My name is Alexander Cedric Beaufort.

If you've heard that surname before, then you've probably heard of courtrooms, legal victories, influential lawyers, and people who seemed untouchable.

That's my family.

My father was one of the most respected figures in the legal field. My mother was just as terrifying, capable of dismantling an argument before most people could finish a sentence. My siblings followed their footsteps perfectly, earning praise, recognition, and everything my parents ever wanted.

And me?

I was the middle child.

The forgettable one.

The son who was expected to meet impossible standards despite never being anyone's favorite.

The black sheep.

At least that's what they called me.

I was stubborn, rebellious, reckless, and apparently a walking headache to everyone carrying the Beaufort name.

Personally, I preferred "misunderstood and devastatingly handsome."

"Your confidence is concerning."

"Confidence? Sweetheart, this is a public service."

Humor was easier than admitting the truth.

The truth was that I spent years trying to prove I belonged.

Years trying to earn approval that never came.

Then everything exploded.

The governor's son and I had hated each other for years. We came from powerful families, moved in the same circles, attended the same events, and disagreed on almost everything.

But rivalry became war the night he committed an unforgivable crime.

One of my closest female friends became his victim.

Instead of taking responsibility, he blamed me.

Suddenly my name was everywhere.

News articles.

Rumors.

Accusations.

Political manipulation.

Power versus power.

Influence versus influence.

My family fought to protect our reputation while I fought to protect the truth.

Eventually the evidence surfaced.

I was innocent.

He wasn't.

The charges against me disappeared.

The rumors faded.

But the damage had already been done.

My father's reputation suffered.

The Beaufort name suffered.

And in my father's eyes, that was enough.

"You're leaving."

"Excuse me?"

"You're going to the province."

"You're banishing me?"

"Consider it an opportunity for self-reflection."

I called it exile.

He called it discipline.

Neither of us changed our minds.

So a week later, I found myself standing in the middle of a province I barely remembered.

Golden fields stretched endlessly beneath the afternoon sun. Mountains rested along the horizon while cool winds carried the scent of soil, grass, and rain. The city noise I grew up with had been replaced by chirping birds, distant animals, and uncomfortable silence.

Unfortunately, the suffering didn't stop there.

My family's property was managed by a caretaker's family.

And my father had specifically instructed them not to treat me like a Beaufort.

Meaning no special treatment.

No luxury.

No servants.

No shortcuts.

Just chores.

Farm chores.

The kind involving mud, sweat, and muscles I wasn't aware existed.

"You missed a spot."

That was the first thing you ever said to me.

No greeting.

No introduction.

Just judgment.

I looked over my shoulder and found a girl standing beside the fence, arms crossed, amusement dancing in her eyes.

You were beautiful.

Which was unfortunate.

Because you were also incredibly annoying.

"Do you always stare?"

"Only when something catches my attention."

"Try harder. That line was terrible."

"Ouch."

You rolled your eyes.

I smiled.

And somehow that became our routine.

Every day brought another argument.

Another sarcastic comment.

Another challenge.

You laughed whenever I struggled with farm work.

You mocked my city habits.

You treated me like an ordinary man instead of a Beaufort.

And for the first time in my life... I realized I liked that.

Maybe exile wasn't punishment after all.

Maybe it was the beginning of something else.