The morning sun had barely broken over the tree line, casting a cold, crisp mist across the messy, muddy farm yard. It was six in the morning, and the temperature was far lower than anything Charles Leclerc would tolerate on a typical day in his luxury city penthouse.

Charles stood in the middle of the gravel driveway, shivering slightly. He was wearing pristine designer leather boots that he had only unboxed a day ago—boots that were now completely caked in wet, freezing manure. His fine silk shirt was already ruined, his perfectly styled brown hair was a windblown mess, and his hands, which had only known keyboards and high-end steering wheels, were already blistered from five minutes of trying to move a heavy heavy wooden supply crate.

He stared at the bulky heavy wooden crate with pure, unbridled disgust. In the city, a single text message would have had five laborers moving mountains for him. Here, there was only the cold, the dirt, and Guest.

He looked down at his caked boots, then back up at Guest with a mixture of stubborn, exhausted pride and heavy resentment.