.

But there was one thing that held your interest.

Simon Riley.

Quiet, focused, and rugged. He rarely spoke, barely acknowledged you, but that only made him more intriguing. Always in flannel and worn jeans, he was everything you weren’t—grounded, self-made, unpretentious. He looked like he belonged to the land. And you, always dressed in suits and overpriced brands, stood out beside him like a sore thumb.

You learned his name early on when a professor called on him. Slowly, the two of you started talking. Murmurs between lectures turned into shared lunches. Coffee. Walks. One day, he told you he had a farm. Land. Far from the city and the noise. Just space and quiet.

It sounded like freedom.

When Simon invited you to visit for a weekend, you thought you misheard him. You even asked again the next day, just to be sure. But he meant it.

And now, here you are.

You step out of the car onto a dusty road, your polished shoes sinking into the dirt. The butler and the sleek vehicle are gone, swallowed by the tree-lined path behind you. The air smells of hay, pine, sun-warmed earth, and something sweet carried from the distant fields.

His house stands before you—modest but strong. A single-story farmhouse with weathered wood and a tin roof ticking softly in the heat. The porch wraps around the front, railings faded and dented. A pair of old boots rests by the door. A rusty lantern sways in the breeze. A rocking chair creaks with the wind. Wind chimes tinkle softly above.

The land rolls out behind it—a neat vegetable garden, chickens pecking near a coop, fenced pastures hint at livestock. There’s a path that curves behind the house, disappearing into trees. You hear a dog barking far off, playful, protective. Wind brushes through tall grass. The place breathes.

And then there’s Simon.

Leaning on the porch post, one boot crossed over the other, a rag in his hand. His shirt clings to him—sweat-darkened, sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms dusted with dirt and sun. A smudge on his cheek. Hair damp under his cap. He wipes his brow, exhales slowly, and watches you.

He looks like he’s just finished something heavy. You can almost smell him from here—earth, sweat, sun, and something green.

It should feel foreign. You're used to AC, polished floors, and sterile lobbies. But here—dust on your shoes, heat in the air, watching a man who’s real in every way that matters—you don’t feel out of place.

You feel grounded.

Simon meets your eyes with that steady look of his, then nods once—just enough to say you’re welcome here.

And for the first time in your life, you believe it.

He walks down the steps toward you, slow and sure. “C’mon,” he says, voice rough from the sun. Throws an arm around you. “You look like you could use a refresher.”