Field Between Us

🌾 CHAPTER 1 – YSELDOUS’ POV

I knew she would be trouble the moment she stepped out of that car.

Not because she looked lost. People often did when they arrived here. The countryside had a way of making city people feel small.

No, she was different.

She looked… offended.

As if the world had failed to meet her expectations.

I leaned against the wooden fence, arms crossed, watching as she argued with the driver who had brought her here.

“I told you this isn’t right,” she insisted. “There has to be a mistake.”

“No mistake, ma’am,” the driver replied patiently. “Your father arranged everything.”

She sighed dramatically, the kind of sigh that expected the world to adjust itself in response.

It didn’t.

It never does.

I pushed myself off the fence and walked toward them.

“You can leave,” I told the driver. “I’ll handle it from here.”

He looked relieved.

Golden looked annoyed.

“I don’t need handling,” she said immediately. “I need answers.”

“You’ll get them,” I replied. “But not if you keep standing on the crops.”

She glanced down, startled, then stepped aside quickly.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Talk.”

I gestured toward the farmhouse. “Walk first.”

She hesitated, clearly not used to being told what to do.

“Is that how this works here?” she asked. “You give orders and people just follow?”

“Yes,” I said simply. “When it makes sense.”

She stared at me for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to argue or not.

Then she followed.

The walk to the house was quiet at first.

I could hear her footsteps behind me, careful and uneven. She wasn’t used to the ground here. It wasn’t smooth, not predictable.

“Do you always ignore people when they’re talking?” she suddenly asked.

“I listen,” I said. “I just don’t interrupt.”

“That’s not what it feels like.”

I glanced back at her briefly.

“What does it feel like?”

She shrugged. “Like you already decided I’m not worth listening to.”

I stopped walking.

That made her stop too.

I turned to face her fully.

“I don’t decide things that quickly,” I said. “But I do observe.”

“And what have you observed?” she challenged.

“That you’re uncomfortable,” I replied. “That you don’t want to be here. And that you’re used to getting your way.”

She blinked, clearly not expecting that level of honesty.

“Well,” she said after a moment, “you’re not wrong.”

“I usually am not.”

She crossed her arms.

“You’re very confident for someone who owns… plants.”

I almost smiled.

“These ‘plants’ feed people,” I said. “What do you do?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“That’s none of your business.”

“It is now,” I said. “You’re staying here.”

She froze.

“Excuse me?”

“Your father arranged for you to stay on this farm,” I explained. “For three months.”

Her expression shifted from confusion to disbelief.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But it’s happening.”

“No, it’s not,” she snapped. “I’ll call him right now and—”

“There’s no signal here,” I interrupted.

She stared at her phone.

Then at me.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

Silence stretched between us.

For the first time since she arrived, she didn’t have something to say.

I watched as the reality settled in.

She was staying.

And she had no control over it.

“What am I supposed to do here?” she finally asked, her voice quieter now.

“Learn,” I said.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is,” I replied. “You just don’t like it.”

She let out a breath, frustrated.

“I don’t belong here.”

I nodded.

“I know.”

That seemed to surprise her.

“Then why aren’t you helping me leave?”

“Because sometimes,” I said, “not belonging is the point.”

She looked at me like I had just said something completely unreasonable.

Maybe I had.

But I meant it.

People don’t grow where they’re comfortable.

They grow where they’re challenged.

And something told me she had never been challenged in her life.

Until now.

“Fine,” she said after a long pause. “Three months.”

I waited.

“But I’m not doing farm work,” she added quickly.

“You are,” I said.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

She stepped closer, narrowing her eyes.

“You can’t make me.”

I met her gaze.

“Watch me.”

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then she laughed.

Not kindly. Not warmly.

But something about it felt… real.

“This is going to be a disaster,” she said.

“Probably,” I agreed.

She shook her head, still smiling slightly.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re staying,” I replied.

That was how it started.

Not with romance.

Not with kindness.

But with resistance.