I checked the water trough—full, clean—cleared debris from the fence line where branches had fallen during the storm, and tested the tension on the wire. My hands moved on autopilot, muscle memory from weeks of ranch work taking over while my thoughts circled like buzzards over roadkill.
Winnie's voice when she'd asked, How did they know? The way Pops had looked at me after the reporters left—not angry, but disappointed. Like he'd expected better.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, the vibration sharp against my thigh.
I almost ignored it. It was probably Z with another update on the article's viral reach, or Dad with another thinly veiled threat disguised as business advice. But when I pulled it out and glanced at the screen, my chest tightened with something between dread and confusion.
Mom.
She never called. Not since I'd left for Oklahoma months ago. Dad handled all the communication, wielding ultimatums and financial threats like precision instruments. Mom stayed in the background, the dutiful Sterling wife, perfectly coiffed and silent at charity galas, present but invisible. Her role was to smile, to host, to maintain appearances while Dad ran the empire.
Seeing her name on my screen felt wrong, like a breach in the carefully constructed walls of our family dynamic.
I hesitated, thumb hovering over the green button, then answered before I could overthink it. "Mom?"
"Beau." Her voice was soft, strained, carrying an exhaustion that made her sound older than her fifty-three years. Not the polished, controlled tone she used at board dinners. This was raw. Worn down. "I'm sorry to bother you. I know you're... busy."
Busy. That's what we were calling it.
"It's fine. What's going on? Is something wrong?" My heart kicked up despite myself. Had something happened to Dad? Despite everything—the ultimatums, the control, the conditional love—the thought made my stomach drop. He was still my father.
She sighed, a long, weary sound that crackled through the speaker like static. "Your father... he's not well, Beau. His blood pressure's been dangerously high since that article hit. The board's circling like sharks, investors are pulling funding, and he's—he's not sleeping. Barely eating. The doctor came by yesterday and said if the stress doesn't ease, he's looking at a serious heart attack within months. Maybe weeks."
Guilt slammed into me like a freight train, stealing my breath. "Mom, I—"
"I'm not calling to blame you," she interrupted gently, but there was an edge beneath the softness, sharp and cutting. "I'm calling because I'm terrified. I'm scared for him, Beau. I'm scared for the company—three generations of Sterlings built that empire from nothing. Your grandfather started with one oil rig and a dream. Your great-grandfather before him. It's your legacy, your birthright. And I'm scared you're throwing it all away for... this."
This. Not Winnie. Not love. Not a life I'd chosen. Just... this. Like it was a phase. A mistake. A temporary lapse in judgment.
"It's not 'this,' Mom. Her name is Winnie. Naomie." I stopped, the words catching in my throat like barbed wire. What was she? Everything? The first person who'd seen me as more than a Sterling heir, more than a trust fund with a pulse? "She's—"
"She's a distraction," Mom said quietly, and the lack of malice in her voice made it worse somehow. She wasn't angry. She was disappointed. Worried. "A beautiful distraction, I'm sure. But Beau, she's not your world. Dallas is your world. The company, your family, your future—that's real. Solid. What you have out there on that ranch? It's temporary. You know that, even if you won't admit it."
"No." The word came out sharper than I intended, echoing across the empty pasture and startling the nearest heifer. I lowered my voice, gripping the phone so hard my knuckles went white. "It's not temporary. I'm building something here. Something that actually matters."
"Building what, exactly?" There was genuine curiosity in her question, not cruelty. "A life in the middle of nowhere with a girl you barely know? Beau, be honest with yourself. You've been gone three months. Three. Do you really think this... infatuation... is worth destroying everything you've worked for? Everything we've built for you?"
"I haven't worked for anything!" The shout burst out before I could stop it, raw and jagged. A crow took flight from a nearby fence post. I took a breath, forcing calm. "Dad worked. Grandpa worked. I just showed up, smiled for photos, signed where they told me to. Cut ribbons at openings. I never built anything in Dallas. I was a puppet. A mascot."
"You were a son. A Sterling." Her voice cracked, and for the first time, I heard real emotion bleeding through the carefully maintained composure. Pain. Fear. "You were ours. And now you're so far away, tangled up in a scandal that's hurting real people—your father, our employees, the shareholders. Families who depend on Sterling Corp for their livelihoods. And for what? A summer romance with a ranch girl you barely know?"
"I know her," I protested, but even as I said it, doubt crept in.
"Do you?" Mom pressed, gentle but relentless. "You spent a handful of weeks together, Beau. That's not knowing someone. That's infatuation. Proximity. And I'm sure you didn't even remember going to that ranch as a kid, did you? When you were eight and your father sent you for that summer program? You hated it. You cried on the phone every night begging to come home because of the bugs and the heat. You've romanticized this place, this life, but it's not who you are."
The words hit like a slap. I did remember that summer—vaguely. Hating the humidity, the smell of manure, the early mornings. I'd blocked it out, rewritten it as some idyllic childhood memory to fit my current narrative. But in reality, I'd been a spoiled city kid who couldn't hack it.
"People change," I said weakly.
"They do. But Beau..." She paused, and I could hear her breathing, measured and controlled, like she was gathering strength. "Those reporters dug up Naomie's adoption records. Her entire past is tabloid fodder now. Do you think she'll forgive you for that? Do you think she'll look at you in six months—hell, in six weeks—and not see the man who ruined her privacy, her peace, her reputation in this small town? Love doesn't survive that kind of resentment. I've seen it destroy stronger relationships than yours."
I closed my eyes, the truth of it sinking in like poison spreading through my veins. Winnie's face when those cameras flashed. The tremor in her hands. The way she'd looked at me afterward—not with blame, but with fear. Fear of what else I might bring into her world.
"You love him, don't you?" I asked quietly, deflecting. "Dad. You still love him after everything—the long hours, the affairs you pretend not to know about, the way he prioritizes the company over everything."
A long pause. Then, barely a whisper: "With all my heart."
The admission hung in the air, heavy and painful. "Then you understand why I can't just walk away from Winnie."
