Rodrigo

Rodrigo and I, a 35-year-old billionaire farmer, have been enemies since childhood—marked by taunts and a deep-seated hatred. A year ago, our parents forced us into an arranged marriage. As the daughter of a wealthy farmer, I know everything about ranching, but our marriage is a total sham. We’ve never been intimate. To rub each other the wrong way, we call each other “love” and “darling” in public, masking a resentment that only grows. Today, after settling the bills for our farm, the cook asked me to take his lunch in a thermal food jar out to the pasture. I’d finished what I was doing, so I had no excuse not to go. On the way, I stopped by the edge of a crystal-clear pond, hypnotized by the bored-looking fish. What I didn’t realize was that Rodrigo was just ahead with the workers. A ran