Chapter 10
Three days later and I wake up smiling. The last three days have been pure bliss.
We’ve had sex several more times and he spanked me last night.
A bare bottom, over the knee, deliciously hot spanking for climbing on the ladder without a spotter again.
Afterwords, he fucked me from behind and it was everything.
I promised to be his good girl… but maybe, just maybe, I like being his naughty girl, more.
I come down from my room and instantly feel something's wrong the moment I step into the farmhouse kitchen.
The kitchen that's been the heart of our family for three generations feels different today. It’s charged with the kind of tension that comes before bad news.
The morning light streaming through the gingham curtains should be warm and welcoming, painting everything in that golden glow that makes our farmhouse look like something from a country living magazine.
Instead, it feels ominous, like the calm before a storm.
My Aunt Jeannie is perched at the table, her knitting needles clicking furiously, the television muted but tuned to the local news. My cousin's half-finished donut sits abandoned on the counter. The air feels… off.
Everything about the scene screams emergency, from the way Jeannie's shoulders are hunched with worry to the untouched coffee growing cold in her favorite mug. In our family, abandoning fresh cider doughnuts is practically a cardinal sin, a sure sign that something terrible has happened.
Then I see it.
On the screen, above a ticker about fall harvest festivals, is Brett's face. My Brett. Standing in the orchard with a camera crew, holding up one of our apples like it's a damn trophy.
The betrayal hits me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs.
This is the man who held me in the hayloft, who called me his good girl, who made me believe that I could trust him with my heart and my family's legacy.
And here he is, parading his new discovery in front of cameras like we're some sort of tourist attraction.
What will this mean for the orchard? Will it be more business or will scientists want to flock here to examine the trees?
"The rediscovery of malus aurora, a rare species of malus domestica, thought extinct for decades, is a breakthrough for both science and agriculture," the reporter chirps, pointing her mic toward him. He adjusts his glasses, calm and composed in a way that makes me want to scream.
"This fruit represents not just a rare genetic marker, but resilience.
Its survival here, in Hunter Orchards, is nothing short of extraordinary.
This is the type of tree that can survive through low water conditions, in high heat and in freezing temperatures.
If replicated correctly, we have a plant that can help with malnutrition around the globe. "
The words sound impressive, professional, exactly the kind of scientific discovery that makes careers and wins grants.
But all I can hear is the violation of trust, the casual way he's turned our intimate family story into public property.
This isn't just about apples it's about home, about sanctuary, about the sacred spaces we keep for ourselves. The back of the orchard, the space he wanted to study, is also home to our family cemetery. It holds memories that go beyond what the public has ever had access to. My family settled this land, and now… it’s all over the news like a damn amusement park.
Jeannie looks at me over her glasses. "Honey… he didn't tell you?"
My chest goes cold. "No," I whisper.
Of course he didn't tell me. Because if he had, I would have stopped him from going public with it.
I would have protected what's ours, what's mine, what I thought was becoming ours together. I’d told him how private this part of the orchard was, how much it meant to me.
The realization that he knew I would object, and did it anyway, makes the betrayal so much worse.
I feel used. Dirty. Exploited. Did he play Daddy to get me to agree to let him finally go do his research?
Because the morning after we had sex for the first time, is when I finally brought him out there.
The cameras pan over the orchard, zooming in on the very overgrown section I'd told him to tread lightly in.
The section my family has protected for generations.
Those trees represent more than just rare genetics.
They're the wild heart of our orchard, the untamed spaces where my grandfather used to take me when I was little, where I learned that some things are worth preserving simply because they exist, not because they have monetary value.
Seeing strangers' eyes consuming that sacred space through television cameras feels like desecration.
I don't hear the rest. I'm already grabbing my jacket.
The cold October air bites at my cheeks as I storm across the orchard, my boots crunching through fallen leaves that should remind me of cozy sweaters and pumpkin spice everything.
Instead, they sound like breaking glass, each step carrying me further from the romantic fantasy I'd let myself believe in and closer to the harsh reality of betrayal.
I find him by the old cider press, notebook in hand, still wearing the same button-down from the interview. He looks up, sees me, and smiles, like nothing is wrong.
That smile, the same damn smile that made my heart flutter when he first fixed my tractor, when he caught me reading romance novels in the barn, when he whispered sweet praise against my ear, now feels like mockery.
How can he stand there looking so pleased with himself when he's just blown up everything we could have built together?
"Monica—"
"What the hell was that?" My voice cracks like a whip.
He blinks, confusion flickering before realization dawns. "You saw the broadcast."
The casual way he says it, like I might have missed it, like it's no big deal, makes my anger burn hotter. This isn't some minor miscommunication or scheduling conflict. This is a fundamental breach of trust, and he doesn't even seem to understand why I'm upset.
"Yes, I saw the broadcast." My hands are fists at my sides. "You put my orchard on the news. You paraded our trees in front of cameras without asking me. Without even warning me."
His brows draw together. "It wasn't like that. My boss pushed the timeline—"
"Don't you dare," I snap. "Don't you dare make this about deadlines and bosses. You had a choice. You could have said no. You could have protected this land. Protected me."
Protected me.
The words hang between us, heavy with all the promises he made in the darkness of the barn and all the ways he swore he'd take care of me, look out for me, be the man I could lean on in the future. And at the first real test of that promise, he chose his career over my trust.
Silence. His jaw tightens.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" My voice rises, fueled by anger and betrayal. "Reporters will swarm. Strangers will trespass. This isn't just some research plot, Brett! It's my home. My family's legacy."
I can already picture it, strangers trampling through my family cemetery, demanding to see the "extinct" apples like we're some sort of botanical zoo. The peaceful sanctuary where I learned to love the land will become a circus, and I'll be the reluctant ringmaster.
He sets his notebook down carefully, like he's afraid of breaking something. "Monica, listen. This discovery, it's huge. It's funding, preservation, recognition. It could secure the orchard's future. It could also cause real change in underdeveloped nations."
Funding. Preservation. Recognition.
All the things that matter to academics and administrators, all the boxes that need to be checked for grant applications and tenure reviews.
But what about the future I want? What about preserving the quiet magic of harvest mornings and the satisfaction of work done with my own hands?
We are very intentional with the orchard.
There’s only so much of it that is open to the public. The rest of it is off limits.
"At what cost?" My throat aches. "You say 'preservation,' but all I see is exploitation. All I see is you using me."
His face flinches, like I struck him. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" My eyes sting, but I don't let the tears fall. "You walked into my life with your clipboard and your Latin, and you've been taking ever since. My time. My patience. My heart. And now this."
Heart.
The word slips out before I can stop it, raw and honest and more revealing than I intended.
Because that's what this really comes down to. It’s not just the orchard or the trees or the publicity, but the fact that I gave him my heart and he's treating it like just another specimen to be catalogued and displayed.
The word heart hangs between us like a curse. His expression softens, pained. "Monica…"
"No." I turn away, crossing my arms like armor. "We're done."
The words feel like swallowing glass, sharp and painful and final.
But I force them out because I have to protect what's left of my dignity, what's left of my sanctuary.
If I don't end this now, if I let him sweet-talk his way back into my good graces, what's to stop him from betraying me again the next time his career demands it?
The words nearly shatter me, but I force them out. "Take your notes, take your samples, take your rare apple, and go. Just… go."
For a long, agonizing moment, he doesn't move.
Then I hear his footsteps retreating, each one a crack across my chest. And with each step he takes away from me, I feel something precious dying.
He takes with him the belief that I could have both independence and partnership, both strength and softness, both the orchard and the man.
The orchard feels wrong without him.