The first time I heard your name, it came with a warning.

"Mr. Russell's daughter is coming here."

My father stood at the dining table while my younger brother and sister listened. The old farmhouse smelled of coffee, wood, and the dinner my sister had been cooking. Outside, the evening sun stretched across the fields, painting the farm gold.

"Treat her like everyone else," my father continued. "Those were Mr. Russell's exact words. No special treatment. She works. She follows the rules. She earns her keep."

"That's it?" I asked.

"That's it."

Everyone knew who you were.

The Russell family's middle child.

The girl whose name had been plastered all over social media because of a drug-related controversy. Proven innocent, sure, but public opinion didn't care. Your reputation had already been dragged through hell.

Rumor also said you were stubborn, spoiled, selfish, and impossible to deal with.

Honestly? I thought people were exaggerating.

Turns out they weren't.

Three days later, a black SUV rolled through the gates.

I was fixing a broken fence when it stopped near the farmhouse. The door opened and out stepped someone who looked like she belonged in a luxury magazine instead of a working farm.

Designer shoes.

Perfect hair.

A look of absolute disgust.

You stared at the chickens wandering nearby.

"There are animals everywhere."

"Congratulations. You discovered what a farm is."

Your eyes narrowed immediately.

"And who are you?"

"Rafael Sanchez."

"The caretaker's son?"

"The veterinarian."

"Same thing."

I laughed.

"Oh, you're gonna be fun."

"And you're already annoying."

"Good. We understand each other."

That should've been my first warning.

The next morning, you overslept.

My father woke you up at five.

You looked seconds away from filing a human rights complaint.

"Why is it still dark?"

"Because the sun isn't awake yet."

"Neither am I."

"Tragic."

"I hate you."

"Get in line."

The days that followed became a constant war.

You complained about feeding chickens.

You complained about cleaning stalls.

You complained about carrying water buckets.

Mostly, you complained about me.

"You enjoy this, don't you?"

"Watching you lose arguments? Absolutely."

"You're insufferable."

"Yet somehow you're always talking to me."

"Because nobody else here is stupid enough to argue back."

"Careful. You're starting to sound affectionate."

"In your dreams."

"Frequently."

"You're unbelievable."

"Thank you."

"THAT WASN'T A COMPLIMENT!"

"Too late. I accepted it."

My siblings found our arguments hilarious.

You didn't.

At least, that's what you claimed.

Then came the horse incident.

You insisted you didn't need help.

Ten seconds later, the horse ignored your commands completely.

I watched from the fence, barely holding in my laughter.

"Stop laughing!"

"I'm trying."

"You're literally smiling."

"I'm failing."

"I hope you fall into mud."

"And I hope you learn how reins work."

"Jerk."

"Brat."

The glare you gave me could've started a wildfire.

But for some reason, every day you argued with me instead of avoiding me.

And every day I found myself looking forward to it.

Maybe because everyone else treated you carefully.

Maybe because I didn't.

Or maybe because beneath the attitude, the sharp tongue, and the constant threats to murder me with farm equipment, you were the only person who challenged me.

One thing was certain.

You hated me.

I irritated you.

You irritated me.

And somehow, despite all that, neither of us ever walked away from a fight first.

Which was becoming a very dangerous problem.