You know what no one tells you about walking for Dior?
Your heels might cost more than someone's monthly rent, but they will still find a way to murder your pinky toe.
"Ugh," I groaned as i stepped out of the sleek black van, holding my pumps in one hand and my soul in the other.
I was back.
No more makeup chairs.
No more cameras yelling "Work it!" like i'm a factory machine.
No more fake cheek kisses from people who don't even know how to spell my last name.
Just… silence.
Well, silence and 132 hectares of family-owned land, with horses, grapevines, and absolutely no chef, maid, or personal assistant in sight.
Welcome to Hacienda Imperial, population: Me.
I looked around. The house was exactly how i remembered it, white stone walls, tall windows, ivy-covered corners like something out of a slow-living Pinterest board. The air smelled like warm grass and old money.
No paparazzi.
No back-to-back meetings.
Just me… and bugs. Ew.
I rolled my two giant Rimowa suitcases onto the gravel path, trying to keep my chin up despite the fact that one wheel was definitely jammed and sounded like a dying robot.
"Siri," I muttered to no one, "remind me to fire this suitcase later."
I stopped in front of the huge wooden door and took a deep breath.
This was it.
Ten years of being booked, busy, and borderline burned out… and now i was here.
Alone.
On purpose.
With no chef.
And no clue how to cook.
Let's go, self-care era.
The hacienda was… oddly clean.
Suspiciously clean.
The floors were polished, the windows sparkling, and the fridge even had lemons in it.
Either my mom hired someone to prep the place, or this house had a ghost who used Lysol.
I gave a small nod. "Nice. This place is cleaner than my last ex's conscience."
My voice echoed, slightly creepy but also empowering.
After dumping my luggage in what used to be my old room, I tied my hair in a loose bun, grabbed my sunglasses (a Dior girl never lets go), and decided to walk around the property.
Stretch my legs.
Reconnect with nature or whatever.
That's when i saw him.
Across the fence, maybe thirty meters away, on the Montemayor side of the land.
Tall. Tan. Broad-shouldered. Shirt tucked carelessly into his pants like he got dressed in a rush but still looked like he belonged on the cover of Forbes: Farm Edition.
He was checking something in the field, crouched down, one hand brushing over the soil, the other holding… was that a wine glass?
What kind of man brings a wine glass to the fields at 10AM?
Mysterious. Suspicious.
Probably hot. But still suspicious.
"Who's that?" I whispered to myself, squinting behind my sunglasses.
The man stood up, wiped his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder, and looked, no, glared in my direction.
Our eyes met for maybe two seconds. Just enough for me to register his perfectly angry eyebrows.
Okay. Definitely not friendly.
Charming? Maybe.
Approachable? Absolutely not.
He turned and walked away without a nod, a wave, or a "Hi, welcome to the neighborhood, I'm handsome and brooding."
"Rude," I mumbled. "But fine. Be mysterious. I love drama."
Then i heard it.
A sound that immediately kicked my heart into vet mode.
Was that… crying?
Like… animal crying?
I followed the faint sound past the fence, through the trail behind the stable, until i found the source: a young horse, maybe a year old, lying on its side, whimpering softly.
"Oh no, baby," I whispered, crouching down carefully. "What happened to you?"
The horse looked distressed, breathing heavily.
I checked its legs, gently lifted its head. It wasn't broken, but definitely in pain. Probably colic. I needed to help it now.
I ran back to the stable and found the emergency vet kit we always kept there.
Thank God my dad never throws anything out.
Just as i knelt down again, pulling gloves over my hands, I heard footsteps behind me.
Heavy. Confident. Judgy.
Of course, it was him.
The walking wine commercial.
"What the hell are you doing?" he said coldly, voice deep and… okay, a little sexy. But cold.
"I'm saving your horse," I replied, without looking at him.
"It's not my horse."
"Well, he's crying on your land, so that kind of makes it your emotional responsibility, doesn't it?" I snapped, injecting the anti-colic dose like a pro.
He scoffed. "Do you even know what you're doing?"
I turned to face him and smiled sweetly. "Oh no, I just watched one season of Dr. Pol and guessed."
He stared at me. No smile. No laugh. Just… judgy eyes.
"I'm a licensed vet," I clarified. "And a model. But today i'm just a girl in leggings trying to stop a horse from dying."
"Impressive," he muttered, still skeptical.
I stood up, peeled off the gloves, and handed them to him. "Hold this. You look like you need a hobby."
Before he could argue, the horse let out a quiet, relieved breath.
I patted its neck. "See? He's already doing better. Try smiling. Your eyebrows are going to file for divorce."
He said nothing.
Just stared at me like i was a UFO.
"Well," I said, brushing dust off my butt, "I'll be next door. Trying not to burn the house down."
I marched back to the hacienda like i had just won a war.
But the victory was short-lived because… guess what?
I had no idea how to cook.
Like, not "haha i only do takeout" clueless.
I mean… I boiled water once and almost burned a pot level of clueless.
I opened the fridge: lemons, bottled water, and something green i wasn't ready to identify.
The pantry? Empty. Bare. Not even a sad noodle.
"I am a woman of the earth now," I whispered dramatically, opening random cabinets like they'd magically fill themselves.
Nothing.
I sat on the marble counter and sighed. "So this is how it ends. Starved, abandoned, and slightly glowing from a Dior facial."
My phone was on airplane mode.
I promised myself: no calls, no assistants, no cheating.
Just me, myself, and the very real possibility of dying beside a bag of uncooked rice.
Okay, maybe i could Google how to cook an egg.
If i had an egg.
Or a pan.
Or oil.
I had none.
The fridge beeped at me like it was also judging my life.
"I'm going to cry," I whispered.
At that exact moment, the wind outside blew the curtains just enough for me to see across the vineyard again.
And there he was.
That man.
Shirtless.
Carrying a tray of something that looked suspiciously like… actual food.
Oh no.
Was i about to beg the rude vineyard man for dinner?
Or worse… flirt?