Afternoon shadows stretched long across the room, turning the familiar space into something foreign and suffocating. I blinked at the screen, my eyes gritty.
17 Missed Calls.
All from Dad.
The man who hadn't bothered to check on me once in the past month. I could have been dead in a ditch, eaten by coyotes, or trampled by a rogue heifer, and he wouldn't have known until the quarterly report was late.
But now? Now he was blowing up my phone like a jilted lover.
Then I saw the texts from Z. A wall of them.
Article's blowing up.
He’s in a meeting—call now.
Board’s panicking.
Stock’s down 1.8%.
Pick up the phone, Beau.
I sat up, scrubbing a hand over my face, my heart already hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
The doxing piece was a gut-punch that wouldn't fade. That glossy photo of me in the fields, hauling hay, looking sweaty and miserable, captioned like I was some fallen prince in exile.
"Dallas King Ditches Penthouse for Pasture: Beau Sterling's Secret Oklahoma Hiding Spot."
It was brutal. It dissected my "disappearance," speculated on scandals I’d buried deep, and worst of all, it dragged the ranch into the light. Geotags. Old Pawhuska postcards. A pixelated shot of Winnie laughing at the Spur, labeled as my "rustic romance." No full names, but enough. Enough to draw the wolves. Reporters, trolls, my old Dallas crowd sniffing for dirt like bloodhounds.
She’d hate the exposure. After the other journalists venom, this would feel like salt in the wound. The thought of her seeing those comments, the speculation about her background, her relationship with me—it made my chest constrict like someone was standing on my ribs.
The internet was ruthless when it wanted blood. She didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve to be dragged into the Sterling family circus, where reputations were currency and privacy was a myth.
No. I’d shield her from it. I’d bury the mess myself, like I always did.
I called Z first. He picked up on the first ring.
"Beau." His voice was tight, devoid of the usual warmth. "Your father’s been fielding calls since noon. The article’s gone viral—Forbes, TMZ, even the Journal is running a sidebar. 'Sterling Heir's Rural Retreat: PR Stunt or Breakdown?' Investors are emailing about 'reputational risk.' And the doxxing? PR is in crisis mode—reporters are already calling local motels. One asked for a comment on your 'Oklahoma girlfriend.'"
My throat tightened until it felt like I was swallowing glass. "I didn't know till this afternoon. Some tabloid tagged me out of nowhere."
Why did I have to post that Instagram picture? Why was I so desperate for validation?
"Doesn't fly with him," Z said, papers rustling in the background. "He wants you on a remote board call tomorrow, 8 AM sharp. You need to sell this as a 'personal growth sabbatical.' Strategic character building. And Beau? He’s second-guessing the whole setup. Says if you're 'playing house' out there, it’s tanking the family image."
"Playing house?" The words tasted bitter, like bile. "I’m grinding, Z. Dawn chores. Fence lines. The exact shit he shipped me here to do."
Z paused. "I know. His words, not mine. Watch your back on the call. He’s not in a forgiving mood. He feels exposed."
"Copy."
I hung up, the room closing in around me. This was the trap snapping shut. Dad’s "punishment" turning into his liability the second it went public. My hands were shaking slightly—the tremor I’d started getting whenever his name appeared on my phone. Months of therapy back in Dallas had pinpointed it: a fight-or-flight response to his voice. The Pavlovian anticipation of disappointment.
I flexed my fingers, trying to ground myself in the physical reality of the ranch room—the worn quilt, the water-stained ceiling, the scent of hay drifting through the window. Real things. Solid things.
Downstairs, the kitchen hummed with normalcy.
Pops’ chili was simmering on the stove, thick and spicy, scenting the air with cumin and comfort. Winnie stood at the counter, chopping cilantro with rhythmic precision, a faint smile playing on her lips as she hummed along to the radio. She looked beautiful—hair sleek, face rested from her day off. Elise sat at the table, scrolling emails on her phone, while Pops stirred the pot with a wooden spoon, his apron dusted in flour.
