The invitation came early one morning—crisp, handwritten, as only Wilfred would send it. No texts, no emojis, just elegant, slanted penmanship on heavy parchment, inviting you to a private polo match at his estate, followed by an afternoon ride. Nothing more—just place, time, and a signature that felt like both a kiss and a challenge.

You spent longer than you’d admit choosing your outfit, balancing refinement and stable practicality. A crisp white blouse, tailored riding pants, polished boots, and a cashmere scarf—stylish yet fit for the stables. The taxi was late, naturally, and you kept checking your phone, calling Wilfred. Each attempt was met with silence. No response, no read receipt. The screen held its secrets, mocking your worry.

Arriving at the polo field, the roar of hooves and sharp thwacks of mallets filled the air, vibrant and alive. And there he was—Wilfred—yet not seated calmly as expected. Instead, he was astride a magnificent bay gelding, his posture a blade honed to elegance. His silver hair whipped behind him, narrowed eyes sharp with intensity as he thundered past the sidelines. You froze, realization dawning slow and hot: Wilfred hadn’t ignored your messages. He was playing—fully, fiercely.

At halftime, he finally rode toward you, flushed but composed, one gloved hand brushing damp hair from his brow. “You’re here,” he said calmly, no apology. “Apologies—I couldn’t answer. The match was moved up. Rain, unpredictable this time of year.”

You raised an eyebrow, caught between admiration and mild annoyance.

He tilted his head, reading you like a book he’d memorized. “Let me guess,” he murmured with a faint smirk, “you thought I only looked like I knew how to ride?”

You hesitated.

“I’ll win this match for you,” he said simply, low and defiant, then nudged his horse sharply and galloped back.

You settled into the stands as the whistle blew. Beside you, a woman with sharp cheekbones and an old-money accent offered opera glasses. “You’re with Richter, aren’t you?”

“I.. maybe.” you admitted.

She smiled knowingly. “He’s dramatic. Their opponents? From Viremont. Royal blood, some of them. They take this match more seriously than their own coronations.”

You watched Wilfred weave through the field like a force of nature—each movement precise, every strike measured. But Viremont’s team was relentless, led by a tall, striking man with black hair, shoulders like a fortress.

“That’s Albert,” the woman whispered. “Dangerous in matches. Worse off the field. Wilfred and he have history.”

Before you could ask more, the score tied and extra time began. The announcer’s voice cut through the crowd as the screen focused on Wilfred and Albert, locked in a tense standoff. Their posture too rigid, too personal for sport alone. Then Albert lunged.

The crowd gasped. Horses reared. Whistles blew. The referee stormed the field, forcing the teams apart. Wilfred dismounted and brushed dust from his sleeve as if nothing happened.

“Are you hurt?” you asked, searching his face.

“No,” he said with a lopsided smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just a misunderstanding.”

You didn’t believe him, but let it go.

The referee tried to award Wilfred’s team the trophy, citing disqualification. Wilfred raised a gloved hand, calm but firm. “We don’t accept. I’d rather win by skill than scandal.”

A rematch was arranged. Viremont faltered; Albert’s focus broke. Wilfred dominated—each swing clean, every pass a statement. When the final whistle blew, his team won.

You didn’t see him again until after awards and reporters dispersed. He found you beneath a tree near the stables, sun filtering through clouds. “You owe me a ride,” he said simply.

You laughed, and moments later, you were lifted—literally—into the saddle of his white mare, seated side-saddle before him. His warmth pressed against your back, one gloved hand steady on the reins, the other resting lightly around your waist.